ribs
this dream isn't feeling sweet
we're reeling through the midnight streets
and i've never felt more alone
it feels so scary, getting old
- lorde, "ribs"
5.
At school, Tony wordlessly hands Bruce the arm. It's in a Macy's gift box, unassuming and wrapped with a bright pink bow (Tony couldn't resist). Bruce takes it and looks at him, and maybe sees something Tony hadn't been able to see in the mirror, and asks him gently if he's alright.
"Always," Tony replies without even thinking about it, and pats the box in Bruce's arms. "Make sure to support the weight from the bottom. Instructions are in the box; help him with it. Just call me if he needs any adjustments."
"Thanks, Tony," Bruce says. That discerning look is still in his eyes, and it makes Tony uncomfortable. "I'm really grateful you did this. I'm glad you're trying."
Tony just shakes his head. "My fault, I owe it to James to atone," he says, quietly. "But...he has to stay away from Becky. He can't call her a slut again."
Bruce quirks a little smile. "He won't," he says simply, and then walks away, box cradled in his arms. Tony watches him go, and breathes relief into the air the way Jarvis used to let out the smoke from his lungs after taking his pipe from his mouth.
Tony hopes Barnes likes it; he really does. It's the least he owes, really.
The thought of the arm reminds him of the way Howard had ripped Company limb from limb like he was a constructor tearing down a wall, all easy savage yank and pull. A bitter taste fills his throat, and Tony turns tail to go up the stairs to first period before his thoughts have a chance to spiral. Maybe he'll see Becky, or Christie, or Annika or Thalia or Sage or Lina or Fay, and they'll chat with him and make him laugh with their sweet sarcasm and he'll forget the coldness of Thanksgiving break.
However, right before he enters Mr. Coulson's classroom, a hand taps him on the shoulder and a blond boy who's at least three inches taller than him says icily, "I'm Bucky Barnes's best friend. Meet me during lunch in the art room. I want to talk."
Great, just what I need. Big, blond, and beefy, Tony thinks and isn't sure whether to roll his eyes or weep as he nods stiffly and then shoulders his way into the classroom.
Another angry friend ready to beat him up. And it's only the first day back from break.
The bell rings for lunchtime and Tony is, for lack of a better word, twitchy. It'd taken him a solid half hour to recognize who the guy from earlier had been, but when he had, his eyes had almost popped out of his skull.
Steve Rogers. As in, shrimpy Steve Rogers. As in, asthma-attack, flu-catastrophic, detention-every-other-day Steve Rogers of sophomore year.
He's...had a glo-up, Tony has to admit to himself as he shoulders his bag and makes his way down to the art room rather than the cafeteria as he normally would. Really filled out. Into someone who could easily beat me up if he tried.
After a moment of indecision, Tony carefully opens the door to find Steve working on an art piece in the far corner of the room. The other boy's got a smear of paint on his cheek and is wearing a colorful apron that Tony is pretty sure was once white underneath. "Uh," he starts. "First of all, I want to say sorry. I swear, breaking Barnes's arm was a total accident."
Steve looks up at him and then casually, slowly gets up, takes his time washing his supplies and untying his apron and lathering each finger with soap.
After minutes of just standing there and slowly shriveling more and more into himself, Tony finally sighs and says, "Okay, if you were planning to beat me up after you finished, could you just get it over with now? I need to get lunch, and the lines are always long."
Steve finally turns to him and says with a wry twist of the mouth that doesn't reach his eyes, "What makes you think I want to do that?"
"Umm, because I broke your bestie's metal arm?"
Steve finally finishes drying his hand on a paper towel and comes over, getting right into Tony's face. Obviously he doesn't know what personal space is. In a different circumstance/universe, Tony would be totally turned on.
"Listen, Stark," Steve says, "You were probably too busy last year to notice a guy like me - "
Actually, I did notice you, Tony thinks. Both you and Barnes. Barnes was the scary, hot one... and you were the Very Morally Righteous one. Which I thought was hot too, but okay.
" - But let's just say... I gained a lot of height and muscle over the summer," Steve continues. His blue eyes seem to pierce into Tony's, unwavering. "And back then, I picked a lot of fights on behalf of my friends. And I lost them, because I was tiny and asthmatic." No shit, Tony thinks but doesn't say. Steve pauses, and then says, "Give me one good reason why I shouldn't punch you right now."
"Because it would hurt?" Tony tries.
"Do you really want to go with that answer," Steve says, deadpan. Then he narrows his eyes. "Listen, Stark. I've met a lot of bullies like you. Breaking someone's prosthetic just so you can feel some brief satisfaction is despicable and cruel and honestly, the world would be better without those kinds of people."
"I said sorry!" Tony says, indignant. "I didn't mean to." He feels a flash of hurt at Steve's words - the world would be better without you, basically - but then chalks it up to his ego. He can't just get all bruised-feelings-y just because Steve told him something that is true. And besides, Barnes's current arm really is irreparably broken.
Steve lets out a dry laugh. "That's what they all say," he says. "Doesn't excuse the fact that you hurt my best friend. He wasn't born that way, you know. He lost his arm. And I watched him deal with that, and how he slowly grew accustomed to his new one. I watched all that." His voice shakes, both in fury and in something else, like pain. It fills Tony's mouth with a metallic taste to hear that much emotion in someone's voice. "And you ripped that from him like he was a piece of shit on the bottom of your shoe."
Tony feels his breath stutter in his mouth as Steve steps so close that they're chest to chest. His throat squeezes tight, and there's a burning behind his eyes.
"Stay away from him, and all of our friends," Steve says. His eyes are so very blue. "I mean it, Stark. You hurt people because you can get away with it, because you have your father and your money behind you. Some of us don't have rich fathers; I don't even have a father. But if you mess with Bucky ever again, I won't be afraid to defend him." The warning in Steve's tone is all too clear.
Tony just looks back, and nods, clears his throat. "Alright, fair deal," he says, even though it's not really a deal, it's more of a promise. "Well, if that's all that needs to be said, good luck on your...painting thing." Then he turns and zips out the door to get away from Rogers's intense gaze, not even waiting for a reply.
The rest of the day blurs by quickly. Tony goes to the library to do his homework and take a nap, he gets a quick bit of fun in with Anni underneath the bleachers where the football field is, and he heads to a café off campus with Ty and the other guys. He spends most of his time chatting up Johnny Storm, because he's an alright sort, and after a mug of coffee and some fries he heads back to the dormitories on a fairly empty stomach. But it's okay, because after today he isn't quite feeling hungry anyway.
For the rest of the evening Tony immerses himself in editing and creating more of his robot's code - it's a project he'd started last year but had never really got around to finishing. He's already built some of the body in Mr. Yinsen's workshop, but nobody knows what he's been up to beside his beloved teacher. It's only when he finally stops, comes out of that creating haze that always carries him away when he's inventing, that the thick silence of the room starts to really register and pound through his head, this painful little trickle of loneliness accompanied by the ever-present voice of his father.
You have to make your friends out of scrap metal because nobody and nothing will ever want you.
Tony turns over and burrows his face into his pillow. Howard's voice is like an itch in his brain, where's the fucking itching ointment, because if it scratches too hard it'll make a hole and Tony will come leaking out of himself -
Brain-Steve whispers, You hurt people because you can get away with it.
He checks the clock and it's two am; no wonder he's a bit wonky. "Shut up," he mumbles to Brain-Steve as he wiggles down under the sheets and wraps himself into a fetal position. Don't need to tell me things I already know, Rogers. Eventually, as the night winds down into something timeless and ancient as they always do, Tony drifts off to sleep like that - curled up in a ball with his face pressing into the pillow like a heavyweight - with the blue lines of code washing the bed in a gentle glow until his laptop falls asleep too. Thankfully, for the first time in many weeks, he doesn't dream. He doesn't dream at all, and his mind is a cool dark space in the world where he slumbers, a comfort from all the feelings that envelop him in waking life.