This Has All Happened Before
This has all happened before, and it will all happen again.
It is a simple life, really. A person wakes up, goes about his or her day of work, toils away under the sun only to rest and repeat it all again the following morning. Day after day, year after year. Time passes, life passes, the same as it always has. It is not pointless— though some may believe it so— but it can feel… tiresome, after a time, can it not? It can feel as if one day is only a precursor to the next, one day simply leading into another just the same. A drudgery of monotony, a dull existence of constant striving for a goal that never quite seems to be reached.
It is quite possible that this is the very reason that someone along the course of history decided to invent imagination; that wonderful, tantalizing escape of stories and fantasies, something to break up the monotony of a simple, everyday life. There is something about a good story that can add a sort of luster to the world; a thin film of fiction to make the real, dull world seem to have a little sparkle. Something to break up the monotony with a glitter and a gleam, a sweet taste against otherwise identical moments. There is something about that fiction that brings a bit of life to life.
But of course, that is all it is: Fiction. Fantasy. Falsehood.
Tony Stark had been taught young not to buy into those frivolous fabrications, the stories that captivated the minds of so many youth. No, he always remained grounded in truth, in the science and the solidity of the real world. “A head in the clouds is a head that is lost”, his father would always say. Dreamers never did get the job done— no, it was the men of the world that would excel. And Tony is a Stark; he was made to excel.
And excel he has. Tony Stark is a dedicated man. Each day he rises to the morning with a sharp wit and a bold stride. He takes the days as they come, he works hard and he creates new things. He learns the science of the world, facts and figures working together in his hands to create new inventions. His name is well known across the city, across the state, across the world. His father is no longer around to tell him to stay away from fairytales, but it does not matter. Tony Stark has stayed away from stories for a long, long time… it is one of the few things he and Howard agreed on. He does not care for stories. His life is rooted in fact, not fiction, and he stands by that. Everything that he has is built by his hands, and his hands alone. Hard work is far more valuable to him than some childhood legend.
Thus is Tony Stark’s drive to rise in the morning, to wake up just as the sun is beginning to poke out over the city streets. Each morning he yawns, stretching as he always does while blinking sleep from his eyes, the slow ebb of consciousness a familiar tug on his brain as he takes in the morning sunlight that peters through his drawn curtains. That same sensation eventually drives him from the comfort of his bed and tugs him into the familiar motions of the day. His feet hit the floor in the same spot they do every morning, his drapes remain closed as he makes his way across his room in familiar darkness, and the bathroom door opens with the same creak that it always does when he pulls it forward. Each movement is practiced, so familiar that he could run through it in a sleepwalk. His fingers against the cool marble counter, the bristles against his teeth as he brushes away morning breath, the second that he takes to contemplate the faint line of stubble beginning to crowd the immaculate goatee framing his mouth. This particular morning he studies that for a longer moment, thoughtfulness in his morning-blurred gaze as he tries to remember why he feels that should matter more than usual. What day is it, anyway? What does he have on the calendar?
Wednesday. Another gala.
Tony hums to himself and reaches for his razor. He will be making a public appearance to possible business partners later tonight; he might as well look the part of the genius billionaire that he is.
And thus, another day begins. Tony makes his way downstairs to be greeted by Jarvis, his butler, and the two take a moment to convene about the night’s event. Their conversation is friendly, simple, and as routine as it is every morning that they spend together. Tony exchanges pleasantries with Mrs. Jarvis, the cook of the household, before he is pulled away by the call of his livelihood. Jarvis takes on the role of chauffeur, the sleek model of the latest Stark Industries designed engine purring beneath the car’s hood as Tony stares out the window. Gray buildings pass him by, the same familiar street corners and alleyways that he sees every morning marking his route as they turn each corner. Windows and brick merge together, his arms folded comfortably against his chest as he watches them through red-tinted sunglasses. Seconds tick by with each rumble of the engine, merging together into minutes, each minute moving past with the unending march of time. The march of time continues on once Tony has stepped out of the car, said his farewells to his butler, and marched on his own way into one of the unremarkable stone buildings of the city. It continues to march through his work day, through each employee’s inquiry and each twist of a tool to test the bounds of science to see where he can improve his latest wares.
Time marches on, an indisputable and unstoppable force, one that every human must march along with in their attempts to strive toward an unobtainable greater goal. Tony Stark is no different, and he takes it in stride.
