The prompt for this story: When did Tony first learn French? Was given by the lovely Miss Spockologist, forever ago. I'm just now getting to it because I'm a ninny. At the advice of my most trusted consultant, the French has (for the most part) been replaced by italicized English. I get carried away sometimes.
Tony speaks French.
The kids he has to talk to at playgroup sometimes don't know quite what to make of it. Some are impressed and others just think it's weird.
He doesn't think anything of it; switches between languages as naturally as breathing. Most of the time, he even prefers French to English. A lot.
French is Mademoiselle Laurent, Inès, his au pair and first friend. It's her stories and songs and the soft tones she uses as she helps to soothe him from a nightmare. French is warm and gentle and kind.
English is Father, stern and hard. It means lectures and new tasks and a pat on the shoulder after dinner, twice a week. It's Mother, not as imposing as Father, but busy, never quite sure what to do with Tony. She hugs him and kisses him, spends time with him when she can, but it isn't the same.
He remembers how hurt she looked when she heard him accidentally call Mademoiselle Laurent maman.
"Your parents love you very much, mon petit." Inès kisses his forehead and rocks him gently, the flowery smell of her perfume filling Tony's senses. He pushes his face into her shoulder, sniffling.
"Non."
"Oui." She hums for a moment, smoothing Tony's hair. "They do not always know how to show it, but you are very dear to them. Do not forget this."
Tony sniffs again, his voice small. "How do you know?"
Sometimes he doesn't want to speak English at all, especially when he feels upset. It makes his parents frustrated.
"I know because I am very brilliant. Have you forgotten?" She tickles him until he giggles, squirming in her arms.
"Stop!" He laughs helplessly, pushing at her hands. "Non, non!"
Beaming, she scoops him up and twirls him around, her long, dark curls tickling his face. They hide underneath his quilts, using them as a tent. He sighs contentedly, tucked in her arms, and lets himself relax.
"I love you, Inès," he says quietly, snuggling into her side.
She smiles down at him, her fingers brushing over her face. She speaks softly, "I love you always, my little one. Always always."
He believes her.
Tony's almost six when she dies.
Premature heart attack, the doctors say. They couldn't do anything. He doesn't understand why. That's their job.
He refuses to speak anything but French for two weeks afterwards.
And then he hardly speaks it at all.
When he greets some diplomat from Avignon at a charity dinner, and the media finds out-finds out, as if it's some big scandal, which it really isn't, compared to everything else he does, but still-when they find out, they have a heyday.
At first they're shocked, and voraciously invasive, but that rabidity is nothing new.
Tony reads the speculations with a stomach-twisting mixture of amusement, resignation, and disgust.
Maybe he secretly grew up in France, and the stories of his childhood in America were fabricated. Maybe his father had a French lover. Maybe he's not really a Stark at all, but really some sort of foreign intelligence operative. And it goes on.
But after a week or so, the tone turns condescending, and extremely unimpressed, like they knew it all along.
Of course he would know French. He's Tony Stark. They paint pictures of how he uses it to seduce women, charm people...
He snorts at those.
The day he relies on a pretty foreign language to charm people is one he never expects to see.
It becomes more writing on the wall and eventually, they stop bringing it up.
He prefers it that way.
Tony's exhausted, armor dented and running out of power, his lungs filling with dust and fumes from the wreckage in spite of the filtration system.
Half of DC and its surrounding areas are up in smoke; or at least that's how it feels.
Who the in the heck thought it would be a good idea to confiscate fire monsters from a mad scientist and then let them escape, Tony doesn't know.
If he did, he'd probably strangle them.
Romanoff's voice comes crackling over the radio. "Stark! There's one left downtown."
Tony steels himself, exhaling and shooting back into the sky. "On it."
"You need backup?"
"Nope. I got it."
Natasha goes back to... whatever Natasha's doing.
Probably kicking people's heads in.
"Sir, I would exercise caution." Jarvis sounds clipped. "You are running at forty percent power."
"Jarvis, caution is my third middle name. Right after patience and chastity. Don't get your circuits in a bunch." Tony's tracking systems hone in on the last creature. He turns into a nosedive, giddy as the city flies closer.
Caution is for wimps.
He slows to a halt and lands a few yards off. People are screaming.
At forty percent power, it takes him twice as long to neutralize the little pest.
(And by little pest, he means half-ton semi-organic flaming ball of property damage.)
"Calm down, folks," Tony says, as the good citizens of their nations capital flee in abject terror. Tony goes to run his hand through his hair and hits metal instead.
Frazzled is not high on his list of favorite things to be.
Sirens echo from all around, and between that and the sounds of panic, he almost doesn't hear it.
Without the suit's enhanced audio reception, he definitely wouldn't have.
The voice is small, reedy; hampered by intermittent sobs. Tony closes his eyes and listens.
"Help us! Mére! Papa!"
The suit beeps, pinpointing the target. Tony's eyes fly open. "Gotcha." He hurries to follow the flashing lights, pushing aside a sheet of metal. He blanches.
Two small children are inside, a boy and a girl. Their faces are streaked with tears and dirt, their clothes rumpled but clearly expensive. They cower away when they see him, the girl pulling her brother closer.
Tony crouches down, making himself smaller. He flips up the faceplate. "Hey, hey, it's okay. Don't freak out."
"Monsieur," she breathes. "Do you speak French?"
"Yes," he says, quieter. "My name is Tony."
"My name is Chantal. Chantal Abelin. This is my brother Benoît." Her eyes are bright blue, and filled with tears. "Will you help us, Tony? Please."
Tony hates when people cry. He doesn't know how to handle it. And he doesn't do kids at all. But he holds out his hand, coaxing them both out.
"Where are your parents?" He asks, trying for gentle. The little boy clings to his sister, his thumb in his mouth, and watches Tony curiously.
"I don't know," she whispers. "W-we are staying at the consulate."
Tony sighs in relief. "Oh."
He'd forgotten the French consulate was in DC.
"Here." He kneels and holds out his arms. Chantal eyes him warily. Clearly desperate to trust, but instilled with caution in a foreign place.
Tony uses his kindest, most persuasive voice. Even goes for a smile. "I know where the consulate is. I'll take you there. Maybe we'll find your parents, yes?."
"Yes, come on." Benoît tugs Chantal's sleeve and climbs Tony like a tree, affixing himself to Tony's side. "He knows Mama."
Chantal hesitates for a moment more, chewing on her bottom lip. Finally, she nods, but holds out her hand for Tony to hold, instead.
If anybody saw this, his street cred would be tanked.
Tony keeps his mask up, holding Benoît in one arm and leading Chantal by the hand. They're only two blocks away from the consulate, thankfully, and when they round the corner, he speaks up.
"Monsieur or Madame Abelin? You've got a delivery."
A man and a woman whirl around, both with Chantal's blue eyes.
What follows is a Hallmark-worthy reunion, full of hugging and crying and wringing of hands.
Tony fends off their gratitude weakly, and tries vainly to prevent himself from being pulled into their embraces. They pull him in anyway.
"Thank you, thank you," they say, over and over. Chantal and Benoît glow and beam up at him, clinging to their parents. Tony's acutely aware of the cameras flashing from the street.
The press is going to have a field day with this.
But somehow Tony can't bring himself to mind, as he sees the little family together when so many aren't. Call him a sap, but he prefers it when people live.
Chantal tugs him down to her level and whispers a shy, "Thank you, Monsieur Tony." She hugs him around his neck.
"You're welcome," he says, quiet, and pats her back gently.
Sometimes, on good days, when the stars are aligned and he feels particularly charitable... Tony speaks French.