The next time he sees them, it's a week before Tony's fourteenth birthday.
Not that it really means much, but he remembers the date. He's just finished up a big project and has been rewarded with some rare downtime, and he takes the opportunity to dig into his mother's case.
Every door leading to his bathroom is locked—his hallway door, his living room door, his bedroom door, his bathroom door, even the windows. He'll be able to hear Obadiah or his father coming in enough time to gather and hide the file, in that case.
They're both out of town, but he takes no chances. If they found out he was looking into this…God, they'd destroy everything he's been working for, and they may very well kill him, this time.
Tony shudders, shakes his head, and refocuses. Twirling a pencil in his hand, his laptop open beside him as he leans back against the bathtub, he thinks.
He's thankful that the autopsy report is clinically detached—reading it, he can almost pretend that it's describing someone else.
Subject sustained blunt force trauma primarily to the left side of the body. Current speculation is that she fell from a height of approximately ninety-six feet, from the roof of an eight-story building. Blunt force trauma resulted in the rupture of the heart, left lung, spleen, and pancreas. Subject also sustained severe bleeding from the brain, as well as multiple compound and hairline fractures. Subject is suspected to have died on impact.
Tony closes his eyes. He's read it before, but every time is just as painful as the first.
Although the state of the subject was compromised due to the several injuries received during the fall, the subject showed no defensive wounds or injuries to suggest that her actions were anything but voluntary. Based on these and other speculations from the cooperating detectives, the general consensus is that this was a suicide.
Tony shakes his head. It wasn't. He knows in his heart, with every fiber of his being, that it wasn't. Or if it was…there was more to the story, because…his mother wouldn't have just left him. Not like that. He'd been with her just before—
He stops. Rifling through the papers, he finds the photo in the police report, of his mother's body prone and bleeding and broken on the ground, but the picture can never do it justice.
He should know, after all. He saw her.
He lets out a deep breath and puts it all to the side, focusing on everything else he has so far.
The awful thing about suicide is that everyone assumes it's so cut and dry. She killed herself, it's pretty clear, so why investigate any further?
The adults around him don't know her like he did. So it's up to him to find out what happened.
He's already pulled CCTV footage from a three-block radius, and he's found something quite interesting—it was his first major discovery, the one that convinced him that he was right—that it wasn't a suicide.
Every camera in his radius was perfectly fine, in peak condition, except for one—the only one with a clear view of the roof. It was, conveniently, down for a "routine inspection" at the time.
According to the police, it was an unfortunate coincidence. Another CCTV camera caught his mother's shadow as it plummeted to the ground, and showed a sliver of the roof, which was clear of any other individuals.
Tony scoffs to himself, bringing up his mother's phone records.
He goes back to the last day of activity—the day she died. He remembers the day vividly. His mother had surprised him with a vacation, with just the two of them and Jarvis. She'd smiled at him, beautiful and kind, but he remembers seeing worry in her eyes, and he remembers wondering why it was there. In hindsight, everything about her demeanor was a bit frantic, a bit harried…unsteady.
Afraid.
He wonders what she'd been hiding, and if someone had ended up killing her for it.
He checks the call log, even though he knows what he'll find. They'd been at a fancy inn in the city—Jarvis had gone out to buy some last-minute necessities for them. Tony had been on his laptop, finishing up some blueprints for Howard so they'd have no reason to bother him on his vacation. His mother had been at the mahogany desk, organizing something for one of her foundations' upcoming banquets.
Her cell phone had rung. He remembers, out of the corner of his eye, seeing her pale.
She'd assured him she was fine, and stepped out to take the call, but not before running a beautiful hand through his unruly hair and planting a kiss on his forehead, smiling softly and whispering that she loved him.
He'd finished his work, but after almost twenty minutes, she was still gone.
He'd called her.
Tony sees that, now, on her call log. He'd called her twice, and both times, it had gone straight to voicemail. She'd been on the phone with someone else—an unknown number, registered to an unknown name. The call had lasted for two minutes and thirty-six seconds.
Ten minutes later, he'd heard a horrible, sickening, crunching thump outside his window.
They were on the fourth story, and he'd seen something rush by the open window, rustling the curtains as it passed. It was much too large to be a bird. He heard screaming from outside the window, and rushed to the hallway and down the stairs, wondering what was happening on the street.
His heart had thumped in his chest as he descended the steps. The hotel clerk in the lobby looked stricken, frozen on the spot. Tony had heard more screaming from the street. The door was closed, but it was tempered glass, and he could see forms moving frantically outside, rushing around a body prone on the ground. The handle was cold against his palm.
He hadn't wanted to open the door, but he had.
Tony, ripping himself out of the memory, has to lean over the toilet next to him until he's sure he won't vomit.
He's sure that number is the key to figuring all this out, but so far, he's had no luck tracing it. He has a program in progress, cross-checking the number against all the places you can get a burner phone—legal or no—in a two-hundred-mile radius, but he's had the program running for weeks and it's come up with nothing.
He's also got a hunch, but he doesn't know how to go about pursuing it just yet.
If someone was really on the phone with her, and she jumped herself…she must have had a reason. She must have been forced, or threatened, or…something.
And if that was the case, someone would have been watching.
He just has to find them.
Rubbing his tired eyes, he quickly pulls the taped CCTV footage he has stored on his laptop, writing up a quick algorithm to spot anyone with unusual or alarming movements. He's tried it before, but they always brought up unnecessary stuff like pickpockets or lunatics, and he really doesn't have time for that.
