Chapter Text
When Tony Stark meets Bruce Wayne for the first time, it is in the beginning of fall and his first week in Trinity; he is spent and a little hollow eyed from being dragged throughout the course of the week from one classroom to the other, attending classes where the children are always taller and a lot bigger than him. Trinity had not known what to do with the genius five year old that should have been stuck in kindergarten as per the age requirement and normalcy. At the time, enrollment forms did not account for geniuses of Tony’s caliber.
So when he is assigned a seat in class 1-A, with him being the only almost-five year old in the sea of six and seven year olds, Tony wants nothing more but to sink into his seat and hide from everyone. He doesn’t want to be dragged around anymore, he doesn’t want to be the only one walking into the middle of classes and having all the bigger kids stare. Tony knows he already sticks out like a sore thumb, with his too thin frame and sharp knees and elbows dwarfed in the school's navy and gray uniform, backpack far too big for his narrow shoulders and the mop of curly hair far too thick and not as neat and already in a disarray from all the back and forths.
The kids say nothing and continue to stare at him all the same from all corners of the classroom, having heard of the little boy who keeps butting into other classrooms, that freak genius because he’s smarter than the kindergartners and some of the second and third graders, but can’t write his alphabet straight for shit, can’t even pronounce his vowels and consonants right. Tony doesn’t dare move from his seat, doesn’t dare look away from the window on his left where he watches the spread of red, orange and gold beyond. He doesn’t have any of the textbooks or workbooks; they didn’t assign him with anything because, well, they didn’t know what to give him. The only thing they had given him after they had decided that first grade is the way to go is the school tie, far too big and knotted a little sloppily under his white collar; they had to take away the kindergarten knot-bow.
Bruce Wayne is the first kid to tug at his sleeve, history book propped open before him.
Bruce Wayne is the first to drag his table and chair next to Tony's to share his textbook and workbook, offering him a highlighter for his notes because Tony didn't have one. Kindergartners had no use for a highlighter.
Tony still remembers how the corners of Bruce’s lips twitched up into a bit of a smile, shy and boyish, polite and sweet, his handsome face and perfectly combed hair and straight tie a complete opposite to Tony's disarray. Bruce is tall and broad, walks straight and is one of the fastest during track running, and swims the best breast stroke than the rest of the class. Bruce is also liked by a good portion of the girls in his glass and the other sections, too, because Tony doesn't fail to notice how some teeter and giggle around him behind their whispering palms. He still remembers how during his first lunch by himself in that entire week, after spending day after day working with teachers and counselors and eating lunch in an office while doing tests after tests, Bruce had steadied his tray when he had not been able to lift it off the counter. He remembers how Bruce sat across from him in a cafeteria bench where Tony's feet barely touches the ground, and he is the only boy that looks like a kindergartner dining with the rest of the juniors. He had looked so out of place that people walking by would talk amongst themselves and ask, aren't the KG kids supposed to have lunch at like ten or something? Is he lost?
(You start to loathe school on your first day.)
Tony still remembers how Bruce smiles and waves at him from the window of his Rolls Royce as he drives away with Alfred, while Tony boards his Bentley, still unsure of why that odd big kid is being nice to him when everyone else is downright mean and sneers and stare at him like he’s a freak of nature.
“How was your day, darling? Are you settling in all right?” Maria had asked him at dinner.
And Tony simply shrugs in his high chair, looking at his food that he doesn’t want to eat; he also doesn't want to look at his mother or father and opts to fiddle with his ratatouille instead. He can feel the weight of his mother's eyes on him, excited and expectant . “It was okay. They put me in first grade.”
“Finally.” Howard mutters, looking away and turning his attention back to the the manila folder propped open on the side, as he continues eating his blanquette de veau.
“That’s good to hear, sweetie. Are you making friends?”
Tony doesn’t answer immediately and shrugs again, appetite completely gone. “Maybe.”
“Well don’t be intimidated by the bigger kids; you’re smarter than most and people will always be afraid of things they don’t understand. Just focus on your school work.” Maria’s gaze is warm on Tony.
