balmy afternoons
because i love you, i love you, my love,
in the attic where the children play,
dreaming ancient lights of hungary
through the noise, the balmy afternoon...
- federico garcía lorca
22.
In his dreams, he talks to Jarvis.
He's four years old again, wearing socks Ana knitted for him and lying spread-eagled on the floor of the mansion, and Jarvis is above him - crinkle-eyed and not quite bald - and offering a plateful of apple pie as a peace offering.
He's five, crying into the neckline of his sweater with the faint marks of fingers around his wrists, and Jarvis is humming a tune into his hair and murmuring, "Shh, shh." This way, he can pretend like he has a father.
He's six, and Ana dies. Even Howard attends the funeral.
He's seven, and the birds are flocking outside and the sun is shining and Jarvis is wheezing, and a faint trickle of sweat has run down his temple, but he hastens after the ball Tony's thrown anyway. "You've got quite the arm, Master Anthony," he says when he comes back, and pats the child next to him on the head. "Pie now, perhaps?"
He's eight and Brandon pushed him down at school today. It's not a big deal - his knee has a faint red mark, that's all - but it hurts, it hurts anyway. He tells Jarvis about it, and Jarvis kisses him on the forehead. "Don't let it get to you, Master Anthony," his butler says gently, knocking Tony's chin lightly with his knuckles. "Bullies often target those they envy. So the only way to really beat a bully is to show them what you're made of."
He's ten and Jarvis is looking paler and more wan as time goes on. "Jarvis," Tony decides to inquire one day, "Do you ever feel like you're getting too old?"
Jarvis chuckles lightly. "Not really," he says, which Tony only finds out is a lie later on when Jarvis confesses that he's felt his age ever since Ana died. (That kind of hurts too, because obviously Tony wasn't enough, but it doesn't matter.) "Do I appear old to you, Master Anthony?"
Tony frowns. "Everyone seems old at my age," he says honestly. "But maybe a little bit. Do you ever miss it? Being young? Like my age?"
"Not your age, no," Jarvis says, chuckling again. He hauls Tony into his lap, even though Tony's been a big boy for the past four years now and is really too old for coddling. "At times, I reminisce about my twenties - a confusing time, yes, but a great one. But I don't miss it. When you get to my age, Anthony, you will realize that there is a time and place for everything. I lived my twenties; now I am in my fifties, and I get to experience the kinds of things old people do."
"Old people don't really get to experience anything, though," Tony mumbles into the crook of Jarvis's neck. "So I don't see the point."
Jarvis smiles patiently down at his charge. "You will understand one day," he says softly. "There's a gift in everything, in every age. But you won't know till you get there."
He's eleven and Jarvis is really old now. He moves much more slowly than he used to, and he can no longer pick Tony up. Granted, it's because Tony's eleven, not four, but still. It's a bit of a taboo, Tony thinks, to still come home every day and immediately chat with your butler, but Jarvis has always been different. In any case, as soon as he drops off his backpack in the front hall of the mansion, Jarvis is there waiting for him - and then they talk about anything and everything. School, homework, pie, classmates, stars, whether God exists.
"I don't think God exists," Tony decides one day as he slings his bag off his shoulder. "If he did, I think he would've at least given us a sign by now. Jarv, what do you think?"
Jarvis shrugs. "I believe in God," he says simply, reaching out to ruffle Tony's hair when the kid's face falls at the disagreement. "But I don't think it matters. Religion is very important to some people, and unimportant to others - but it's ultimately irrelevant as to whether one believes or not in some higher entity. Regardless of what you think about God, there's really nothing anyone can do about it. You're here, Anthony, and so am I, and that's all there is to it - at least, for us. There may be a greater purpose, or there may be none at all, but essentially it will never affect our lives in the ways we might wish for or imagine."
"People want to feel like they matter, though," Tony says, accepting the pie Jarvis has got waiting for him on the kitchen counter. He hops up onto a stool and pokes at the filling between the crusts with a steady hand. "But I don't really think there's a point to anything. I think everything's kind of just stupid. Like, if Dad doesn't care if I die tomorrow, then why should God?"
Jarvis's face flickers - just a bit - but it's enough for Tony's sharp eyes to catch. "Master Anthony," Jarvis says slowly, and Tony hates how Jarvis is thinking so hard about what to say. "Your father...is a hard man. But he loves you. He just doesn't know how to show it."