He leaves the algorithm to run, rubbing his eyes again. Maybe he should take advantage of not being busy and sleep for a while.
Replacing everything in his safe, leaving the program running in a lockdown browser that only he can access, he turns his light out and crashes.
…
He only sleeps for a few hours; when he wakes, it's pitch black outside. He sighs, feeling himself waking up more with every second, and decides now is as good a time as any to check on his program and run through a couple other questions around the case.
Shuffling to the kitchen to get himself something to drink, flicking on the light as he yawns, he turns to the counter with half closed eyes, fumbling for a glass in one of the cabinets. He finally manages to grab it, setting it exhaustedly on the counter and opening the fridge, rummaging for some orange juice or something. He's thirsty, but he doesn't want water.
Sighing, coming up empty, he's just about to extract himself from the fridge when someone clears their throat behind him.
He blames his reaction on the fact that he's half asleep and exhausted, because Tony positively loses it. He jolts upright—or tries to, anyway, and ends up banging his head on the shelf above him, knocking a bottle of ketchup and a container of pasta off the shelf. He blindly reaches out, grabbing one of the shelves in the fridge's door, but that comes off under his hand, and now he's got a busted jar of mayonnaise and broken eggs all around him where he kneels on the floor, clutching his head.
His heart is pounding, and he doesn't want to turn around, because Obadiah and Howard aren't supposed to be here, not right now—
And he suddenly registers that someone is laughing their damn head off.
Slowly, hesitantly, he turns, broken egg soaking into his pajama pants, and sees his six least favorite fugitives sitting around his table.
"You," he hisses, rubbing his aching head and standing precariously, trying to avoid the eggshells and pieces of pasta littering the floor, "suck."
Clint and Thor are laughing outright, not even trying to hide it. Bruce looks torn between laughing and cleaning up the mess, but settles for hiding a shy grin behind his glasses, looking at the table. Natasha, who—dammit—is sucking on giant spoonful of his Rocky Road, container in her lap, looks smugly at the mess, taking another bite of ice cream. Bucky's smirking at the mess, arms folded over his chest. Steve, for his part, is trying really hard not to laugh. Tony has to give him credit, but he ends up snorting into his hand anyways, eyes dancing guiltily.
Bruce is the first to move, padding over silently, cautiously, and gathering some of the pasta in his hands, putting it into the righted bowl. He grins shyly and says, "We didn't mean to scare you…you just, uh, didn't see us, and then—"
Tony holds up a hand, thoroughly aware of how hilarious that spectacle must have been, but still humiliated. "Yeah, yeah, spare me the semantics. Not that I'm not thrilled to see my favorite fugitives, but it doesn't look like any of you are dying, so what's up?"
Yes, Tony's aware of how harsh his words are, and no, he's really not awake enough to care just yet.
Steve shrugs, joining Bruce and Tony as they try to clear away some of the mess. "We were in the neighborhood, though we'd stop by."
Tony stills, looking up, scrutinizing him. "That's it?"
"Nope," Clint says, popping the "p" as he opens Tony's fridge and looks inside, grabbing a can of whipped cream with a delighted smile. "We brought you something."
Tony's instantly wary, and he doesn't know why.
Idiot. You promised yourself you wouldn't trust them.
Tony shakes his head at himself, willing the voice to be quiet so he can think. "If it's a blank check, try the house up the block. Hear they just won the lottery," he says sarcastically. "How'd you even get in here? I locked everything."
"You sure did," Bucky says, annoyedly glancing at his now-open hallway door. "Took us forever to pick all the damn locks. You trying to keep out the apocalypse or something?"
Well, yeah, something like that. "Maybe I just like my privacy. That doesn't seem to be working very well, though."
"You'll have to do better than that to keep us out," Natasha says, winking at him as she takes another bite of ice cream.
Tony sighs, putting another egg shell in his trash can. "Well, it goes without saying," he gave Natasha and Clint pointed looks, "but help yourselves, I guess. I'm going to change clothes."
Tony more or less rushes to his room before anyone can stop him, putting his back to the door and breathing out a quiet, shaking sigh. He isn't ready for this. He didn't prepare himself for this, for the people and the questions and the ridicule.
Mechanically, he changes into a baggy Aerosmith t-shirt and black sweatpants, trudging back to the kitchen after splashing his face with cold water. Bruce and Steve have more or less finished cleaning everything up, and it's all in the pasta container by the sink. Bucky is munching on an apple he's snagged from the fridge, and Clint's showing Thor how to work the whipped cream canister. Natasha has traded his Rocky Road for some potato chips, and they're munching away.
"You guys are going to eat me out of house and home," he grumbles, snagging a lukewarm Gatorade from his pantry. "Leave the dishes, I'll do them later. Bruce, Steve, there's food. Eat some."
Bruce shifts nervously, fiddling with his glasses, and looks at the others, as if asking for permission. Steve smiles, giving a gentle nod, and Bruce grins, diving for the fridge. Tony's eyes flick back to the others, watching the interaction, and they're all smiling, too. Tony realizes that Bruce is the youngest, the baby of their family, and he feels a pang of something in his chest.
You don't trust them. You're not allowed to get attached.
He shakes his head, looking back at Bruce. There's something off about his face, but he can't really tell what, and it's bugging him. Once Bruce resurfaces with container of sandwich meat and turns towards Tony to reach for the bread, Tony gets a clear view of the problem.