The sun inches across the sky outside of smoky windows set against gray brick, its rays filtering through the glass to flicker across the metallic surface of the motor that Tony raises to the light. He squints at the tiny, intricate twists of the motors innards, watching the glint of light that bounces off of them. The glint draws his eyes to the sun outside, the angle and tint of the rays making him pause for the first time in the day. His lips twitch in something of a frown, his eyes sliding instead to the watch that rests on his wrist. Numbers stare back up at him, innocent and uniform in the unchangeable, scientific nature of the real world. The soft metallic clink of metal against metal echoes through the corner office as the miniscule motor is placed back down on the thin metal table, a soft sigh following it as Tony pushes himself back in his chair. The sun is disappearing steadily, its rays merging into deeper, more vibrant colors with each passing moment, and the watch against his wrist confirms the passage of time. The prototype motor can wait until the next day, until after the gala that he is obligated to attend.
Time stops for no one, after all.
And so Tony Stark stands, his work paused for the moment until he next returns his cycle of toil. His jacket, discarded at the door when he entered the office hours ago, is pulled back on with a shrug of the shoulders and a shiver at the thought of the cold December air that awaits him outside. A message is sent to Jarvis, though Tony has no doubt that the man is already awaiting his arrival with a shake of his head and a fond tilt of his lips. One of these days, perhaps Tony will be the more punctual of the two of them… but Jarvis is the one employed to keep Tony on time, not the other way around. Tony never has been the most punctual man, his sharply focused mind contrasted with a curious nature; the same nature that has allowed him to climb to the position of innovation that he strives to further, the same nature that he has simultaneously forced himself to smother for the sake of other, more useful instincts.
It is that nature, those instincts, that occasionally distract him from his work, that cause his mind to wander briefly before he manages to reign it in.
It is that nature that allowed him to create the most beneficial, most clean energy source that his city, nay, the world has ever seen purely because he dared to ask what if?
It is that nature that he recognizes as dangerous, as distrating, as something that uselessly pushes back against the constant marching pressure of time.
Curiosity is… well, a curious thing, is it not? It can be as strong or as weak as the person it possesses allows. It requires attention, balance, for it is far too similar to imagination to be regarded as something harmless. Curiosity can easily develop into dissonance, into longing for things that the real world cannot provide. Curiosity can bring innovation or intervention, advancement or regression. It requires a sharp mind and a strong will to curve it into the tool it can be.
Tony Stark has both a sharp mind and a sharp will. It is required of him, and he has never once backed down from that challenge, from the way that time and inevitability has shaped him.
He is a man of the real world, and it is evident in every clack of his polished boots against the shining marble of his toward, of the curt nod that he gives to his receptionist and the quick, succinct replies he gives to his employees on the way out of the door and on to his next menial task in the latest ever-present, ever-repetitive day. He does not hesitate in his movements, and every step he takes further develops his image of confidence, brilliance, genius.
However, beneath everything that the world has settled on Tony Stark’s shoulders, he is still a man of innovation. He is still a man of curiosity.
Perhaps it is that curiosity that has his polished boots turning in a slightly different direction than usual, that leads him around the left side of the building instead of the right, the direction that he habitually takes to bring him back to Jarvis’s awaiting vehicle. Perhaps it is an attempt to change something of the routine, to make some small adjustment to the constant march of existence and time. Perhaps it is done without thought or reason at all, just a slip of routine that would have gone unnoticed by the time the sun finished its descent and darkness stretched across the city.
But regardless of reasoning, conscious choice, or coincidence, the echo of Tony’s boots thud softly against less familiar walls, the gray brick of his building on a different side as usual as he walks. It is a small decision, one that would be inconsequential in the long stretch of time and would be forgotten by the morning.
At least, the decision to turn down the left side of the building would be forgotten. The reasoning behind it would be forgotten. Perhaps even the side of the building would be lost to time.
But Tony Stark will not forget the moment. He will not forget the night.
Instead he stops, the soft clack of shiny shoes against dirty concrete stilling in the cold December air. The soft, fading rays of the sun dance across the smoky windowpanes of the building that he stands in the shadow of, the building that casts a shade across the thin sliver of space between his office complex and the next. The alleyway feels still, as if it is holding its breath, as if it knows that this is more than an insignificant decision to be lost to the sands of time. Tony Stark pauses, and if he did not know better he would say that the moment pauses with him.
Because sitting there, back against the wall of his building, with ragged clothes and dirt-scrubbed skin, is a child.