"Okay," Tony says, looking away. He doesn't want to be that kind of person - the kind who over-dramatizes everything and feels sorry for themselves. But sue him, he's eleven and Mary's dad came home from the military yesterday and there was a celebration and everything - he came straight to school and picked her up to hug her in front of everybody. Comparatively, Tony can't imagine Howard doing that after even a months-long business trip in any sort of universe. "Well. You know how to show it."
Something in Jarvis's eyes kind of crumples after that. He comes forward and hugs Tony so hard that Tony drops the fork onto the counter with a clatter, but it doesn't matter. He clutches Jarvis to him tight, and listens to the frail heartbeat of the father he loves through the thin fabric of Jarvis's shirt.
In the morning, the light drifts through the window, pallid and spidery because of the way it's filtering through the clouds. It's so quiet - even the wind is quiet - the way it must feel to sleep next to a baby at night. Like so many soft noises, made softer, somehow, by the dark.
Tony cracks open his eyes and squints around the room. Everything is cast in a hazy pale light, every contour and angle smoothed out by the soft color. He's slumped against a couch - wow, this is probably the most movies he's ever watched in a month - and next to him, Bucky's still asleep, his mouth slightly open. For a second, Tony can't help but stare at him - at the way his lashes curl, long and dark, over his cheeks; at the curve of his jaw; at how much more innocent and relaxed he looks asleep in this in-between lighting.
After a second, he jerks his eyes away. Any longer and it'd be creepy.
As the fog from his brain clears away, he slowly regains memory of what happened last night. They watched movies until midnight, and then Sharon - who'd left Tony to wrap herself bodily around Steve - went home and they all kept watching movies until they fell asleep. And then - well - he'd dreamed about Jarvis, which he hasn't done in a long time, and.
Tony clenches his eyes shut for a second.
"Merry Christmas Eve!" Clint says cheerfully as soon as everyone's up and ready to get breakfast. Tony hears Thor's jaw crack as he lets out a huge yawn. "It's par-tay time!"
"Merry Christmas Eve," Steve parrots, eyes and smile going soft. He's looking at Bucky like the other boy's hung the moon, and - well - isn't that sweet. Getting to enjoy the holidays with your boyfriend - with your family.
"I wish we could've brought ice skates," Clint says as they clamber down the stairs and head over to the kitchen table. "That would've been so cool. Imagine skating on the lake. And Nat's a real menace on skates, trust me - it's like ballet, but twice as badass because it's on blades."
Natasha just smiles sunnily.
"So, Tony," Bruce says as he gets out a bowl from the cupboard and hands it over. There's a pot of oatmeal on the stove, and everyone else is rummaging through the cabinets for raisins and other toppings. "What do you normally do? On Christmas Eve, I mean." He smiles shyly, pushing up his glasses as they slip down his nose. "Do you stay at home, or do you - maybe go somewhere? I know you travel, and I've always wanted to, you know, see other places, it seems so fascinating, to learn about different cultures, see people from all around the world…"
Tony can't help but soften at Bruce's, well, purity. For all of his friend's sharp wit and intelligence, there's something so very childlike and honest about the way he loves, too. "I don't really go anywhere over winter break," he says, and Bruce's face falls. "But I've been to a lot of countries. I could tell you about them, if you want."
"Could you?" Bruce says, beaming. "I've always wanted to visit India, to, I don't know, volunteer, see the sights. There's a lot to do there."
"I've been to India," Tony says indulgently. "I've seen all the big things, I suppose - the Taj Mahal, the Ellora caves, all the forts...but everything is just really beautiful. In the Holy City, it's in Varanasi, they'll take you out on the water in a little canoe during sunset. Everything turns golden, the city, every part of it. I've seen the best sunsets in India. It's really...it's amazing."
What he doesn't say is that he only stayed in the richer parts of India, with the tourist attractions and the white men with money and the people who will stay for a few days then go; how what he knows of India could not possibly be even a quarter of what India truly is. What he doesn't say is that when he was just a kid, he saw another child, who looked to be the same age, crouching over a dead body in an alleyway, picking its pockets. Thin and brown with big, desperate eyes - the same eyes that Tony saw in his own face in the hotel mirror, but without the weariness or apprehension. The elephant shit in the streets. The trash, soggy and smelly. The masses and masses of people, happy, sad, cruel, kind, all crushed together, all so distant from Tony's own home.
"That's really cool, Tony," Bruce whispers, oblivious to Tony's internal thoughts. "Could you maybe - tell me about the sunsets?"