Tony wishes he can give better answers every time she asks how his day in school had gone during dinner; he learns far too early to keep things quiet and just take what the world dishes out because his father always tell him to be strong, to be tough, to not be afraid of bullies because he is a Stark and Stark men have iron in their spine. They will be feared because they are futurists -- you're a futurists, act like one.
So Tony does and simply remains passive through all the taunts and sneers.
Deep down, he wishes he can do something about the concern and slight tightness he sees in Maria's beautiful face. Much later in his years, Tony comes to understand how it must have been difficult for a mother like Maria to be helpless in the wake of society’s cold and cruel judgment on her son who - a genius and a inheritor to billions with a family name too heavy and futurist he may be - is but a boy.
(The coddling is always done in secret; the openness of it had stopped the year you had started school; Howard is aware of how unkind the world is -- you think he only wanted you to be more aware. Or so you tell yourself.)
But Bruce remains kind and polite through out, and Tony, as a courtesy and because he learns very quickly that his academic prowess and little built is not welcome in the classroom, tries to not get in his way. Bruce doesn’t ask him why he is distant and why a month in, he doesn’t participate vocally in class, why his hand stops going up in the air to answer questions and instead rests like hollow blocks on his thigh. Bruce doesn’t ask why he refuses to answer the teacher and keeps his mouth tightly shut like they've been sown together by the second month, even when he scores near perfect all the time in all their worksheets and tests. In return, Tony doesn’t ask why Bruce continues to work with him, why he continues to sit and lunch with Mousey-Anthony, or why Bruce tells the kids to leave him alone, or why Bruce volunteers to be his partner in activities when no one else does. Bruce goes as far as being his partner in swimming and track, even if he places last because Tony's legs are not as as strong as the other kids and they cannot paddle or sprint like taller six or seven year old. Tony doesn't understand why Bruce tells Michael, Don and Joana to shut up when they taunt him.
Tony thinks he eases some that pain that grows more prominent day by day in his mother’s eyes when just a week after Halloween, he asks, “Can I go home with Bruce tomorrow after school? Mr and Mrs Wayne asked me if I can join them for dinner today when they picked him up at school.”
The silence at the dinner table had been thick and Tony doesn’t miss how his parents exchange sharp glances that quickly melts away when Howard sets his fork down and takes a sip of his drink.
“How long have you been friends with the boy of Wayne Enterprises?”
“He shared his books with me on my first day. He is also my track and swim partner at P.E.” Tony answers, and swallows as he waits for his father to say no; he tries not to think of the disappointment that Bruce will try not to show when he tells him he can’t come to dinner.
(You don't like disappointing Bruce; it'll be a shame when he's always helping you out in ways you cannot even begin to repay.)
“It shouldn’t be so bad, Howard… it’s just dinner.” Maria says.
The pause feels like weeks worth of waiting.
“Fine.” Howard says, picking his fork and knife once more. “Just behave yourself and don’t cause trouble.”
“Thank you, dad.” Tony says and feels his face ache with how wide he is smiling. It is also the first time he manages to finish his entire dinner since he had started at Trinity. Jarvis had been quite surprised.
Dinner with the Waynes had been one of the most fun dinners he’s had in a long time; the Waynes allow him to have mac and cheese for dinner even when it isn’t on the menu. Bruce even insists they share a plate of pigs in a blanket -- Tony cannot even remember the last time he had pigs in a blanket. Thomas and Martha even allow him and Bruce to have ice cream afterwards and before they head home, they stop by Central Park and allow the boys to ride the carousel. Tony remembers riding the carousel only once before, and it had been his birthday, almost a year and a half ago. He had been with Jarvis then, because Howard and Maria had been stranded in Washington.
Tony remembers laughing with Bruce, their smiles as bright as the golden lights of the carousel cutting through the wintery dark of Central Park.
It is also during this dinner that Tony remembers feeling the very first tendril of jealousy, when he watches how Thomas and Martha Wayne holds Bruce’s hands between them, how they look at Bruce and laugh, how Thomas' gaze had lacked that certain sharpness that never seem to leave Howard's eyes every time he even looked at Tony. Tony remembers how his hand feels far too small in Thomas’ hand, how warm it had been and wishing with all his might that maybe, just maybe Howard will also take him and Maria out for dinner and then have ice cream and go to the park after.