Tony blinks, his feet unmoving and his chest rising slowly in the strangely still air. He glances back over his shoulder, out the mouth of the alleyway and toward the rest of the city, where the blue sky is beginning to darken into a purple-gray stain as the golden sun fades, and then looks back to the figure in front of him. The child makes no movement, no acknowledgement of his presence, as if he does not know Tony is there at all. He may not be aware, by the state of him. His limbs are coiled tightly, his knees tucked up to his chest and his arms crossed over his head. Only the barest tuft of brown hair peeks through the gangly, dirty limbs, and Tony is only about halfway certain that the kid is a boy at all. He is a kid though, that is an undeniable fact. He is too small to be anything else, his limbs too spindly and his frame too youthful to be any older than fifteen, even in that coiled form. The clothes that cover him are torn, made of some fabric that Tony does not quite recognize, a soft red and blue that hangs loosely from his gaunt frame. The alleyway remains silent, utterly still but for the small shivers that wrack the child’s body.
Tony Stark stands there, his heart thrumming steadily in his chest, staring at the child that is crouched next to his building.
In the back of his mind, he knows that there are minutes ticking by. He knows that time does not stop for anyone, let alone a poor child crouched in an alleyway without a jacket in the middle of December. However, if minutes are indeed ticking by, he does not notice them.
Instead he takes a hesitant step forward, his destination nearly forgotten as that buried, contained curiosity moves warm and gentle in his limbs.
“Hello?” Tony finds himself saying, the word forming on his tongue without the consent of his mind. There is a soft echo in the abandoned alleyway, his voice coming back to him with a distant, tinny sound.
The child tenses, the desperate breathing that Tony did not realize he could hear suddenly stopping short. He thinks that he sees a flash of eyes, something bright and glittering between the arms that cross protectively over the boy’s head.
The silence reigns on, deeper now that the heavy panting had been choked into submission. It crawls in Tony’s ears and prickles against the back of his neck in an uncomfortable crawl.
“I’m… I’m not going to hurt you, kid,” he speaks again, more to break the silence than anything. “Are you ok?”
The question feels fake, unnecessary on his tongue. But he is unsure what else to ask the kid, unsure what answer he is expecting. If it is a yes then, well, he would not believe it for a moment. A kid curled up here, in an alleyway, shivering and still without any sort of protection from the cold besides a strange, tattered red shirt could not be farther from ok . But if he answered no then, well, what exactly would Tony be expected to do? Give money? Give condolences?
In all reality, it is not his problem; he has his own places to be, his own life to go about. In the silence that follows his question, Tony remembers this fact, and very nearly turns around there and then to leave the kid for someone else to be concerned with.
But then a sharp wind blows, cold and bitter with the promise of snow the following night and Tony shivers, his breath puffing out in front of him in a white cloud. However his quick shiver is nothing compared to the convulsion that comes over the child curled up on the alley floor, the way that the boy seems to fold even deeper into himself, his arms and legs pulled in tight and taught in some sort of attempt to warm his visibly frigid body. The boy is not even wearing long sleeves, the cuffs of his shirt ending somewhere just below the shoulder and his pants cut short above the knees.
Tony is moving before he even realizes that he is. His jacket is warm and thick, and it comes off without thought. It is made of soft wool or cotton or something else quite similar, well-tailored, expensive, and he has three more exactly like it back home. The lack of the cloth makes him shiver as another burst wind buffets against his back, but he has already crossed the alley and crouched next to the boy huddled against his building. The jacket is placed across the boy’s shivering form without a single hesitation, Tony’s hands hovering just above them as the boy once again freezes almost completely.
The eyes— the bright glinting that had disappeared at the sharp chill of the wind— return, wide and startled as they peek through dirty limbs to stare up at Tony. They are brown, he notes somewhere in the back of his mind, brown and soft like a young deer.
“Hello,” Tony breathes out, the word nearly catching in his throat as he tries to pull back, to give the child distance.
The boy stars back, that same startled look in his eyes. “Hello.”
The voice is soft, yet at the same time rough. It flickers in the air, something akin to a feeble flame, a ripple on a river. Something wild, something strange, something unlike anything that Tony had heard before and yet somehow achingly, achingly, familiar. Like a memory that he could not quite grasp, an emotion that he could not quite name.
Pale fingers slowly, hesitantly, twist into soft black fabric, pulling it closer around a gently shivering form. The tuft of brown hair moves, the taught arms shifting to allow a small face to pull itself from the confines of the limbs. The wide eyes are more visible now, deep brown and framed by smooth pale skin, soft and round with youth where it is framed by shaggy, soft brown hair. Small lips part slightly, as if the boy stopped only a quarter of the way into a soft oh , those little fingers digging deeper into the soft black coat that engulfs his body.
