It Takes a Village

MCU. Tony Stark and Lorelai Gilmore are contemporaries.

Disclaimer: Cheers, Amy! Thanks, Disney and Marvel! (I feel like there should be a Stan Lee cameo in here somewhere.)

Notes: Super!Lorelais – super brains and super brawn.

Lorelai was born two years later, 1970, the same year as Tony.

1983

PHILLIPS ACADEMY ANDOVER | MASSACHUSETTS

"I should be studying."

"Made totally obvious by the fact that you snuck into my room to see me."

"Maybe I snuck in to see Peter Cutler."

"You hate Peter Cutler."

"No I don't."

"Yes you do."

"No, I don't."

"Yes, you do."

"Why do you think I do?"

"Because you act like you do."

"Well, I don't."

"Whatever."

"I don't!"

"Right."

"I kinda like him, actually."

"What?"

"I actually like him. Kinda."

"But you act like you don't like him."

"Exactly."

Tony Stark rolled his large brown eyes. "Girls."

"Boys," sighed Lorelai Gilmore, long-suffering.

It was way past curfew, the night before midterms, so of course nobody was sleeping. A small, plastic television set sat on a stack of vinyl records, playing The Greatest American Hero. Its spindly metal antennas were arranged at funny angles and the volume had been turned indecipherably low. Instead, it were the sounds of AC/DC's new Flick of the Switch album and a bickering pair of thirteen-year-olds that rang prominent in this particular dorm room.

"What – you never pulled a pigtail, back in your day?" asked Lorelai.

"Well, the only pigtails around were yours," said Tony while he fiddled with a Rubik's Cube, "and your head was so huge, I figured you had suffered enough; I never felt compelled to pull yours."

"I can't believe Mom showed you those pictures."

"I can't believe that was you in those pictures."

"I grew into it before I even met you!"

Sprawled on the floor, Lorelai searched for something disgusting to throw at him. Dirty sock: score. Using a pair of pencils as impromptu chopsticks, she had maturely thrown the grass-stained, sweat-soaked thing onto the bed above her.

"Ew!" Tony indignantly cried. "What the HELL, Lorelai?"

"I burnt them, you know."

"My socks? Because –" He paused. "Hmm." He tapped a contemplative finger on his chin. "I wouldn't actually mind that. You burning my socks." He tossed the offending item away. Far, far away from his terrible, tiny twin bed. God, he hated boarding school. Still, better than home. "Burn away. Jarvis'll just buy new ones."

Lorelai scrunched up her pert nose. "You disgusting rich person."

"You make that sound like a bad thing," said Tony indifferently, finished with the Rubik's Cube and tossing it away to join his lonely, dirty sock.

"Well, maybe it is."

"Well, you're a disgusting rich person, too."

"Not like you."

It was true. Lorelai came from all manner of Mayflower-descended, blue-blooded, hoity-toity New England old money, but Tony was the son of Howard Stark, self-made millionaire with more bank than a small nation would know what to do with.

Lorelai continued, "Everything you've ever gotten hasn't been held hostage by strings."

"Golden thread, you mean."

"Gold-titanium wire."

"That'd be some pretty sturdy stuff," remarked Tony, pushing himself off his bed.

"Nigh indestructible."

He stepped over Lorelai, who was lying on the floor again, this time face-up, and towards his desk. "I don't know whether I'd rather have parents that breathe down my neck, like yours –" he was cut off.

"– or parents that are too busy doing their boring grown-up stuff to control your every move, like yours?" she finished for him.

Tony didn't respond. He chose to sit on his uncomfortable wooden desk chair and boot up his computer in silence.

Tony's dad was hardly ever around. When Howard was, it was to tell him that he wasn't living up to his potential. Or to talk about Captain America. The old man loved talking about Captain America. Tony, himself? Not a fan.

"Wait – what did you burn?"

A/N: Work in progress. Just really wanted to put this up.