Most of all, he remembers thinking, I wish mom and dad were like Mr and Mrs Wayne.
When he gets dropped home, it is Maria that greets the couple. They are pleasant and warm and agree to come in for a cup of coffee and tea. Howard joins them in the study and the boys are ushered by Jarvis and Alfred into the kitchen, where Jarvis prepares hot chocolate and puts out a plate of his cookies between them, while he and Alfred both nurse a cup of tea. Tony remembers sipping out of his cup and Bruce suddenly asking him if he had fun.
Tony remembers saying, with the heat dusting over the curves of his cheeks and nose, “Your mom and dad are really nice. Alfred too.”
“Yours are too.” Bruce says, with a smile that boasts his slightly misaligned teeth and missing incisor.
Tony says nothing, but simply shrugs.
“Jarvis makes better cookies than Alfred.” Bruce whispers, with a grin that makes the laugh lines more visible on his young and handsome face, dark eyes sparkling with mischief that quickly erupts into uncontrollable giggles that is infectious when Alfred huffs a little too theatrically.
“I heard that, Master Wayne.”
Tony had not known if he is allowed to laugh, but when Bruce keeps on laughing, when Alfred grins and Jarvis chuckles, Tony finds himself smiling and grinning too.
(It had felt good.)
It isn’t that dinner though, that plants the seed of trust somewhere in Tony’s little heart that knows little to nothing about what friendship and family can even begin to entail. It is the during the last week of school, just before they close for the Christmas holiday, where their science teacher had assigned them to build and craft a plan stem cell. Tony had been the most silently excited person in the entire class, and remembers how the teacher had looked at him knowingly and smiled, when he had been barely able to contain his own, already thinking of how he can build his stem cell.
Howard had even allowed him to use the small table in the corner of his workshop to work on his science project, had given him some tools to work with and even placed a hand on his head with an approving hum as Tony’s little hands worked with the glue gun with admirable precision.
Tony knows his plant stem cell will be the best looking one in class. He just knows it.
He comes into school that Tuesday morning, tired but bright eyed because science is his first subject of the day. He remembers carrying the hard cardboard base of his model up the school's front steps, how he had waited for the rush of students to calm down in a corner, his arms hurting from the weight of his project, before daring to climb the steps up to the first floor to his classroom. He remembers how he reaches the top of the landing, and comes face to face with Joana, Don and Michael. He remembers how his throat had closed up and how the pain in his chest had swelled all the way up to his throat, how he had stared at the piecess of his model come apart bit by bit when Joana had slapped all his hard work off his already shaky grip with an easy swoop of her arm, how Don had shoved him backwards after that, and scattering his hard work all the way down the stairwell, with Michael's smirk as wide and vicious as a crescent moon looming over him.
Tony remembers being left alone in the middle of the quiet hallway, Joana, Don and Michael's footsteps disappearing along with their scoffs of showoff and Mousey-Anthony. Tony learns early on where his place in the world is going to be, that sometimes doing his best is not going to earn him jackshit, as he pushes himself off the ground, wipes the tears with a vicious swipe of his arm, uncaring of how it crumples his uniform and proceeds to pick up the rest of his broken project, gathering them all into a neat pile, right there in the corner of the quiet hallway, and wishing he can go home.
“Hey,” Bruce had said, his hand warm on his shoulder. “You okay?”
Tony looks at the broken pieces of his week long worth of dedicated labor and shrugs, blinking away the tears that Bruce can see as clear as day and trying desperately to make it stop. He's stronger than this, Starks aren't afraid of bullies, even though his knees feel like gross jelly and his hands are hands quake all the way up to his elbows. “Always…”
“It was Don, Joanna and Michael, wasn’t it?” Bruce asks; Tony sees anger in his eyes, sees how it flushes Bruce’s face and his entire neck, how he goes very rigid with fury.
“Doesn’t matter.” Tony murmurs, sniffs a wet breath and carefully stands up, picking up his broken assignment with him. Bruce doesn’t ask questions; when Miss Mackie takes one look at Tony’s project, and asks what happened, Bruce opens his mouth to tattle, to do what’s right. But Tony is quicker, and simply answers, “I slipped and fell and it broke by accident. I’m sorry, Miss Mackie.”
