I Did Something Bad
To say Tony Stark was having a bad day would be the understatement of the century.
Not only had he spilled Gazpacho on his lap, lost 17 million dollars in the stock market by investing in hyper-intelligent racehorses, totaled his sports car in the parking lot for the third time this month, been sentenced to death in Cambodia for a crime Tony either didn’t commit or committed while very very drunk, and soaked his socks in a dirty puddle of water, but now he had to meet with some “Agent Coulson” regarding who the fuck knows what. His spotty attendance maybe? That or about hacking the Pentagon. Tony hadn’t been paying much, or any attention really, when the canned-tuna-and-printer-ink scented office lady had informed him of the upcoming meeting. Oh well.
Tony sighed, turning to face Bruce, who seemed more engrossed in his novel than commiserating with Tony. Traitor. “Brucie, darling, why aren’t you listening to my tale of tragic woe? My socks are damp and filthy. What am I? A hobo? Or worse! A Kennedy!”
Bruce gave a noncommittal grunt and slumped further against their lunch table.
Tony grabbed Bruce’s book (it was about something elementary anyways, like astrophysics or nuclear fission) and tossed it across the room like a two-thousand-page frisbee. “Are you even listening?”
“No, but intentionally. Can I just assume you were bitching about something dramatic and move on?”
Objectively, Tony knew he wasn’t supposed to make Bruce angry, what with his smashy alter ego, but not annoying people had never been Tony’s specialty. Or even really within his wheelhouse. “I’m appalled. I’m aghast. I’m saddened and betrayed and all things to all people. When have I ever been dramatic?”
Bruce cast a forlorn look at his book, which had come to rest under the water fountain and was currently being dripped on by water of suspicious quality. Eh, Tony could buy him another copy. Or the publishing company, if Bruce preferred.
“I don’t know? Last week you shouted ‘why has God abandoned this timeline?’ because you stubbed your toe. Last month your tax returns were higher than usual, so you tried to convince me to marry you for the benefits, and then plotted to fake your own death when I refused. Twenty minutes ago when you didn’t like the cafeteria applesauce, so you bought the entire corporation and sold it to Jeffery Bezos.”
“Lies and slander. And that’s what this school gets for buying shitty applesauce.”
Bruce rubbed a fist over his eye. “You’re literally allergic to apples, Tony. Your arms are breaking out right now. Was this all just to prove some point?”
“I have to get out of this stupid meeting somehow. I’m supposed to meet up with some Agent Coulson after lunch. What kind of name is fucking “Agent Coulson”. Hope he’s not a FED, because the government's been poking around me lately.”
“Should I even bother to ask why you’re being investigated by the government? Again.”
“No idea.” Tony shrugged. “Anyways, want to ditch this hellhole and go recreate the atomic bomb in my lab. In the name of science obviously.”
Bruce finally looked invested in their scintillating conversation. “Agent Coulson? I’m supposed to talk with him after lunch too.”
Oh no. This was bad. This was very, very bad. Tony had wriggled out of enough court-mandated therapy to know exactly where this was going.
“Oh, fuck me. Fuck us. This is a setup.”
“What? What is it?” Bruce’s fingertips were turning an ominous yet flattering shade of green, almost a jade or an emerald. Whoopsies.
Poor, poor Brucie was unprepared for the psychological warfare he was in for.
“God, this is worse than when Elon Musk called me ‘a derivative, pedestrian slutbag’. Bruciebear, we’ve been sentenced to group therapy”
*
Approximately ten minutes, a shit ton of Benadryl, and an ungodly amount of complaining later, Tony Stark found himself sitting on a mysterious sticky plastic chair, in a circle of five others, equally sticky chairs. Bruce had done his best to put as much distance between himself and Tony despite the relative smallness of their circle, but Tony only scooted his chair closer to Bruce’s.
“Well, this sucks ass. And not in the fun way.”
Bruce simply pulled the hood of his sweatshirt over his head, tugging on the strings until the hood had almost completely covered his face. It was almost like Bruce wanted to escape this conversation, which Tony found entirely improbable.
“I know some people want to deal with the horrifying and likely life-long effects of their traumatic childhood in “healthy” and “productive” ways, but I’m just not one of them.”
