Tony smokes in the back of the bus with his feet up on the next row of chairs, longing and listless and vaguely lonely, numbness sloshing up the sides of his skull, buzzing down the separate vertebrae of his spine. He leans against the grime slicked window and watches the streets go past in slow, empty gulps, the skyline fading out under fog, an off colour sickened moon as a lopsided glimpse beyond violet clouds. Apart from the driver, he is the only one on the bus and a distinct feeling of unreality coagulates as they drive on.
He drops the cigarette butt. Grinds it out. Lights another. Two deep pulls, the relaxation of nicotine, acrid smoke scarring the back of his throat, bitter blue black plumes staining the stale air around him.
He has: three dollars and fifty two cents, three joints, two packets of cigarettes, a lighter, two separately wrapped mints, a dead phone and a loyalty card to Starbucks with three coffees stamped off. Also: his jacket, hoodie, shirt, jeans, socks, sneakers. Also:
Also:
The bus stops in the middle of the street. The bus driver says, "This is the end of the line, kid." Tony walks down the aisle and down the steps and out onto the sidewalk. He stops and looks back at the driver. "Thanks for the free ride," he says, trying to smile, trying not to get to his knees and beg for a ride back home, or at least a place to stay for the night, or just some fucking advice.
The driver smiles sadly at Tony. The driver is thinking, poor kid, I hope he ends up alright. How is he going to survive on the streets? The driver is thinking, I wonder what my wife made for dinner.
"Good luck," he says to Tony.
Tony watches the bus drive off and keeps taking pulls of his cigarette, too fast, taking in the smoke like oxygen, trying to calm the awful desperation starting up inside him. He keeps standing there and it gets steadily colder and darker, and only a couple cars come past, and none of them even slow at the sight of him. He chews the inside of his cheek and deliberately does not think. He goes through half a packet of cigarettes before he gets bored, and then he stops smoking and starts walking.
He gets lucky—just round the corner is a twenty four hour coffee shop, with only three people inside—the barista, a guy typing furiously away at a laptop and a homeless woman with a massive duffel bag leaned up against her seat. The bell sounds when Tony opens the door and he steps into a welcome rush of warmth. Everyone looks up and then away; Tony walks to the counter and orders a cappuccino from the barista with a stained name tag that says Joe.
"Two dollars," Joe yawns. Tony counts out the change and hands it over. The barista turns around and makes the coffee, handing it to Tony on a stained blue tray, and Tony takes it over to the far corner, where he sits down and sips quietly.
And waits.
Thoughts start to filter in as much as he tries to stop them, relentless and miserable and choking. He shouldn't have come this late. He doesn't know where Obadiah lives and he didn't bring anything or prepare at all, and now he has to spend a night in a café because he didn't wait until daylight to come. He doesn't even know if Obadiah will let him live with him, and then what can he do? Not go home. He'll have to stay on the streets until he finds a way to get a job and somewhere to stay, and how the fuck is he supposed to survive long on the streets? He doesn't know anything. He's a fucking inexperienced naive idiot. Tony, at the thought, badly wants to get drunk but all he has left is lukewarm coffee.
He looks up; the homeless woman and student have left, without him noticing. The barista is watching him quietly and Tony glares back at him, daring him to kick Tony out. The barista says, "I'm closing up in an hour."
"It's a twenty-four hour café," Tony frowns.
"Well, not tonight. I have class tomorrow," the barista shrugs.
"Fuck," Tony says, slumping forwards to put his head in his hands. The barista obviously feels bad for him and says, "Do you want a free coffee?"
"Yeah," says Tony. He is given a free coffee. He drinks it, and then in an hour he's outside and watching the barista ride off on his motorbike.
Tony sits down.
Tony stands up again after it starts raining and moves to a doorway, bringing his knees up to his chest and leaning his head against the door behind him. He brings in his arms around him uncomfortably and huddles smaller into himself, watching out the doorway at the rain pattering softly down, at the building lurching up across the street, at the absolute darkness outside streetlight pools on the sidewalk. He falls slowly asleep.
He wakes up to someone opening their door and saying in shock, "Oh god, there's a dead person in my doorway."
"I'm not dead," Tony yawns, struggling upwards to a stand. He rubs his eyes and a middle aged woman solidifies. He smiles at her tersely and wanders quickly off before she can call the police.
He feels like shit. He's throbbing all over, from the bruises he left home with layered over with the pain of sleeping on hard ground, all frozen through with the ache of a cold night. His mouth tastes of ash and he's lightheaded with hunger. He tries to make himself feel happier, though; from here on it is only up.
The inside of his wrist is just a smudge of ink by now but he's already memorized the address.
Tony lights a cigarette and wanders along the streets, trying to find someone he can ask directions from. It's a bitter but lazy Saturday morning, people filtering out slowly from their homes, all mostly ignoring him when he makes to start a conversation. He finds a park and walks around it, smoking quietly and watching early bird young families throw pieces of ripped up bread to the ducks in the pond.