Miss Mackie gives him a look that reminds Tony far too much of his mother's; in that moment, he feels his throat close up and he wants to cry. He’s never felt like a bigger loser than that very moment; the entire classroom is already talking about him and his ugly assignment. Miss Mackie offers him to submit his project at the end of the day, asks him if he’d like to use study period and lunch time to work on repairing his assignment. Tony shakes his head, denies the show of favoritism. Miss Mackie sighs and tells Tony to stay back after class so they can discuss his assignment further.
When the classroom empties and Tony had made peace with the idea that he’ll be graded for a half-assed formed project, Bruce stays behind and looks at Miss Mackie in the eyes and says:
“Miss Mackie, Tony actually help me build half of mine, and I helped build his; I was having trouble with the nucleus, vacuole and mitochondrion. And he was having trouble to getting the cell walls to hold together. Can we submit mine as a final model and use what’s left of his, too?”
It takes a lot of convincing, but Miss Mackie consents and warns Tony he won’t get his full grade because an incomplete presentation is still an incomplete presentation.
He and Bruce ends up with a B.
When Bruce should have gotten an A; it is the first time Tony feels true shame in dragging Bruce down like that. Bruce had a really good model and had deserved an A+.
“You didn’t have to do that.” Tony says at lunch time, unable to eat and feeling so sick to his stomach, even when Bruce is already halfway done with his tray.
“Why didn’t you agree to take the extra time? i would have helped you. We would have finished fixing it.” Bruce challenges, dropping his container of pudding and wiping his hands with sanitized wet wipe.
“I don’t want trouble.” Tony murmurs, fiddling the straw of his milk-box.
“They’ll still go after you, whether or not you agreed to fix up your project or not.” Bruce is frowning and some of that temper starting to bubble on the surfaces.
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Yes it does, Tony!”
“Why did you do it?” Tony pushes, and watches as Bruce twists his lips and slumps on his chair, looking a little petulant.
“What they did wasn’t right.” He grouches, cheeks flushing and crossing his arms with a little too much force across his chest. The flush on his cheeks deepens, “Besides, you’re my friend.”
The memory of that moment will remain sharp and burn as bright as a candle in the dark for the years to come.
It is the first and only time Bruce ever asks him why.
So now, as the sun sets and the orange light washes over them, hours later after Tony had washed off his hangover and returned to his space in the compound, he and Bruce sit facing the stretch of summer green, espressos between them and silence that had once felt too comfortable, but now sits like a stranger in a veil. Bruce had not said a word, even as he had helped Tony to steady himself on his feet, even as he catches a glimpse of the horrid and hideous still visible bruises on his chest that is taking far too long to heal. He remains as silent as the shadow, says nothing as he listens to the hacking and wet cough that Tony can do little to control. He says nothing as Tony shakes out prescribed pill after pill, swallows them dry, and still says absolutely nothing when Tony sighs and the visible weight of defeat pushes his shoulders down.
But Tony knows, oh how he knows, that Bruce doesn’t miss a thing. He is not deaf to the broken sounds of his lungs, nor is he blind to the signs of a defeated man who looks like he wants to do nothing but hide and keep his problems, his troubles and all the little broken pieces of him to himself. Bruce can see it in the shake of his fingers, how they are unsteady when Tony buttons down a crisp shirt. Bruce sees it during their small talk about work, about Stark Industries, how the words are breathless towards the end of each sentence. Tony knows that his response of, oh they’re reviewing the Accords and hunting down those who don’t follow, you know how it is, government and United Nations and all their dramatic flair, is more than enough Bruce, who will read all the unsaid words in between and get the rest of the unspoken truth just by looking into Tony’s eyes.
Bruce is not an idiot.
Tony knows he would not have come all the way to New York without arming himself with research. Bruce’s thoroughness is his success and secret; it is the reason being the Bat Vigilante of Gotham has not broken him to a million pieces.
(Yet.)
Bruce is always prepared, always ready, the real man with the fucking plan.
Tony knows that Bruce knows.