Scoffing, he walks right up to him and plucks the glasses off his face, ignoring Bruce's dropped jaw.
"Hey," Clint says, his tone taking on a hint of warning as he immediately abandons his whipped cream and stalks up to Tony, towering over him. "What's your deal, man?"
Tony, unimpressed, looks up at Clint and holds up the glasses. "These things are about to fall apart. I'm fixing them."
He grabs a little tool kit from the pantry (he keeps one in every room in the house, just in case) and pulls out the smallest Phillip's head in his arsenal, setting to work.
Clint blinks, watching him, and says, "Well, next time some warning would be nice. Bruce can't see very well without them."
Tony, focused on his task and still reeling from the unexpected visit, barely spares a glance in Bruce's general direction. "Sorry. I'll be quick." It's little more than a mumble.
Bruce simply waves it off, giving Tony a slight, unfocused smile, but Bucky scoffs. "Who knew. 'Sorry' is in your vocabulary."
"Buck," Steve chastises gently, and Tony's getting really sick of all these people ganging up on him when he's done way more for them than he'd normally do for any noncriminal.
"Door's right there, Robo-Cop," Tony says, focusing intently on the glasses in front of him, ignoring the twinge of hurt in his chest. "Nothing's stopping you."
No one says anything in reply, but Tony doesn't expect an answer. Switching out his Phillip's head for a tiny screwdriver, he gently takes the glasses apart, starting slightly when Steve breaks the silence.
"So, uh…" Steve starts, making his way to the pantry, trying to appear casual. "How are things? Life, and stuff?" Tony can see the exact moment when Steve cringes at his own words, but he's nice enough to play dumb for a moment. The others aren't as discreet. Bucky snorts in the middle of biting into his apple, and he has to fumble for the fruit, his shoulders trembling as he tries to contain his laughter.
Tony does still at the question, though, and looks up slowly, eyes tight in confusion. "Fine," he says slowly, deliberately. "Uh…why the sudden interest?"
Steve shrugs, grabbing a tub of peanut butter and an apple, which he's starting to peel. "Just…curious."
"Uh-huh," Tony says, returning to the glasses, trying to ignore the thick, awkward silence that has blanketed the room. "Well…life is fine."
"Good," Steve says, and Tony thinks he might die from second-hand embarrassment.
"What do you do in your free time?" Natasha's voice breaks the silence next, and she looks at him intently, watching as he secures one of the final screws. "You're not in school, are you?"
"No, I graduated," Tony says, closing his tool kit and inspecting the glasses, putting them on his own face to make sure they're secure. "Howard and Obadiah didn't want me going to college. Bruce, your vision really sucks."
Bruce blushes, pink dusting his cheeks, but he reaches out and smiles gratefully when Tony hands him the repaired glasses. "You call your dad by his first name?" Clint asks suddenly, confusion evident in his features, and Tony instantly realizes that he's slipped up.
Damn, Tony thinks, cursing himself for such a stupid, simple mistake. That's a red flag if he's ever seen one, and these are exactly the people he needs to not alert to his situation. "Yeah. Just a habit."
No one replies, and Tony can tell that he's screwed up. He stands, trying to find something to do with his hands to ignore the tension. He settles for doing the dishes.
"Anthony, do you not have servants to do that?" Thor's rumbling voice asks as he dumps the ruined food into the trashcan and starts the water.
Almost on reflex, he snaps, "Don't call me Anthony." There's a beat of silence, and he sighs, putting the bowl under the running water. "I mean, technically. They're my dad's staff, not mine. I do a lot of my own stuff."
He forces himself to say "dad", and the word is bitter on his tongue.
"Oh," Clint says, confusion evident in his voice. Tony's used to having people think he does nothing for himself. It doesn't matter.
"You said you had something for me?" Tony asks after a few minutes of nothing but running water and the sounds of food being devoured, setting the damp dishes to the side to dry.
"Oh, yeah," Clint says, a sly smile coming over his features. He plucks a small box out of the backpack by his chair (Tony recognizes it as one of the ones he'd given them, what seems like forever ago) and slides it towards him.
"Happy early birthday, Wonder Boy." Steve says with a tight smile. Tony can tell he's forcing himself to be polite, but he can also see a genuine smile there.
Tony is instantly on guard, and he feels his shoulders tense. He doesn't like not knowing things. Howard and Obadiah have tricked him too many times for him to be comfortable opening mystery boxes. "What…uh, what is it?" He makes no move to go towards the table.
"A pony," Natasha says dryly, munching on another chip. "Just open it."
Somehow, her relaxed posture and sharp words ease him somewhat, and he tentatively plucks the box off the table. He opens it, his shoulders stiff.
It's a phone. And it's a dinosaur.
His face contorts in confusion, and he looks up at the six of them, watching him expectantly. "I…really hate to break it to you, but I have a couple of these."
Bucky scoffs. "These aren't like your fancy ones. This one's from us."
A pause. "I don't get it."
"And they said you were a genius." Clint shakes his head in mock disappointment, crouching on his chair. "It's for you to contact us if you're ever in trouble, or you need anything."
Tony stills, staring at the phone in his hand. His mind is yanked back to that moment with Jarvis all those years ago, of him handing him an old phone and promising to be there, whenever Tony needed him.
"Why?" The word is out of his mouth before he can help himself, and he wishes he could pluck it from the air, but he can't.
