x
You don't understand Tony Stark.
You, underneath all the colors and words, are just a poor boy from Brooklyn, suddenly pulled into something much bigger than your world, and you try to fit in as much as possible, but it's always just an illusion.
Tony Stark is:
speed momentum energy insomnia science sarcasm.
You are:
…
You don't know what you are. There are thousands of words people described you with during all those years, but you don't feel like they are true. It's like wearing a cheap disguise that somehow fools everyone. There are no questions, ever. They think you are genuine.
You are not genuine, you are confused and lost.
Tony Star is genuine.
He is:
genius billionaire playboy philanthropist, and it doesn't take you long to understand that behind each of this words there's a real story hidden.
You are:
soldier.
You are a soldier, yes. That's something. Something to begin with. Only it's been four months since you woke up in 21st century and you have nothing to add.
Tony Stark is a mystery, even though everything about seems to make perfect sense. A rich boy, private school, best tutors, early college, a few doctorates, drinking, gambling, girls, weapons, army, living without taking a break. Until Afghanistan. You don't know what happened there, exactly, but you can guess, and it fits, too.
The jokes and references and science talk, it all is consistent and safe.
Only that sometimes, you see a glimpse that breaks the whole image.
You draw Tony Stark's eyes and nose and lips and chin and hands, you think you finally got it, but then you notice a line that is all wrong and you have to begin anew.
Everything about him seems to make sense, right until you realize that he knows how to be sensitive and caring and understanding, until you realize that he's insightful and introverted and all he cares about in the world is his very few friends and his robots.
(That isn't so different from you.)
And that's what you can't understand: how has Tony Stark managed to live his life the way he did. With bouts of alcoholism, sex scandals, ruthless business-making, hurtful comments.
He seems to mean it all. He seems to believe in all of that. You don't know how to determine if it's true. Tony Stark smiles and laughs and looks at you as if he was staring right into your soul, the depth of his eyes hidden by a cheerful sparkle, clouded by a mist of alcohol.
Tony Stark invites you, and the rest of the team, to live at his place for free.
You have two bedrooms, an art room, a gym, and a few other room here. You have electricity, hot water all day and night, seven television sets and fully stocked kitchen. You have a personal dressing room and a balcony with a million dollar view.
You used to live in one room with another person, with cold-water bathroom down the hall.
You put all your things in the smallest bedroom, making it feel cozy and warm, and you sleep on the floor more nights than not because you need to get used to an actual bed. It's fine right until Tony Stark decides to pay you a visit and you're so embarrassed with yourself.
He walks through all the empty rooms, his expensive leather shoes making loud steps that echo in the space, with a tiny frown between his eyebrows, but when he sees your secret lair, he smiles with understanding.
Tony Stark is:
a liar.
You are:
a copy.
People believe you are a fake Captain, not the one from the 40s, that is impossible. You tell them it's classified, with an apologetic smile.
Tony Stark laughs and tells them you are a time-traveler from a different dimension, that you are in fact French with a perfect American accent and that your favorite food is scampi, none of which is true, and it's hard to keep a straight face when the reporters scribble in their small notebooks furiously.
Tony Stark is:
an actor.
You are:
an actor.
It doesn't bring you any closer to understanding him. You know if you were him, you wouldn't make it. You wouldn't be strong and persistent enough. It takes you some time to figure it out though.
You take out his file and stare at it, the way you stare at all the other files. And Howard's. You wish you knew what was the real deal between Tony and his father, but it seems unclear and shielded and lots of people seems to offer different opinions. You read interviews, back from twenty years ago, or fifteen, and he mentions being kids of a generation, he mentions the climate of the world and the recent events that feel like nothing more than a made up story.
(What does it mean: boredom, hatred – Why? Disappointment – with what, with whom? What does this word mean, grunge? Why is there so much talk about GPS and that Hubble thing?)
Almost all of the articles mention one or another scandal, even in science magazines that you flip through without understanding much. It's sad.
You go to breakfast, you see him eating sandwiches and drinking coffee, hunched over his tablet, always working – and if not then talking to Doctor Banner or Miss Potts or to you, in a slightly mocking tone that you've learned to ignore and even like. You see him putting cereal into his mouth with a spoon another morning, wearing an expensive suit, and you can't stop remembering the mugshot you saw of him from ninety seven, illegal possession of drugs.
The team eats dinner together, he laughs and holds Miss Potts' hand, and you can't stop thinking about his mysterious disappearance from '88 that could have been a kidnapping or a month in rehab for all you know.
You know he observes you, too, but you can't figure out what he sees.
You wonder if he understands you.
You are not sure you understand yourself, you realize. Or yourself as a part of the world around.
Tony Stark catches everyone when they fall. He has business, he gets hurt, he's the most human of all of you, the most vulnerable – he'd never let you call him that – and the busiest, but he's always waiting for you command and breaking it whenever he feels it's necessary.
It's hard to get mad at him when he makes right calls.
It's hard to yell at him even when he takes bigger risks than he should, because he's so convincing.
He is:
futurist scientist perfectionist hothead.
You are:
artist.
Some days.
Tony Stark comes into your apartment-or-room one day and asks you to draw him. You laugh. He laughs too, and then tells you he is very serious. You smile. He smiles. You tell him no. He smiles. You tell him you couldn't, that your hand is unpracticed. He smiles.
You stare. He leaves, smiling.
You draw him a few weeks later, from memory, when he's travelling to one place across the globe or another, like he does every second week.
Only that it's not really him. It's just his eyes and his eyebrows, because you still can't put a face together the way that it would really be him. There are areas you can't fill because he's full of blank spots to you.
(There are screens and holograms and Pepper's face reflected in his eyes, something you are very proud of.)
You never show him the drawing. It feels like overstepping your bounds. You know Tony Stark does not think that way at all, but it's stronger than you.
You are just a poor boy who got lucky and helped to save the world.
Tony Stark is just a rich boy who worked hard for every bit of what he is now.
You don't understand how his life path could lead to who he is now. He should have failed, he was bound to self-destruct, to fall, to lose his empire because his life seemed like too much for a person like him. But he lived on. It's a mystery how, but he's become someone you look up to, even if he keeps that face very private.
All you know is simple.
He is:
creating the future.
You are:
documenting the past.
He'll never live in the future, just like you'll never live in the past. You are both disappointed with what's around you. And you both seem to feel that unconsciously.
In front of the cameras, you both talk nice words and put on fake smiles.
Back at home, Tony Stark brings to your room-or-apartment a vintage teapot that someone has visibly put a lot of work into restoring, and a tea tin, and you both sit in silence, not feeling obliged to chit-chat or to pretend you are happy.
Tony Stark is genuine.
Sometimes, you are genuine, too, if you know how.
It comes slow. You observe and mimic. You observe and listen.
You don't understand Tony Stark but you understand the lessons he's unknowingly giving you.
You are learning life.
A/N: This was an experiment, so double thanks for reading - I hope you liked it. I'd love to hear what you think :)