Just like how Bruce had known in an instant, almost four lifetimes ago, how Don, Joana and Michael had been responsible for Tony’s misery at every single turn.
“You didn’t have to come, you know…” Tony murmurs, looking at his espresso cup as orange recedes to purple, and the stars start to peek out shyly from the dusky sky.
“Was he worth it?” Bruce counters, and if he sees how Tony’s hand fists against his knee, how his knuckles go white, he doesn’t say.
“Doesn’t really matter anymore, does it?” Tony shrugs.
“It clearly does…” Bruce counters, calm, measured, but a little sharp around the edges.
“Yeah well, wouldn’t be the first time. In case you missed it, I don’t do things in halves. Not even when it comes to—” Tony uncurls his fingers, cutting off the words and toxic babble and rot that is waiting to spill, the remnants of the infection that Steve had left behind when he had ripped everything from his chest and had left him to die in Siberia's unforgiving winter. Tony doesn't even ask how Bruce knows; men like Bruce who had gone through the pit and so many more after it learn to be observant. A part of Tony thinks it's the fact that Bruce had found him drunk and out of his wits in the middle in Steve's study, the abandoned shield resting against the wall might have been the biggest clue; Tony would not be surprised at all, if Bruce had known before his impromptu trip to New York, though.
“His loss.” Bruce says, easy, casual, and once upon a time, Tony would have reciprocated the hidden meaning behind that word. He had reciprocated it, once upon a time.
But Tony just huffs a breathless laugh that is far too hollow and empty, just like the rest of him and he knows Bruce can hear the words he doesn’t say loud and clear. “Please don’t.” Tony says, dry, and almost a little callous.
“You’re right, you know? I didn’t have to come at all.” Bruce says, shrugging as he sets his empty espresso cup down and looks out at darkening sky. “But I wanted to.”
In the reflection of the glass, Tony thinks he sees the ghost of a smile that is a whisper of the charm and innocence that he remembers seeing when he had met this now-a-man before him in first grade. It isn’t as bright, it isn’t as open, but it’s there hidden under all the scars and losses, and when it peaks out just the tiniest bit, when it comes out just for Tony, with none of that arrogance and cockiness the press and the public is more accustomed to, Tony thinks it’s a little too much.
Unbidden, he thinks if Steve, and feels a little sick in his gut.
(For Steve too, had smiled at you like this, when he had looked down at you and pressed your foreheads together on countless nights, when his smaller and more private smiles had been a thousand times brighter than the ones he had flashed on stage and camera. It had been real, and open and it had been just for you.)
It’s too much and Tony wonders why in fuck’s name did he even call Bruce Wayne and hates himself a little more for succumbing to weakness when they had gone their separate ways, hadn’t they? For over a decade with nothing but radio silence in between? Nothing but business handshakes and polite smiles and maybe a drink or two between them during galas and special functions? The formality of their very limited meetings had been the final nail to the coffin, right?
“Come with me to Gotham,” Bruce says, “I’ve got a model for a leg brace that helped me with my knee. Great support even during hand to hand combat.”
Tony is looking up at Bruce as he stands, partially finding the sudden invitation to be unexpected. “Oh?”
“Maybe you can tinker with it, suit it more to your needs. Improve it, customize it to a broader use." Bruce is sliding into his suit jacket, getting rid of his tie all together and carefully folding it into his inner pocket.
“I’ll look at my schedule.” Tony answers, nodding slowly and looking at his hands; they are clammy. “Lucius still there?”
“As sprightly as an old fox. The old man is as tough as nails.” Bruce chuckles, and moves around the table between them. “I’ll show myself out. Let Alfred know when you find time.”
“Sure.” Tony murmurs and closes his eyes when the warm hand comes around the curve of his shoulder, comforting, and so painfully familiar. It breaks goosebumps all over his skin under the silk shirt, and Tony leeches off the warmth because Bruce is about as warm as a campfire.
“You’ll be okay.” It is a statement and not a question.
And Tony smiles and looks up at him, not for the first time, and says, “Always.”
Bruce didn’t believe him then and all the times Tony had responded the same way.
He certainly does not believe him now.
TBC