“We’re all aware, Tony. We’re aware.”
Sensing dissent, Tony masterfully deflected, “Anyways, do you think I could beat a squid in a fight? Definitely yes, right?”
Bruce was saved from trying to formulate some sort of response other than “get help” by the entrance of one Natalie Rushman. Beside her stood her far less important but oddly buff sidekick, Clint Barton. Or was it Blint Carton? Regardless of Blint, rumor was Natalie could kill you in twenty different ways using only her pinky finger. Which, from the knee-shaking, eyeball-melting glare she’d cast in Tony’s vicinity, he assumed was true. Although, rumor also had it Natalie once made a man explode by forcing them to drink nine jumbo espresso and thirteen cherry Slurpees from 7-11 in a row, so who knows.
Tony had more personal experience with Flint Marton, which gave him the authority to deem the boy unworthy of note. Other than Blint's ride-or-die association with Natalie, his numerous arrests (such as for climbing the Patience & Fortitude lions and singing astronaut in the ocean while butt fucking naked or fighting a flock of pigeons in a casino), and the likelihood that he was a literal circus clown, there was little to say about him.
Next to enter was - oh, this was too good to be true.
“Steve! Steve Rogers! Steve “angels cry and puppies die when you curse” Rogers got sent to Bad Kids Feelings Time! Oh my, what happened to truth, justice, and the American way? What would baby Jesus think?”
Politely put, Steve and Tony had a, ahem, complex relationship.
Steve ignored the philosophical quandary in favor of taking a seat to Natalie’s left. Rude. It’s not like Natalie needed two boytoys.
Tony began to lament not skipping out on this school meeting, as was his religion and custom, as the minutes began to roll on without the appearance of Agent Coulson. Natalie and Blint had begun staring intently into each other's eyes in some form of telepathic communication, while Bruce only melted further into his seat.
Finally, after at least four minutes of waiting, Agent Coulson arrived. He was old as hell, in that he was fortyish, wearing a suit and indoor sunglasses combo that practically flashed “cop” in neon lights. If this whole fiesta was set, Tony’s going to sue. Or at least make a massive scene. Potentially both.
“I’m Agen- Mr. Coulson, sorry for the delay,” Definitely An Agent smiled, rolling a swivel chair to their little circle, “but I’ve assembled you all because-”
Tony interrupted. “We’re all problem students with traumatic backstories and emotional baggage?”
“You want us to become a modern Breakfast Club? Dibs on being the basket case who gets a makeover in the end,” Clint offered helpfully.
Natalie raised an eyebrow, voice monotone. “This is all a very tedious and elaborate Promposal?”
“No. None of those things. Besides, none of you are “problem” students per se, but yes, you’ve all been involved with your fair share of disturbances in and out of this high school. Administration believes some of this comes from your… isolation, and that forming bonds with more of your peers will allow for a more healthy outlet for your emotions. We want to foster teamwork, and hope in time you six may become friends.
Forming bonds with your peers? A healthy outlet for your emotions? Become friends? Maybe this wasn’t therapy, but it was certainly the land of sugar-coated terms and back pats. Tony was actually going to vomit. Goodbye, carpeting. “Oh yeah, that’s not at all “because we’re all problem students with traumatic backstories and emotional baggage”. Thank you for the clarification.”
Steve, who’d thus far sat quietly, with his hands fucking folded in his lap and that resting sad puppy look on his face, spoke up, “You six?”
With impeccable timing, Thor took that moment to burst loudly into their meeting room.
If Adonis and a golden retriever had a love child, it would be Thor Odinson.
“Apologies for my lateness,” Thor wheezed, “but I broke the toaster contraption again, and I fear Loki tried to stab me. Again.”
And If the Kardashian family decided to up their level of physical violence, but keep their level of insane drama and emotional violence, you’d have Thor Odinson’s family.
A brief chorus of “tried to stab you?”s and “again?”s, immediately followed by a “Thor, there’s blood on your shirt” sounded, but no one appeared truly surprised. In any circumstance, speaking with Thor for longer than five minutes quickly proved that a) Thor probably grew up in some sort of bizarre Norwegian cult but hadn’t quite realized the cult part yet and b) his kid brother was a massive dick.