The boy and the businessman stare at each other, unmoving.
“This…” he speaks again, his voice carrying that same, unplaceable tilt, something that tickled the very edges of Tony’s brain in a way that made his temples pinch. “...this is yours.”
The chuckle that slips out of Tony’s lips is not a thing of humor, or at least not true humor. It is something closer to disbelief, or perhaps a lack of a better response. It is a reflexive maneuver that Tony tends to fall back on in conversation, humorous or not. But this boy is not yet another rich businessman who Tony could care less than to communicate with, who would be satisfied with a flippant, unthought chuckle in any circumstance. This boy is staring at him with wide eyes, tight fingers, an open and honest expression so unlike any of the men he interacts with on a daily basis that Tony cannot help but feel his throat tighten, to feel like he owes the kid more of an answer than a deflective chuckle. “Not anymore. It’s yours.”
The small part between the boy’s lips widens into a clearer oh , a wrinkle of confusion flickering across his expression. “But it’s yours ,” he repeats, his words a bit firmer this time, as if trying to convince Tony.
“Nope. Honestly that jacket’s a bit old,” Tony lies through his teeth, entirely aware of the fact that the jacket in question was purchased no more than three weeks prior and that it is still stiff with underuse. “I’ve been thinking about switching it out. You’d be doing me a favor, taking it.”
The boy continues to stare, his lips twitching into something of a frown as he looks over Tony more closely, those wide brown eyes searching him with an oddly deep gaze. “But now you’re cold.”
Not nearly as cold as you , Tony thinks, but does not say. He cannot bring himself to point out the state of the boy; the bare feet, the odd red shirt that is full of holes and snags, the short blue trousers that seem much more fit as summer wear than for the middle of December. It seems rude, or perhaps insensitive, or perhaps it is just not something that he wants to address.
Instead Tony shrugs, forcing himself not to shiver as another breeze slips through the alleyway and bites through his thin white button-up. “I’ll be fine. I’m on my way home anyway, it’s not far from here.”
The word home is not quite accurate, but it is what slips out and he does not correct himself. Besides, the word seems to catch the boy’s attention, his head lifting just a fraction higher with some sort of interest.
“Home?”
“Yeah, home.” To grab a new jacket if nothing else, Tony decides. He does not regret taking his off— the way the boy is clutching it like a life line is reason enough for him to do it again— but the winter wind is bitter, and he does not fancy facing the colder air that would surely come after dark without any sort of protection.
The thought of protection, of home, makes him glance at the boy next to him again. He had not realized his gaze had even moved away, had not even realized that he was still crouched on the dirty ground. He shifts, gentle and hesitant, and his mouth opens, closes, then opens again. “Are you headed home, kid?”
The boy does not freeze, not in the way that Tony was expecting. He thought it would be something similar to the look the kid had worn moments before, the expression that painted him startled, frozen, still like a deer in headlights. But something else entirely washes over his open features, something that twitches his lips in a conflict, that wrinkles his brow in confusion, that causes his eyes to slide to the ground and linger for a moment before flicking back up to meet Tony’s. His mouth mimics Tony’s, opening and closing and opening again before he speaks.
“Yes,” he says quietly, softly. But while the word is succincut, there is a tilt to the end of it, a slight tone shift that makes it feel feeble. It makes the answer feel like a question of its own.
Tony can feel the frown on his face, gentle and concerned. The boy’s eyes stay on his own, wide and other-worldly and edged with that same sort of quiet confusion, maybe even curiosity.
“How old are you?” Tony asks, the words burning in his throat but soft on his tongue.
“I don’t know,” the boy replies with a simple honesty that could be felt.
“Are your parents coming?” Tony asks again, this question even warmer in his throat.
The boy tilts his head, brown curls falling across his pale forehead as he blinks. “What are parents?”
Tony’s mouth freezes where it is, half open and half closed, the tickle on the edges of his mind prickling as he tries to think of something to say to that. “Your father? Your mother?”
The boy’s forehead wrinkles a bit more. “Father? Mother?”
Tony can feel his heart in his chest, the way that each breath expands his chest shallowly. He leans back ever so slightly, one palm flat against the gritty concrete and the other in the air, waving at nothing in particular as he tries to articulate some sort of explanation. “… the people that… take care of you. Look after you?”