"Why?" Bruce parrots, obviously confused by the question. "You saved Bucky's life, a-and you got Steve back with us, and you…I mean, you d-didn't have to…do that. We want to return the favor."
Tony absently realizes that that's the most he's ever heard Bruce say. He flips the phone open and finds six saved numbers, under their initials. "You're not worried I'll rat you guys out? Do you know how easily someone could find you with these?"
"You are a noble ally, Stark!" Thor says, and Tony's going to feel bad about correcting him again. "You have aided us several times, and earned our trust."
Tony flinches at the last word, gripping the phone tighter and putting it into his pocket. He doesn't quite understand how some people throw that word around so casually. "Just…call me Tony, big guy. Just Tony."
Thor cocks his head, but nods. Tony takes a breath and manages a smile that he hopes doesn't look like a grimace. "Well, I…I mean, thanks. I…I really appreciate it."
"You don't look too thrilled," Natasha says, and Tony's starting to get frustrated with her magical ability to read his mind. Granted, he doesn't think it took much with his reaction.
"No, I mean…I really do appreciate it," he says, and he does. It's a nice gesture, but he knows he'll never use it. "I just…you didn't have to thank me. I wouldn't have helped you if I hadn't wanted to." He wonders if this is their way of ensuring his continued support. Man, he feels like a benefactor.
"And we wouldn't have given that to you if we didn't want you to use it," Bucky comments, rising swiftly and rummaging the fridge once again. "So don't be an idiot."
Tony tenses, aggravated by the comment, but it eases him anyways. He's glad they're not asking for more. He doesn't know how he'd respond.
"I hate to ask, but…would you mind if we stayed the night?" Steve asks, shrugging guiltily. "We were going to leave, but…it's supposed to rain."
And there goes that thought. But this is something simple he can give.
Pausing, rubbing the back of his neck, he nods. "Sure. There's a guest bedroom past my room. The bed will fit two, and there's a pull-out couch for two more. One of you can have my bed, but the other one's going to have to take the recliner or an air mattress."
"Whoa, hey, we don't wanna take your bed," Clint says, his eyebrows drawn together in confusion. There are similar expressions on the others' faces.
"It's fine," Tony says, putting the phone in the pocket of his sweatpants and avoiding everyone's eyes, grabbing the glass he'd abandoned when he'd originally entered the kitchen. He fills it with water from the tap and takes a swig. "I have a project I need to work on, anyways. Wasn't planning on going back to sleep anytime soon."
"Is this sleep pattern healthy for a young boy?" Thor asks quietly, and he can feel a vein in his forehead bulge at being addressed as "young boy."
"No, but I'm a genius, so it doesn't matter," he says decisively, grabbing an apple and taking a bite. May as well eat while he's up. "Just let me grab my stuff from my room and I'll get you guys set up."
He closes his bedroom door without another word, looking around his room to make sure there's nothing he needs to put in the safe or out of sight. He usually keeps it fairly neat, and he keeps everything private and personal out of sight or in the safe anyways, just in case Howard or Obadiah pops in unexpectedly.
He grabs his laptop and case binder from his safe and puts them on his bed, then walks through to the guest room and sets up the pull-out couch and the recliner, dragging a stack of pillows and blankets from his closet. He doesn't know why they're there, really, but he has enough.
When he gets back, he puts his laptop and binder on the counter, out of sight, and places himself directly in front of it. "Your presidential suites are ready, sorry there are no mints on your pillows, check-out is whenever the hell you want, because my dad's out of town. There's a bathroom attached to the guest room; you can shower if you want. Actually, please do." That gets him some dirty looks, but he quirks a sarcastic smile. "If you need anything, I'll be in the living room working, just through that door." He points to his left. "Now get out and give me some peace."
With varying degrees of excitement and apprehension, the six of them retreat to Tony's inner rooms. Tony sighs, sinking heavily into the recliner in the living room, his laptop casting an eerie blue glow on his surroundings. The program has gotten a couple hits on suspicious activity, but it's still running; he decides to let it finish before diving into that can of worms, focusing instead on an upcoming project for Stark Industries.
He's been there for a couple hours working steadily before he's interrupted, which he has to admit, is a lot longer than he thought he'd get with the six of them wreaking havoc.
"Um…" a small voice says from the doorway. Tony flinches, not expecting it, and looks up to see Bruce standing in the doorway, fiddling with his shirtsleeves nervously. "Uh, Tony?"
"Hey," Tony says, quickly shutting down his laptop and putting his notes out of sight. "What's up?"
"Sorry, I…didn't mean to bother you," Bruce stammers, and Tony finds it hard to believe he's a year older than him. Or would, if he were a smidgen taller. "I just, uh…can't sleep and I was wondering i-if you had any, uh…b-books lying around?"
Tony blinks. "Uh, sure. Yeah, there's a bookshelf through here," Tony says, leading him into one of the side-rooms. "What do you like?"
"Science," he answers immediately, and Tony sees his eyes light up a fraction. "Especially chemistry."
Tony laughs. It's a thoughtless reaction to Bruce's excitement, and he's already reaching for a chemistry journal before he realizes that that's the first time he's laughed in a really long time.
He pauses long enough for Bruce to catch on. "Are you okay?" There's real concern in his voice.
"Yeah," Tony shrugs, picking up where he left off. He snags a magazine from the shelf in front of him and all but shoves it into Bruce's hands. "Chemistry journal. Got some good articles. Try the one on thermal pressure readings, it's interesting." Tony isn't sure Bruce will understand everything in there, but it will keep him occupied, at least.
