Disclaimer: I own nothing.
At eight o'clock that night, I finally leave my room to get something to eat. Everyone's in the common room with the original Star Wars movie on.
Steve is the first person to glance up at me as he grabs a handful of popcorn from Natasha's bowl. "Hey, Stark."
"Hello," I murmur, trying to process the light of the television. "JARVIS, turn the brightness settings on the TV down to ninety percent."
As it dims, I hear grumbles of complaint from the others. "Come on, man, can't we just watch?" Clint calls. "Jerk."
I stiffen, and Bruce leans over to him for a moment, giving me time to process what was said. Jerk: a word with far more power over me than I would like to admit. My father never hesitated to use it to get his point across. And hearing it from a friend? That's-
"Tony. Focus. Shawarma is in the fridge." Bruce is standing next to me. He gets the correct container out after a minute's staring gets me nowhere. "We got chicken for you. How much do you want?" He gets me a knife, and I take some of the filling out of the sandwich before microwaving it for just long enough to get it lukewarm.
As I take my first bite, I feel a disgusting crunch between my teeth, and I feel like gagging. Whose idea was it to put cucumber in this stuff? When we all went together, I specifically asked for that to be eliminated from mine.
"Can't eat it," I mutter. "I'm going to be sick."
Bruce looks at me. "Sorry, but why exactly? I'm not an expert."
"The texture," I call as I walk to the bathroom. I barely have time to reach the toilet before the one bite I swallowed comes back up.
"Sorry, Tony," Bruce says from the doorway. "Would ice cream make up for it?"
"Plain vanilla. Thank you," I say, taking a swig of water from the faucet to rinse the taste of vomit out of my mouth.
I step back into the kitchen, gladly accepting the bowl from Bruce with a quick thanks.
"Now, please tell the others what I actually need, greenie."
He rolls his eyes, calling out to JARVIS to pause the film. Natasha vetoes it, but I whisper my personal override code. Bruce smiles, stepping in front of the others.
"As I mentioned earlier, everybody, Tony is autistic. Remaining questions will be fielded after I have finished this lesson, Steve. This is what many people consider to be a milder form, called Asperger's syndrome. He has no trouble with speech, but he will always struggle with some things. For example, he just vomited a bite of shawarma with cucumber in it because of the texture. This theoretically extends to all five senses. I can't imagine how loud the lot of us must seem to him, and yes, I'm included." I nod as he glances at me, still standing in the kitchen with my elbows on the cool stone of the island. "And of course, he may sometimes appear somewhat socially inept."
"To say the least," Clint mutters.
"I heard that. And also, I can kill you with my brain."
"Shut up, Tony. That's another thing: he has the tendency to quote shows and lines. They are easier to think of, since his brain does not run on words. I think it runs on binary, and that explains his skills, but that may take some research." I laugh loudly.
"And one more thing," I add as Bruce moves to sit down. Everyone turns to look at me. "The suit is a physical necessity sometimes. My muscles are weaker than yours. If I don't talk to you, it's possibly just that my jaw is tired. Ventriloquism doesn't work, Natasha," I call as she opens her mouth.
Everyone laughs, not at me as my childhood memories remind me, but with the genius.
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