It hits Tony hard, in that instant, that Bruce has probably never seen a sunset over open land before. At the beach, maybe - but Bruce has never been anywhere. Not out of the country - and probably not even out of state. "Yeah," he says, and has to clear his throat and start again when he sees how eager Bruce looks. All of a sudden, he feels horrible horrible horrible. Horrible for being a Stark, horrible for spending so much money, horrible for being rich when there are people out there, people like Bruce, who deserve things as simple as a gorgeous sunset. "So there's this place, in the desert, it's called the Golden City and it's a huge tourist attraction. I don't remember where it's located, but all the buildings, they're made out of yellow sandstone. So when the sun turns the most golden and it hits the city, everything turns this brilliant golden color. And they've got buildings on the water, it's an architectural marvel, really; it's nothing like I could describe accurately to you…"
By the time he's finished talking, half the oatmeal's been cleaned out and Bruce is still staring at him with wide, wide eyes. In fact, the whole table's hushed - everyone's watching him, even Bucky. Rogers - Steve - is looking at him with a funny expression, like he's never seen Tony before.
"So...yeah," he finishes lamely, shrugging his shoulders. "I guess when you've got money, you get to see a lot of things." And then internally winces a second later, because really, Tony? Rubbing your wealth in their faces, again?
Luckily, Bruce doesn't seem to be bothered by Tony's lack of brain-to-mouth filter. "That sounds like it was an amazing trip," he says reverently. "You could be a storyteller."
"God no," Tony says with a low, albeit awkward, chuckle. "I'll leave that to humanities majors."
"You're into engineering, right?" Bucky adjusts his fork on his plate a little. "I've seen some of it on the news - hard to miss."
Tony's mouth crooks up humorlessly. "Yeah, engineering's about the only thing I look good in on the news."
He can feel the atmosphere shriveling when Bucky straightens a little and says with a playful quirk of the mouth, "Not the only thing."
Tony's brain kind of stops a little then. He knows Bucky's just trying to ease the mood, but still - normally when people say that sort of thing to him, they're like Sunset or Ty Stone. They're not like Bucky, who's surprisingly straightforward and kind. "Trust me, you haven't seen much yet," he says lightly but tentatively back.
From across the table, Steve's looking at Bucky strangely, and Tony wants to pitch himself off the front steps of the house when he remembers Steve is literally Bucky's boyfriend. Sure, friends joke all the time, but Bucky is technically not even Tony's friend; so no wonder Steve's so weirded out. And Tony's got a reputation as the school slut, of course, and he's definitely been photographed at parties…
"So what've you made?" Clint says, showing obvious interest for the first time. "Have you made a robot? That's some cool shit."
"Well, I'm working on a helper bot right now." Tony lifts a shoulder. "Hopefully to assist in the shop and stuff. But, uh, I - um, I made a dog once when I was a kid. To, uh, play with." Only in hindsight does he realize how dumb and pitiful that makes him sound.
"That is quite, ah, how should I put this - adorable," Thor interjects with an approving look towards Tony. "As well an act of great intelligence. My brother would heartily support your endeavors."
"Do you ever do competitions?" Clint says, leaning forward. "If you've made a dog, you could probably win some pretty big competitions."
"Yeah, I've won some before," Tony says, bashful smile crossing his face for a split second before he tamps it down. "I was the head of the robotics team at my old school, so. We won a lot. Three years in a row."
Out of the corner of his eye, Natasha suddenly straightens and sits up almost rigidly in her seat, but Tony ignores it. It's probably just Natasha being Natasha again.
Meanwhile, Clint's leaning back in his chair and letting out a long whistle. "I don't know anything about robotics comps, but that sounds pretty impressive. Hey, Bruce, don't you have a friend like that? The one who made Bucky's arm? Doesn't that dude do robot stuff too?"
Tony's beginning to suspect something, and the suspicion turns his blood cold in his veins.
"Oh, uh, y-yeah." Bruce looks down at the table as he takes off his glasses and scrubs furiously at the lens. "Yeah, he does competitions too."
"Say," Clint begins, and then stops, shaking his head. "No," he mutters, almost to himself. "That makes no sense. Never mind."
"What were you going to say?" Steve says curiously, putting a hand on Clint's shoulder.
"No, it's just…" Clint shakes his head, laughing a little. "I just - Bruce's friend. He seems a lot like Tony. Hey, Bruce, you're really into the engineering nerds, huh?"
However, no one laughs with him. Tony shrinks under the gazes of what seems to be the entire universe aimed upon him in the form of Steve, Natasha, Thor, Bucky - oh, God, Bucky. He's dead. So dead.
"Stark," Steve says, and then stops, like he doesn't know how to go on. "Bruce, how many years did your - did your engineering friend win his robotics competitions?"
Bruce's eyes jerk up to Tony's, and Tony wills him to lie - to say something, say anything else but three. But before he can, Natasha says clearly, watching him the whole while: "Three."
"Shit," Clint breathes out with gusto.
Steve's eyes are blue and serious as they stare into what feels like Tony's soul. "Tony," he says lowly, "did you...ah, make Bucky's arm?"
"I'm sorry," Tony bursts out before he can help it. "It's not Bruce's fault, I swear, none of it. I just knew Bucky wouldn't want anything made by me if he could help it, but I'm - I'm good at building things, and Bruce - I mean, prosthetics are expensive, so, I offered, it wasn't Bruce's fault, I just figured I should make up for what I'd broke, and - "
"Breathe," Natasha advises kindly.
"It was really no big deal," Tony finishes weakly. "It was the least I could do."
Surprisingly, it's Clint who saves the day. "No big deal?" he exclaims, pushing forward even as Tony inches back in his seat. "What do you mean, no big deal? Of course it's a big deal! It's a monumental deal!"
"I'm -," Tony tries, but Clint shakes his head.
"Ah ah ah," he says, plowing forward. "No talk from the peanut gallery. Dude, do you know how cool this is? You made an arm. Hell, you made a dog. You're literally a genius, I can't even, holy shit." He pokes at the metal of Bucky's arm, even more reverently than he had that first day in the dorm. "No way, Tony. Holy shit."
"You're not mad?" Tony's eyes dart to Bucky, where he's sure there'll be a scowl on that face, but - there's none. "You guys are okay with the fact that I built the arm?"
"Yes," Natasha says simply. "Because we were wrong."
"Wrong in not distinguishing between your reputation and you as a person," Bucky continues, eyes fierce and grey beneath his eyebrows. "Wrong about the kind of person you were, and are. Wrong about what we did, how we reacted. Wrong about you."
"But -," Tony starts, but Clint waves a hand, cutting him off.
"Hey, look, man. I'm pretty sure I'm speaking for all of us when I say that it wasn't cool to break Bucky's arm, or let your friends bully Bruce, but we've also come to realize that it wasn't all your fault. I can respect that, and so can Nat, and so can everybody else. And of course, we'll kill you if you ever hurt Bucky again, but maybe you're not so bad after all. And I'm willing to work with that. We all are."
"Is that your version of a peace offering?" Tony says slowly.
"Sure," Clint says, shrugging. "I mean, technically I feel like we've already bypassed that stage, but I figure none of us have really said it outright yet. So I took on the responsibility."
"Okay," Tony says tentatively. "Uh, thanks."
Clint just nods at him, and slowly, it becomes a ring of nodding heads around the table. Tony swallows and looks away, knotting his hands in his lap. "Uh," he says, just to fill the silence with something. "Um."
"Alright, it's gettin' too feelings-y in here," Bucky complains, throwing his napkin down onto the table. "I've already had tons of talks with Tony, you guys had yours, now can we continue eatin' our oatmeal before Thor finishes off the entire pot?"
That breaks the silence - Clint lets out a snort, Thor sniffs haughtily, Steve cracks a grin at his boyfriend. But even when they all turn back to their breakfasts, and the chatter slowly but surely starts up again, Tony doesn't miss how Bucky stares at his arm like it's new again - with grey eyes full of wonder and something else that Tony doesn't quite understand.
Later on, Steve catches him privately outside the room where everyone else is gathering to play some good old fashioned board games. "Stark," he says slowly, before biting his lip. "Tony, if it's alright to call you that."
"Uh, go ahead."
"Okay," Steve says, mouth relaxing at last. "Call me Steve. I just wanted to ask you a question. Back when you first arrived, you said you'd never, ah, had a Christmas tree." Tony watches him warily, not quite sure where this train of conversation is heading. Steve clears his throat and looks at a point beyond Tony's shoulder. "Did you mean it? You've never had a Christmas tree? And you weren't doing it to rub it in our faces that most of us don't have much money?"
"I wasn't," Tony says firmly. He looks aside. "I've never had a tree. My family isn't...big on holiday celebrations."
"Oh," Steve says, and finally his eyes return to Tony's face. "Well." He seems to steel himself a little. "Then I apologize for assuming the worst of you."
"You were justified, though," Tony says plainly, shrugging a little.
A little bit of sternness creeps into Steve's gaze then - he looks every inch the captain of the football team with that unwavering blue gaze. "Justification doesn't always make things right." