Carrying Small Stones

The soldier known as Bob was alone in the penthouse.

Well, not entirely. Jarvis was there, part of the building, but Bob couldn’t see him. The open spaces of the penthouse always seemed so much larger when he was by himself. He didn’t like it.

Tony was down in his lab, and though Bob had been told he could go find him any time (he was almost positive the offer was genuine, and not a trap), he didn’t want to disturb him. He had heard Pepper telling Tony he was behind on his work, so he was trying to stay out of the way. Instead, he was trying to make himself useful by cleaning their space. It helped to clear his mind if he picked up the clutter that Tony left behind him like a whirlwind: the Iron Man breastplate leaned against the back of the couch, the stack of fanmail from children that he always responded to himself and had left spread all over the floor, the screwdriver that had inexplicably been left in the bowl of apples on the bar.

Bob didn’t mind the disorder, exactly—in a way, it was comforting, but so was putting it back in its proper place.

So when he was passing by the elevator and saw the three large cardboard boxes that had been stacked there between the time he’d dropped something off in the kitchen and come back, he stumbled to a stop and frowned at them.

“Jarvis?” he asked hesitantly.

“Yes, Mr. Bob,” Jarvis replied promptly.

“What are these?” he asked, leaning over them, feeling a little thrill as he did at being able to ask the question. Jarvis had told him he could ask him anything. He never got in any trouble for it.

“Sir ordered you Pixy Stix in bulk,” Jarvis told him.

“Oh,” he said, and frowned slightly. He reached up to rub at where the metal arm attached at his shoulder, trying to dull the pain there as well as distract himself. Tony was always trying to buy him presents, but Bob couldn’t repay him. He didn’t know why Tony would want to get him anything at all. “Why?”

“Why, Mr. Bob?” Jarvis asked.

“Why would he get them for me?” Bob asked. There were faded colorful pictures on the cardboard half hidden behind the shipping label. He wondered what a Pixy Stix even was.

“I believe he thought you would enjoy them,” Jarvis explained gently after a moment. “You’re welcome to open them now.”

Bob lowered himself to sit cross-legged and stared at the boxes for a moment. He didn’t think Tony would have gotten him something to be worried over. Tony was thoughtful and kind, and always trying to help him even though he didn’t deserve it.

But he could feel his breath start to shorten as he tried to imagine what the box might hold.

“Jarvis,” he forced himself to ask carefully, because he was allowed to ask now, “what is a Pixy Stix?”

“It is a fruit flavored powdered sugar candy contained within a slim paper straw,” Jarvis told him. “It was first sold in 1959, and is currently produced by Wonka Confections.”

It was sugar, Bob realized. Tony was always bringing him sugary treats, though he usually said not to tell Pepper. Bob found it hard to imagine Pepper, who was sweet and kind and straight-forward, ever punishing them, but she did seem to have an irrational hatred of sugar.

“And I won’t be punished if I open it?” he asked, just to be sure.

He’d stopped asking Tony that, because it make him look sad. Jarvis never cared what questions he might ask, he just answered them with as much information as he could.

“No, Mr. Bob,” he replied. “No one here will ever punish you.”

“Tony sends criminals to jail,” Bob pointed out. “I read about it. He’s caught killers.”

“Do you plan on hurting anyone?” Jarvis asked him calmly.

“No,” Bob said, but he wasn’t sure what difference that made. It didn’t mean he wouldn’t, when he was forced to.

“Then forgive me, Mr. Bob, but I’m not sure what that has to do with opening a box of Pixy Stix,” Jarvis continued.

Bob bit his lip, watching the box warily. Tony, Jarvis and Pepper all acted like he wasn’t a criminal. But he knew what a criminal was. He knew what he’d done, even if he couldn’t really remember it. He knew they had been horrible, unforgivable things, like what he had done to Tony’s parents. Sometimes he dreamed of the things he had done, and he would watch himself do them. He would beg himself to stop.

But he never stopped.

“Your heart rate is elevated,” Jarvis said, sounding a little concerned. “Would you like me to call Sir?”

“No,” Bob said quickly, “No, he’s busy. I’m fine.”

He wasn’t fine, of course, but Jarvis let him get away these little lies.

Anyway, it was just a box. It was a stupid box. He could open it if he wanted to. He didn’t need permission. Anyway, he had permission.

“Mr. Bob?” Jarvis asked hesitantly.

“I’m fine,” Bob said again, knowing his stupid traitorous heart was giving him away.

His curiosity had always been a defect. Hydra used to test him mid-mission sometimes, ask him things he wasn’t supposed to know to see if he’d know them—if he didn’t, or said he didn’t, they’d laugh like it was funny. If he did, he’d go back to the chair.

But Tony would never send him to the chair.

“Why don’t we watch a movie instead?” Jarvis asked suddenly. “We don’t have to open the boxes. Sir can open them, later, if you’d like him to.”

Bob lifted himself onto his knees, caught the edge of the packing tab beneath the tips of the fingers on his real hand, and then ripped it off in one quick move. He pushed the cardboard flaps open and there they were, just candy straws, exactly as described. Nothing happened, he wasn’t in trouble.

“What flavors are they?” Bob asked.

Jarvis graciously decided not to mention his near anxiety attack. “They come in grape, Maui punch, orange, cherry, raspberry and strawberry. Sir was not sure which flavor you would prefer, so he ordered some of each of them.”

Some was something of an understatement. There looked to be hundreds, just in the first box.

“Why does he do things like this for me?” Bob asked quietly.

“He wants to make you happy,” Jarvis told him. “You deserve to be happy, Mr. Bob.”

Bob didn’t, but it was a nice thing to say. Sometimes Bob didn’t understand how Tony could be so kind. “I do like oranges,” he said, leaning over the box to look in at them.

Tony had given him a tiny orange a week ago. It had been amazing. Now there was an entire bowl of them on the kitchen table, and he’d been told he could have one whenever he liked. They had little stickers on them of cartoon oranges, and Bob had been secretly saving them to line them in a row on the last page of his journal.

“I have never tried one myself, as I don’t have the necessary biological systems, obviously,” Jarvis told him, “However, according to internet chatter and reviews, they seem to be quite well loved. Some people are, quite frankly, a little obsessed with them.”

Bob smiled slightly. He felt a kinship with Jarvis—they were both a little baffled by people, and not quite sure what it was to be one. But Jarvis was kind, too, and always trying to help him. “I guess I could try one,” he offered, “and I could tell you what it’s like.”

“I would appreciate that, Mr. Bob,” Jarvis told him.

Bob reached in and pulled out an orange colored one. He frowned at it for a moment, wondering how one was supposed to eat it. He supposed it was just like the sugar packets, though, and ripped off the end of one to look inside. The orange candy looked like miniature little crystals, and he shook some out into his real hand.

Then he placed it on his tongue. It almost seemed to burst in his mouth, the flavor and sweetness flooding his mind before he even swallowed it down. It was wonderful, of course, he didn’t know why he had been worried. Tony only brought him wonderful things.

“It’s like eating flavored sunlight,” he decided.

“That is a very poetic description,” Jarvis told him. “Thank you for explaining it to me.”

“I’m not sure what that means actually,” Bob admitted.

“That’s okay,” Jarvis said. “You enjoyed it, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” Bob admitted. “Do you think I could try another one?”

“Once Sir learns you like them, I’m fairly certain we will never run out again,” Jarvis told him, his voice taking on that fondly wry tone it usually did when he spoke of Tony. “Have as many as you’d like. I am quite confident that your unique biology will prevent any unfortunate consequences of too much sugar intake, despite Ms. Pott’s repeated concerns.”

“Okay,” Bob agreed, and reached for another one. “Maybe we just don’t tell her?”

“She certainly won’t hear it from me,” Jarvis assured him.

He’d tried all the flavors by the time Tony came off the elevator, and was just starting on his second orange. Tony had some kind of grease on his temple, and in a tuft of his hair, like he’d run his hand through it without remembering to wash it first. He looked tired, too, and Bob frowned, because he couldn’t remember the last time he had seen Tony go in his room to sleep.

He wanted to say something, to ask if he was going to get some rest, but that wasn’t his place. So he said nothing instead, and discreetly crumbled the too many empty Pixy Stix wrappers to push them in his pocket.

Not that he was able to get it passed him, but Tony only looked down at him with something that Bob thought might be fondness. “Found the Pixy Stix, huh?” he asked.

“These are definitely going on the list,” Bob told him.

Tony crouched down beside him, and pulled out a grape Pixy Stix. “You know, I’m still hoping to get to slot number one someday,” he said.

“Then you should stop introducing me to the competition,” Bob told him, before he even realized what he was saying. He froze for a moment, a spike of panic causing him to freeze as he noted the insolence.

But Tony didn’t slap him, he laughed, and sat down next to him so their legs were close enough to touch. “Touché,” he said, as he leaned back to shake the entire grape Pixy Stix into his mouth in one go.

And Bob realized, in a moment of absolute certainty, that Tony really wasn’t a handler, after all.

Maybe this was what it was to have a friend.