Seven
So, college is fine. Tony breezes through his coursework and works endless hours in his labs and ditches a lot of his morning classes (before 2 PM is still morning, right?) due to Totally Not Hangovers. Parties are fun and people think he’s fun, because he is.
He calls home every night because he’s a kickass big brother.
Sandy chatters happily about Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles and Batman and Robin reruns or how she drew a picture of him as a robot or how Dad finally is letting her take karate classes. Jarvis will sit with her and interject about how she cut holes in her red scarf pretending to be Raphael and her artistic talents were more than worthy of a place on the mantle and how Dad had given in after the fifth broken knick-knack Sandy had ninja kicked off a side table.
Jarvis eventually makes excuses to let the siblings have their privacy.
Sandy asks if he’s made “his best friend” yet, because she’s adorable.
Tony always says no, because he has friends, sure, but they’re party friends.
(“I swear, everybody thinks I’m a spoiled brat who bought my way in and shouldn’t be there or a lost puppy who also shouldn’t be there. Starting to think I should’ve let you smuggle yourself in; good company is hard to come by, Shortstack.”
“S’okay, Tony. You’ll meet him soon, and you're gonna be really happy. Promise.”
Tony laughs, because she says it with all the self-assurance of a six year old who believes the power of friendship will save the day. And hell, with that level of confidence, who the hell is Tony to tell her she’s wrong?
“Alright, kiddo, I’ll trust you on this one. But you gotta be my best friend till then, ‘kay?”
“Well, duh,” she says, and he grins at the eyeroll he hears through the phone.)
So, college is fine. Tony’s just a little homesick.