"Oh," Bruce says, looking at the magazine with something like longing. Tony notices now, in the better lighting, that his face is cleaner, and his hair is curled and damp. "Thank you." There's a genuine smile on his lips.
Bruce goes back to the living room, but instead of continuing back to the guest rooms like Tony had intended, he curls up on the couch opposite Tony and opens the magazine, hungry eyes scanning every inch of the page. Tony guesses it's been a while since he had something to read.
Sighing, for some reason unwilling to kick him out, Tony turns the laptop out of Bruce's eyeshot and pulls the program back up. He's got a couple more hits, but it's only 60% complete. He knows it's bad to be optimistic, but he's hopeful that something will be spotted.
Instead, he returns to his project, staring at the tattered graph paper in front of him littered with half-finished equations. He's trying to balance the chemical equations for a nerve gas to incapacitate for just thirty minutes. Useful for tricky situations that you need to be in and out of without collateral damage.
It doesn't kill, so Tony will make it.
However, the equations just aren't balancing. He doesn't know if he's just tired or if he lost six million brain cells when he wasn't looking, but the blurred numbers on the page aren't balancing. If it's improperly balanced, the paralysis could be ineffective, permanent, or even deadly, so mistakes aren't an option.
He drags a hand through his hair, nibbling at his eraser. Bruce's voice startles him, and he jumps. "What's wrong?"
He looks up, tapping the pencil against his knee, to where Bruce is still curled up on the couch, having snagged the blanket and put it over him. He seems…very comfortable. Not just physically, but…open. From what Tony can tell, he's very shy, but he's looking intently at Tony. He's making eye contact, which is more than he can say for when he met Bruce a year ago.
Tony finds it odd. This is only the second time he's interacted with Bruce, but the six of them have all but consumed part of his life for the last year, and since he's been keeping tabs on them, he feels like he knows Bruce better than he really does. He's surprised Bruce is being as open as he is.
Tony sighs. Then again, he's being unusually hospitable, too. Normally he would've ordered Bruce back to the guest rooms.
He fights the urge to smile. It's odd. He doesn't hate it.
"I'm just having trouble with an equation," he says, and he knows he's tired, because he usually doesn't admit that he's struggling with anything to anyone.
"What kind?" Bruce asks, and Tony's in deep now, because the magazine is closed and Bruce's eyes are trained on the paper in front of Tony.
Tony sighs. "Just…work stuff." Wow, that sounded douchey. He tries again. "A project for How…for my dad. He lets me design stuff sometimes, as practice for when I inherit the company."
He almost scoffs at the absurdity of that statement.
"Oh," Bruce says, looking interested. "That's really cool. My dad used to let me work on stuff with him, too."
Tony stops tapping his pencil. He's listened to the news reports on the Avengers, and he knows at least what the media has divulged about their backstories. Bruce has some kind of alter ego that comes out when he's in danger, but no one's ever seen it close up. He got it because his father experimented on him with potent gamma radiation.
Tony shifts awkwardly. Bruce's expression has turned neutral, blank, and Tony knows the feeling well, but he doesn't know…how to comfort. He doesn't know what to say in such a delicate situation.
So he sighs, rubbing the bridge of his nose, and slides the paper and pencil towards him, closing his laptop. The program will continue to run even in sleep mode. "Wanna give it a shot?"
Bruce's eyes light up. He pulls the paper towards him, picks up the pencil.
Tony leans his head back. It would take a genius to know what all the chemicals would make, so he's not exactly sweating the confidentiality. Besides, it'll take Bruce a while to figure it out, if he can, so he may as well rest his eyes while he wai—
"There," Bruce says, and Tony hears the clack of the pencil meeting the wooden table. "You had one of the subscripts wrong, and it was messing all your numbers up. Also, why are you making a nerve gas?"
Tony opens his eyes and raises his head slowly, staring in absolute disbelief at the guy in front of him. His lips part in an attempt to reply, to sound intelligent, to say something, but his shock is muting any words he could possibly form.
Bruce isn't even looking at him. His eyes are wide and bright as he stares at the sheet in front of him, and Tony can see the wheels turning in his head, the cogs shifting and reworking and going over all the numbers. "You know, you would be able to control the time limit better if you added two more neutralized Xenon atoms, and there's a lower chance it would disperse ineffectively if you added more covalent bonds to counteract the Hydrogen and Oxygen it'll interact with when it's in aerosol form."
Tony blinks.
Bruce flinches, like it's the first time he's realizing that he's been talking a lot, and looks up. Tony sees something that might have been fear, but he recognizes it as apprehension, the worry of overstepping. He has a feeling Bruce knows that sensation as well as he does.
Bruce clears his throat, sliding the paper back towards Tony with a barely trembling hand. "Uh…I'm—I'm s-sorry, I just…g-got excited, um…I'm p-probably all wrong…"
Tony snatches the paper from underneath his hand, and Bruce flinches back in surprise, but Tony can't care. Scanning it, running the numbers in his head, accounting for Bruce's corrections and suggestions, he's dumbfounded.
"You brilliant bastard," Tony says is disbelief, peering at Bruce over the top of the paper. "I knew you were smart, but I didn't know you were a genius."
Bruce blushes furiously. "N-no, I—uh—"
"Newton or Leibniz?" Tony asks, a twinkle in his eye that hasn't been there in a long, long time.
Bruce blinks, understanding flickering in his eyes. "Leibniz, obviously."
"Davy or Faraday?"
A slow smile spreads over Bruce's face, excitement hovering in his eyes. "Both, but I've got to say Faraday. He's an underdog."
Tony grins. To his surprise and delight, Bruce grins back. "I haven't had a kid my age that speaks my language in a while."
"Me neither," Bruce says, and an understanding seems to pass between them.
They're up for the rest of the night.
…
When Steve wakes, he doesn't know where he is.
He knows immediately that he's slept much better than he has in a very long time. He's warm and dry and on a plush mattress, under a comforter and an extra duvet pulled up almost past his chin, and he is burrowed in his blankets like a child.
He has to blink his eyes open slowly, pale sunlight spilling into the dark room as the early morning dawns. He glances around, the unfamiliar settings sending his sluggish mind into an instinctive panic, before he remembers.
They crashed in Tony Stark's guest room again.
Steve drags a hand down his face, wiping the sleep from his eyes, and sits up, the covers falling from his body. Natasha is next to him, sleeping soundly. She must be as exhausted as he is, if she's sleeping through him moving around. He smiles affectionately and moves a strand of hair that's fallen into her face, brushing it back. She shifts, but doesn't wake, breathing out softly.
Thor is in Tony's room, in his bed; since he's the biggest, they decided it was probably for the best. Clint is passed out in the recliner in the corner, arms and legs akimbo as he snores like a freight train. Bucky and Bruce are sharing the pull-out couch. Steve glances up to see Bucky with his metal arm hanging off the bed, small snores coming from his lips, sleeping like a rock. He expects to see Bruce huddled against his side, or curled up on the other side, but he isn't there.
His heart leaps into his throat.
He's probably in the bathroom, he thinks, but as he turns quickly, he sees that the bathroom door is ajar and the light is off.
Steve's heart is beating fast, now, and he knows there's probably a rational explanation, knows he's probably in the kitchen, or somewhere nearby, but his protective instincts are now in overdrive and no amount of rational thought can possibly calm him.
He pads as quickly as he can to the kitchen, flicking the light on to find emptiness, and his worry skyrockets.
He turns, ready to yell for the others, ready to tear the house apart, when he hears something that he hasn't heard in a long time.
Bruce is laughing like a maniac.
Of course, he's heard Bruce laugh, with all the inappropriate jokes Clint and Bucky throw around. Bruce can laugh. But Steve hasn't heard him sound this—this carefree, this delighted, in a while.
"—no, no way!" Bruce says, his voice high and interrupted with spurts of laughter. "There's no way that solution would work, Tony! Liquid Helium is way too toxic to drink, even diluted that much."
"No, but listen," Tony responds, and Steve is surprised to hear that Tony's voice is bright, excited…happy, almost. Tony's usually so…flat, and emotionless. Sarcastic. "I know it's theoretical, but wouldn't that be the funniest prank in history? If you could isolate enough Helium atoms and mix them with water, or even soda, if you could make Helium a drinkable gas, do you have any idea what that would do?"
"It would travel through their airways and seep into their lungs until everyone who was affected sounded like a chipmunk who just inhaled a clown's livelihood," Bruce giggles, sounding every bit the child he is, and Steve's heart thumps in appreciation. He hasn't heard Bruce like this in a long time.
"Hey, that sounds like a joke I'd make," Tony snorts. "Stay in your lane, pal, you're supposed to be the goody-two-shoes."
Steve opens the door to find the two kids bent over the coffee table, mountains of tattered graph paper and reference textbooks surrounding them, scattered over the floor. Dozens of wadded up rejects are littered around the trash can in the corner; not all of them have found their mark, and the floor's covered. There's a couple empty soda cans and a few chip bags nearby.
"Looks like you two got tons of sleep," Steve says with a raised eyebrow.
Tony near jumps out of his skin, whipping around. Steve thinks, for just a brief second, that there's genuine fear in his eyes—before he can tell for sure, though, Tony's flat expression returns, and he gives Steve a righteously indignant expression, clapping a hand over his heart. "Son of a bitch, man, you scared the crap out of me."
"Language," Steve says disapprovingly. "You're thirteen, Tony."
Tony blinks, looking up at him as he comes to ruffle Bruce's hair. Bruce leans into him and Steve puts an arm around his shoulders, his heart calming as soon as he sees and feels that Bruce is safe. Bruce looks up and smiles wide.
"You didn't just say that," Tony says, looking at Steve like he's grown another head. "That word did not just come out of your mouth. You're what, seventeen?"
Steve shifts. "Yes. What's the problem?"
"Bruce, I take it back. Title of goody-two-shoes has been irrevocably transferred to Golden Boy." Tony then looks up at Steve and stares him right in the eye before he says, "Damn. Shit. Bitch. Bastard—wow, you're flinching at every one of them!"
Bruce snorts into his hand and nearly doubles over to keep from laughing.
Steve, for his part, does flinch at all of them, because—well, how can a kid this young have a mouth that foul? He resists the urge to cover Bruce's ears with his hands, instead sitting on Bruce's other side, glaring at Tony past him. "That's enough. It's not a party trick."
"It could be."
Steve sighs, looking at what he's sure is two trees of paper covering the living room. "What are you guys even working on?"
"Oh, right!" Tony exclaims, whipping around and glaring at Steve, reaching for a soda can. "I've got a bone to pick with you guys! How come you didn't tell me Bruce was a genius?"
Steve blinks, glancing at Bruce, still under his arm. His heart is still trying to calm down. Bruce is blushing, but not out of embarrassment or fear—out of excitement. "It didn't come up."
"It didn't come—you idiots. You have a literal genius on your hands. Do you have any idea how rare it is for me to find somebody my age who understands half the stuff I do? He understands all of it! You've been sitting on a gold mine!"
Steve blinks again, totally unprepared for Tony's outburst, and looks at Bruce. They've always known Bruce was smart, but none of them have ever been particularly intellectual, either; Steve guesses they wouldn't know the difference between a smart kid and a genius. "Um…"
"Tony and I have been working on a lot of different stuff," Bruce says, saving him from embarrassing himself further. He plucks a piece of paper from Tony's hand and shows it to Steve, who leans forward, listening attentively. "We've come up with a lot of communication ideas! And a lot of stupid pranks, but that's not the point."
Tony chokes on his soda and hacks loudly. When he's finished, he rasps, "Screw you, Banner, those were not stupid pranks. Those are going to be my legacy."
"I hope not," Bruce grins, and Tony chucks a wadded-up piece of paper at him. Bruce ducks instinctively, grinning.
Steve is…confused. Shocked. Bruce has only ever been this open with the five of them. Whenever they have to interact with strangers—which isn't often, considering the illegal nature of their work—he's silent, pressed against one of their sides or planted firmly behind them. He's small, shy, incredibly self-conscious, easy to scare. He's never allowed to participate in active missions—Steve isn't sure his heart could take that amount of worry—but his intelligence and his knack for building things has certainly come in handy.
Steve remembers when they found him—he was that last one. Steve and Bucky had been together from the start. They'd stumbled upon Thor, beaten and bloodied on the side of the road, and they couldn't very well leave him. They'd run into Natasha and Clint in an abandoned warehouse trying to seek shelter from a particularly nasty snowstorm. After six days of all of them huddled together, sharing their meager provisions and getting to know each other, tentative trust had formed between them. Hesitantly, the more they divulged, the more they realized they were all much more similar than any of them would like to believe.
There was an uneasy trust that slowly blossomed the longer they stayed together, but it wasn't cemented until they found a twelve-year-old Bruce shivering on the side of the road in nothing but a bloodied hospital gown. That was when they really became a family.
And in all these years they've all been together, Steve has never seen Bruce this comfortable with a stranger.
He considers. Maybe there's more to Tony Stark than meets the eye.
…
Natasha ends up forcing Bruce to take a nap before they leave.
When she wakes, she beelines for the fridge, and Natasha takes one look at Bruce and points towards the guest room, eyebrow raised. "You look like you haven't slept all night, kiddo. Bed."
Bruce grins shyly and thanks Tony for everything that night, then slinks to the guest room, ducking as Natasha ruffles his hair in passing, smiling.
Tony's disappointed. He was having a great time with Bruce. He doesn't remember that last time he started off so well with someone, and he's missing the company. He knows, though, that once they leave here, they'll have to keep moving, and he can sleep when they leave.
Steve goes to take a shower, and Tony's left alone in the kitchen with Natasha Romanoff.
He shifts uncomfortably and makes his way to the fridge, looking for something to eat, while she sits at his table with a bowl of cereal.
"Did you keep him up all night?" She asks, her voice devoid of emotion.
Tony starts, turning slowly. He doesn't like the vague nature of that question, but her face isn't giving anything away. "Uh…I mean, yeah…I didn't force him to stay, though." He sounds defensive even to himself.
"Hm," is all Natasha says, opting to take another bite of soggy Frosted Flakes.
Tony doesn't know whether to respond or not, so after a moment of awkward silence, he turns back to the fridge. He'd usually make eggs, but all he's got left of those are sticky, empty shells in the garbage can. He sighs, resigning himself to bread and butter. The butter container had been dented during the escapade, but the contents are still fine.
"Want any?" He asks, slathering the bread with a generous portion of butter.
"If you're offering," she says calmly. He sticks the piece on a plate and walks it to her.
"Hm. Feels kind of nice to have a rich boy genius make and serve me breakfast," she says, leaning forward on the table with her elbow supporting her weight, her chin in her hand. Her legs are crossed under the table, and she's looking at him with a smile that makes Tony feel like a fly in a spider's web.
He flinches, scowling at her. "Don't do that."
She blinks, tilting her head. "Do what?" Her voice is oh-so-innocent.
"Your Jedi mind tricks," he says, plopping down in front of her with his plate. "Quit trying to…I don't know, whatever you were trying to do."
"If you're intimidated after that, I'd hate for you to see me on a real assignment," she says with a smirk, taking a bite of the bread. "Mm. Thank you. Everyone always skimps on the butter."
"I know, right?" Tony answers automatically, and he can't believe he's having an intelligent conversation with Natasha Romanoff. By all rights, she terrifies him just a little—more than she did a year ago when he met her, because after keeping tabs on her and looking more into her resume, he has more reasons to be terrified of her.
She eyes him, sets down her toast, and leans forward. "Now, since I've gotten the obligatory small-talk out of the way, let's have a chat." Her smile is that of a Cheshire cat who has its prey in just the right spot.
Tony swallows. It's not just because he's done chewing, either.
"I'm very grateful for what you've done for us," she says, and he can see the sincerity in her eyes. "We're a family, the six of us, and I don't know what we would have done if you hadn't helped Bucky, or if Steve had been arrested for good. That would have been…horrible for us. I'm indebted to you."
Tony admits, for all his intelligence, he couldn't have predicted this conversation going this way. "You're…I mean, uh, you're welcome…"
"That being said," she says, and Tony feels his gut drop at the way her expression flips. Her eyes are cold and hard, her mouth in a thin line. "If you ever, ever, betray the faith we've given you, if you ever sell us out, if you ever put someone I love in danger…" If it's possible, her eyes darken, and Tony's acutely aware of sweat collecting on his forehead, "…there won't be anything left of you."
Ah. Tony's intelligence remains intact, because this is the direction he pictured this going.
He imagines, if someone were to show him his own reflection right about now, he'd be white as a sheet.
"I got it," he says quietly. He wants to be offended. He wants to feel indignant that they could still question his intentions, but he can't. He can't, because behind the anger, the promise of blood, the hard glint of steel…
…Natasha's eyes are quietly desperate.
He knows, because he sees that look in his eyes every morning in the mirror.
"I got it," he says again, firmer this time. "Trust is…a big word. But…at least, for now, you can…um…"
"Don't," Natasha says, but when he looks up, she's smiling slightly. The hard glint is gone from her eyes. Lifting another spoonful of cereal towards her mouth, she says, "Thank you. That's enough. I believe you." She takes another bite, her eyes just barely laughing. "For now."
Some would see it as a threat, but Tony recognizes it as her witty comeback, throwing his own words back at him, and he can't help but grin a little.
Maybe she isn't that terrifying, after all.
…
They leave an hour later.
He can't help but feel disappointed. Bruce and he were having a lot of fun, and Natasha was actually maybe starting to treat him like a decent human—
He shakes his head, surprised at himself. He sounds like a grade-schooler trying to make friends.
He narrows his eyes at himself, squeezing his hands into fists at his sides. They will never be friends. They're not allowed to be.
They're…colleagues.
"Again, thank you for everything," Steve says with an easy smile, shouldering his backpack. Bucky, Clint, Thor, and Natasha are already waiting in the garden, ready to slip out the back gate. Natasha gives him a smirk and a nod, then turns back to the others. Tony can hear distant conversation and laughter as they tease each other. "Really, I feel like I'm always thanking you for something."
Bruce and Steve are with him on the deck. He's got his hands in his pockets, leaning against the railing, watching them as they go again, and he's struck with a powerful sense of déjà vu.
Tony shrugs, allowing a small smile to creep onto his face. "Nah, I should be thanking you, this time. For the phone." He looks at Bruce with a grin. "And for a million great prank ideas."
Bruce laughs, grinning himself. "Don't do that. Those are horrible. We can come up with some more productive ideas, next time."
Tony's smile falters, but he hides it as quickly as he can.
Next time.
He shouldn't be so relieved to hear those words.
"Yeah," he says, giving in and letting himself smile for real…just this once. "Next time."
Bruce smiles and nods, turning to go. Biting his lip, he turns back and says, looking slightly down. "You're, uh…you're really smart, Tony, and sometimes with mechanical stuff, I don't always know what to do…" He looks up, a faint blush on his cheeks. "Would you mind if I…texted you? You know, on the phone we gave you—just if I have questions?"
Tony feels his face heat up. He's never really had friends, but he knows from the fictional worlds he's explored in books and movies that they text sometimes. Talk on the phone, that kind of thing. He's not sure he should say yes. He doesn't want to be friends. He wants to help them do their job. He doesn't want to get attached.
He's lying to himself, and he knows it.
Damn. He's giving everything he has to keep them at arms length, to focus on staying alive long enough to find the person who killed his mother, or had her killed, and that should be his priority, shouldn't it? After that, it'll be getting away, buying his freedom, disappearing…
…but he's tired of giving. He wants to accept something.
He feels the bulky phone ni his pocket and clutches it tight, feeling his chest tighten as he allows himself to smile.
This is step one.
"Sure," he says, watching Bruce grin in response. It's more than he deserves.
"Awesome," Bruce says, waving as he runs to join the others. Bucky pulls him to his side immediately, and Bruce calls, "Thanks, Tony!"
Tony waves back, smiling. He feels both so much heavier and so much lighter.
"Use it," Steve says, and Tony's attention snaps back to him. Steve is giving him a serious look. "If you're ever in trouble, if…you need to talk, or something isn't going right, or you need to…tell us something. Use it."
For a moment, Tony is terrified that Steve cans see right through him. Right through his clothes. Can see the scars that litter his body, the countless stories and nights of hiding under his blanket waiting for the monsters to go away.
Tony simply nods. He doesn't respond verbally. He doesn't trust himself to.
Steve sighs, knowing that's all his going to get, and drops a hand on Tony's shoulder, giving it a friendly squeeze. "Call if you need us. I mean it."
"Likewise," he manages, giving Steve a tight smile. "Who knows what kind of trouble you'll find no your own."
Steve snorts, walking away to join the others. He turns back to wave, and Bruce does the same. Natasha gives him another nod, and the other three continue on ahead, through the trees and finally up and over the gate.
Tony's left staring at the spot they were long after they disappear beyond the fence, clutching the phone in his pocket.
A/N: Ugh I love my children. Sorry it's been so long; hope the long chaoter makes up for it!
NostalgicFangirl: Thanks so much! I know I love him XD / ch 3: Thanks!
Guest: Thanks so much!
Hope you guys liked this chapter! Don't know when the next one will be out, but O hope soon :) go check out my other stories if you have a minute!