He goes up to one of the families and asks for directions to Elvesberry Road, where Obadiah lives. It's a twenty minute walk. He ends up in front of a door on the third floor of the posh apartment block in front of the third door. He drops his cigarette and grinds it out under his heel, kicking it next to the door and then takes a deep breath and shuts his eyes tight and knocks.
Half a minute passes.
The door gapes open inwards. A silhouette of Obadiah appears, in a button up shirt and slacks. Tony's never seen him in anything but suits. Obadiah says, shocked, "Tony?"
Tony smiles cheerlessly. "Can I come in?"
"Of course," Obadiah says, gesturing Tony in. He locks the door behind him and leads him to the kitchen, where the kettle is boiling. "Where is your father? Why didn't you tell me you were coming? Not that I'm not pleased to see my favourite godson, of course."
"My phone was dead, or I would've called," Tony says, taking a seat, hunching in on himself. It is so much warmer inside. He is acutely aware of how much he needs a shower after a night on the streets. He festers, uncomfortable and tragic.
"And Howard?" Obadiah prompts.
Tony frowns at his hands.
The kettle goes off. Tony says yes to an offer of coffee, and Obadiah pours them both a cup then sits opposite him. Tony asks for something to eat so Obadiah gets up again to put bread in the toaster.
Obadiah says sternly, "Tony, why are you here?"
Tony says quietly, "I want to live with you."
Obadiah is taken aback. He stares at Tony in shock. "Did you run away?"
"Yeah," says Tony wearily. "Dad was gonna kill me. He was gonna fucking kill me, Obie, and it's come so close to that loads of times before. You know how he is. He won't care if I'm gone. Please let me live with you, I swear I won't be any trouble, all I need is somewhere to stay—"
Obadiah says uncomfortably, "I don't really have much space..."
"I'll take the couch, it'll be fine," Tony jumps in. "And I'll cook, and clean, and behave... just for a couple years, man. Just until I can get a job."
"Tony, it's not that," Obadiah says, shaking his head. "I'm your godfather. Of course you can live with me and I'll provide for you as much as you need if that's what you want. But your father and I used to be very close, and I can't in good conscience just take away his son..."
"Obadiah, please," Tony begs. He feels humiliated at having to beg but reminds himself ruthlessly that this is his only hope; he can't just turn and run out. Obadiah still doesn't look convinced, so he says harshly, "I wasn't joking when I said he was gonna kill me." Tony unzips his jacket and pulls up his shirt, to show Obadiah the mass of bruises moulded into his stomach, congealed sickening marks purpling in dark green brown points. "He only stopped kicking me in the stomach because he had to go to work but he promised he'd break my skull open when he came home." He looks up at Obadiah, imploring. "You have to let me stay."
Obadiah is transfixed on his stomach, a strange look in his eyes. He comes around the counter and lays his hand on Tony's bruises. They both stare down at Obadiah's hand, splayed and white against Tony's skin, heavy and warm and still.
Obadiah backs off. Tony breathes again. "Okay," Obadiah says. "You can stay."
"Thank you," Tony says gratefully, hugging his godfather as hard as he can.
The rest of the day brings a couple of shocks. Obadiah is nice for most part—he buys Tony a load of clothes, and he tells Tony to stay in the shower as long as he likes—but when Tony steps outside the apartment for a cigarette Obadiah snatches it out of his hand and confiscates his lighter. There's a flash of anger in his eyes that makes Tony cringe but the man quickly calms down and tells Tony that he's sorry, but Tony's got to stop smoking and that's the price of living with him.
Like hell Tony is quitting. Apart from not being bothered to go through the pain of not satisfying his nicotine addiction, getting high—smoking weed—is the only thing next to getting drunk that keeps Tony going. He nods along with Obadiah and slips his last cigarettes and three joints into the lining of his jacket.
Also, Obadiah is really touchy feely. He keeps laying hands on Tony's upper arm and knee, leaning forwards to sling an arm round Tony's shoulders, laughing and sliding lingering touches across his lap. It isn't really a big deal—after flinching the first couple times Tony gets used to it and doesn't really mind—but it is a little weird and he's glad when Obadiah puts blankets on the couch for him to sleep on. He half expected the man to suggest sharing a bed.
These are small prices to pay. Living with Obadiah is a dream come true. Tony wonders the whole time why he didn't think of it before. Obadiah doesn't get drunk, doesn't slam him against the wall by his throat at random intervals, doesn't get mad at the slightest provocation; is interested in him, listens to what he has to say, cares about him; buys him things, makes sure the kitchen is stocked with food Tony likes, enrols him in the nearest high school somehow fast enough to let Tony start the next day.
They're drinking coffee the next morning, Obadiah in a suit for work and Tony dressed for school, talking casually about the weather, the news, the neighbours, little inconsequential things. Every moment that passes has Tony in disbelief; he was sure he'd be living 'til eighteen in a state of scared frenzied fear, and this wonderful, sweet normality has him wondering if this is some strange beautiful dream.
But it's not.
He walks to school slowly, backpack slung over one shoulder, waiting until Obadiah drives past him to start asking people for a lighter. The second man he asks has one and lights his cigarette for him, wishing him a good day. Tony smokes slowly all the way to school, closing his eyes at the light headedness of the first smoke of the day.
At school—Shield High, a formidable building of sleek modernity—the receptionist directs him to the principal's office before classes. Tony is lectured on how just because he is a teenage genius, he will not be treated any differently from anyone else who arrives with an expulsion record of five schools, no less, and his previous behaviour will not be tolerated at all. Everyone has their eye on him.
So much for a new start, Tony thinks bitterly, scowling at the desk.
The principal lets him out in time for second period, giving him his timetable which tells Tony he has English next. Tony's angry from the lecture and instead heads to the bathroom for a smoke. Three other guys are sitting on the sinks, smoking and laughing to each other, climbing up to the windowsill to exhale so smoke doesn't fill up the toilets and dropping cigarette butts down the sinks. Fellow smokers are always looking out for each other and Tony is quickly welcomed into the fold. They give him a spare lighter and he stays for a while, making friends easily, and then wanders off to English.
He saunters in half an hour late. His young blonde English teacher raises an eyebrow at him, standing in the doorway probably stinking of smoke, hands in his pockets. "And you are?" she asks pointedly.
"Tony Stark," he says smoothly. "New kid. Principal kept me behind for the morning, so that's why I'm late."
"Right," she says, smiling tightly. "I'll let you off this once. There's a spare seat next to Clint in the back row—Clint, wave—you can sit there for time being, and we'll see how that works out. Do you want to introduce yourself a little more, first?"
"Not particularly," Tony frowns, wrinkling his nose. The class laughs. He grins to himself; he knows just how to play them. Getting popular quickly is an old familiar game to him.
The teacher smiles politely. "That wasn't a suggestion."
"Alright," Tony says, facing the class. "I'm Tony Stark, I'm the same age as all you lot. My last school kicked me out, so that's why I'm here so late."
"Why'd they kick you out?" someone asks.
"There may have been allegations of me being a pothead, but I assure you these were complete lies. As you can probably tell I am an upstanding moral citizen." The class laughs again and the teacher sighs in annoyance. "Mainly it was because I was too brilliant for them."
"Alright, thank you, Tony," the teacher says. "You may take a seat."
Tony ambles to the back of the classroom to sit next to Clint. The lesson resumes. They're reading Macbeth, which Tony detests because as a rule teenagers detest Shakespeare, and then they pair up to read through the rest of the scene together and attempt to translate it into plain English. Tony instead finds a kindred spirit in Clint Barton.
"I don't do English," Clint announces when they are ordered to read to each other. "You might want to find someone else to sit next to if you want to do work, because Shakespeare is a dick and I'm not reading any of this shit."
"Fair enough," Tony shrugs. "I'm also of that opinion. Humanities are all basically useless."
"True," Clint grins at him. "What did you do in your old school?"
"I'm not really sure," Tony frowns. "I was high most English classes which kind of messes with your memory."
"So the allegations were true?" Clint laughs.
"I never said that," Tony corrects, then winces. "Alright, maybe I did. Don't tell anyone."
"Sure," Clint grins. He's rolling up little paper balls and gives a handful to Tony.
"What are these for?"
"Possibly the best entertainment since dropping glass bottles from high places. Watch." Clint starts flicking the balls into the hair of the guy who sits in front of them, landing them lightly behind his ears with impeccable aim. Tony sniggers and joins in, but isn't very good at it; one goes right over and hits a girl with red hair. "Shit," says Clint in alarm. "You hit Natasha. We're dead."
"What?" Tony says, laughing. The girl he hit is standing up and stalking over to them.
"Hide, quick. She's gonna rip our throats out with her teeth. Oh god, we're fucking dead."
The girl arrives and stands in front of them, raising an annoyed eyebrow. Tony says easily, "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to hit you."
"That's alright," she smiles at him, then punches Clint in the shoulder.
"Hey!" he says. "It wasn't me who hit you!"
"You started it, you dick. I told you to stop throwing paper balls. And what do you do but force the new kid to join in."
"I didn't force him," Clint says pathetically, hiding his head in his arms. The girl punches him again in the arm and then they both laugh, Clint rubbing his shoulder in mock hurt and the girl dragging a chair over to sit in front of them. "I'm Natasha," she says to Tony. "I'm sorry you had to interact with this idiot. He doesn't represent the majority of our school, I promise."
"Nat, you're actually really mean to me," Clint says sincerely. "I think I'm gonna report you for bullying."
"And I'll beat you up," she says.
Tony says, "You're fucking scary."
"Right?" Clint says, turning on him. "She's so violent, I don't know why I'm friends with her."
"Maybe because no one else can stand to be around you?" Natasha asks, smirking.
"Yeah they can. Tony can, can't you, Tones?"
"Sure," Tony shrugs, and that's how he gets two best friends.
...
School ends. Obadiah comes home late and they have Chinese takeout together. Tony watches television until midnight then stares at the ceiling, head on the arm of the couch, arm dangling off the side, feet poking out the end of the blanket. He's a little homesick, misplaced, nostalgic, sickened, uncertain, regretful. He closes his eyes and falls asleep.