Thor blinked down at the rather large crimson stain soaking through the material of his flimsy white tank top. “Fear not, this is merely a flesh wound.”
Agent floundered, clearly unsure of the “my kid brother attempted fratricide because I can’t work the toaster” protocol. Amateur.
Tony, with much wisdom and little hubris, said, “Maybe you should take your shirt off?”
Bruce delivered Tony a swift kick to the shins, which didn’t hurt all that much considering the general crappiness of Bruce’s sneakers, but Tony let out a gasp of offense nonetheless. Bruce was always nagging him to share the wealth, and this- this was an unselfish act. A present for everyone, in fact, and especially for Bruce!
Thor beamed at Tony, an expression much like a puppy wrapped in a hug wrapped in a rainbow, and yanked off his shirt. “Thank you, friend Tony.”
Rapidly losing control of the situation and the attention of his teenagers to Thor’s perfect golden chest, Agent managed to ask, “Thor, are you alright?”
“I was unable to eat my delicious Pop-Tarts, but I remain in good health.” Thor paused for a moment, considering, “Well, I believe Loki may have poisoned his blade. What a jest! How truly do I understand why Loki is named trickster! Although perhaps may I lay on your sofa? My legs will soon go numb.”
“Please do.”
Thor squinted a moment, temporarily confused by the use of idiom, before immediately lightening back into his normal personified-ray-of-sunshine self upon spotting Bruce.
“Hello, Banner!”
Miraculously, Bruce’s face did an odd thing where it didn’t look all tired and pained for once. Awkward and verging on embarrassed, certainly, but Bruce seemed… not entirely miserable. Before anything so monumental as a casual exchange of pleasantries could occur, Thor toppled face-first onto Agent’s terribly cliche therapy couch, face squished against the cushion as he promptly passed out.
“Should I be calling someone?” Agent asked.
Blint shrugged, “Same thing happened in gym class last week. A little poison never hurt anyone, let him sleep it off.”
Satisfied, Agent continued, “Less paperwork for me. Now, you all have a lot in common, and I hope you’re able to explore that.”
Tony, however, was miffed. “You get sent to rehab on time and suddenly you’re in the same league as the guy who literally ran away to join the circus and now commits fucked up, evil clown crimes and the man with the future criminal mastermind sibling?”
“It wasn’t once. You’ve attended rehab four times. You were caught doing a line of cocaine off the lunch tables. And crystal meth. And ketamine. And the salt from the cafeteria pretzels. You have twelve DUIs.”
“What can a file really tell you about a person,” Tony smamrmed, “and those were DWIs. There’s a difference.”
“His water bottle is filled with vodka right now,” Bruce added.
“Is not,” Tony defended, “I’m drinking Everclear.”
Agent pinched the bridge of his nose. “Tony, If you go blind, I’m going to lose my job.”
Tony rolled his eyes. “Oh please, I haven’t gone blind from drinking alcohol since I was eight. And I regain my sight, and consciousness, eventually anyways.”
“Tony, try to take this seriously.”
“I am taking this seriously. And I seriously think we can’t possibly be the worst kids in this school! What about Wade Wilson? Last week he offered me a flask full of beef stew, and he keeps trying to recruit me for his Discord server where you pretend to be a member of the British royal family and then fuck. He wants me to be Prince Philip's decaying corpse! Or Sam Wilson! He seems miraculously well adjusted, investigate that!”
Agent, the stone-cold bastard, elected to ignore Tony’s valid and logical concerns, “None of you are bad kids, and this isn’t a punishment. You’ve been hand-picked by the administration because this is a pilot program, not for your perceived “badness”. I want you all to get along, or, ideally to become a team. Please, just try to take something positive from this experience.”
A long silence stretched over them, cool and undisturbed until Tony could no longer restrain himself. He raised a hand.
“Yes?”
“Yeah, Agent, Thor’s getting blood on your couch.”
Natalie glanced over at Thor’s unconscious form. “Blood is such a bitch to get out of leather.”
“Just come back on Monday. Class dismissed,” Agent sighed, “and nobody bring any booze.”