The explanation came out more like a question. The boy blinks again, his head tilting a bit further to the left. “Like brothers?”
“No. Well, yes in a way, because they’re both your family, but parents are… different.” Tony lets out a breath, his head nearly touching the stone wall behind him as he tilts his head up. The sky is getting darker now, the gray clouds above haloed by fading golden light. Could this kid truly not know what a mother was? What a father was? His eyes slide away from the clouds, slowly focusing back on the kid that is staring at him with a cocked head and wide brown eyes. “You have brothers?”
“Yes.” The boy nods, the movement clear and certain. Something fond flickers in his eyes, his lips twitching up into a little grin that makes Tony’s heart feel strangely warm. “Two of them.”
Tony can feel his frown softening. “They take care of you?”
The boy nods again, the smile deepening. “They have for a long time.”
“Are they on their way now?”
The smile disappears in an instant. The brown eyes practically darken, and the boy’s slowly unfurling posture suddenly slides back, his head ducking as he curls slightly back in on himself. His fingers curl deeper into the black fabric of Tony’s expensive jacket, his eyes sliding down to look at the scuffed, dirty concrete beneath his bare feet.
The lack of his answer leaves a tangible void in the air between them. Tony is unable to suppress a shiver as the next gust of wind tugs at his shirt.
“Hey, it’s cold out,” Tony’s voice falls from his mouth, hardly any thought behind his words as he speaks. “Are you cold?”
“Yes,” the boy says, his expression once again far too open and too honest. His voice still holds that strange, almost familiar tone, that tone that was just unplaceable and just out of reach in Tony’s mind.
His face twists into a frown, and Tony notices his fingers uncurling just a moment before he begins to shrug the jacket off of his shoulders. Tony reacts on instinct, his hand reaching out to press against the boy’s shoulder and stop him mid-movement with a quick shake of his head. “No, no kid, that’s not what I’m asking for.”
The boy hesitates, those eyes still so clear and so honest as they blink up at him. “But you’re cold.”
Another chuckle slips out of Tony’s lips, hesitant and a filler in the cold air. “No. I mean, I am, but… you are too, right?”
The boy hesitates for a heartbeat before nodding.
“Do you…” Tony trails off, hesitation overshadowing his heart for another beat before a particularly bitter gust pulls more words from his mouth. “Do you have anywhere to go tonight? Anyone looking for you?”
The boy’s eyes speak the words that are not said.
Silence spreads through the alleyway, heavy and expectant. Once again the distinct feeling of time halting, of a moment being preserved in the fabric of the universe, settles against the stone and skin that resides in the small, usually insignificant, chip of the city. Once again the world’s breath seems to hold, the anticipation of a simple decision weighing in the cold December air.
Tony reaches out a hand, all thoughts of the gala that he is supposed to attend gone from his mind, all thoughts of the expectations and weights of time temporarily set to the side as his fingers uncurl, open in an offering to the child in front of him.
For once, he gives in entirely to his curiosity. For once, he entirely gives himself over to the strange, warm, unusual feeling that twists his gut and presses into his heart with an unfamiliar, achingly intimate sensation.
“I’ve got an open room,” he finds himself saying. As if it is a casual offer, as if it is one he gives out all the time. “It’s warmer than here, I can tell you that. There’s food too, if you’re hungry.”
The boy stares at the hand for a moment, his eyes wide as they linger on the calloused digits and even wider as they shift back up to Tony’s face, just a few inches above his own with Tony crouching on the concrete. His mouth is once again open just slightly, emotions flickering across his face without filter and without hesitation. Some of the expressions Tony can recognize as they come; confusion, hope, curiosity. Others, the ones that linger in the boy’s deep, enchanting eyes, that hover on his skin and echo in his voice even as he does not speak, are foreign to Tony. Those are something that he does not understand, that he cannot interpret, that draw him closer and cause him to stretch his hand out further.
Somewhere far above, thousands of miles over the city and nestled deep in the indigo blue sky, a single star is slowly becoming visible as the sun begins to slide out of sight, its tiny glimmer of light standing out against the purples and blues with a silver glint.
I wish I could understand this kid , Tony’s mind thinks as his hand stretches out, his calloused fingers offering something that he does not yet understand.
Somewhere far above, a star glows .
And down on the ground, in the midst of a stone gray city full of sharp edges and the constant demands of time, the constant striving of ambition, full of dirty alleyways and twisted streets, a strange boy reaches out.
Their hands connect, and in that very instant Tony Stark begins to fall.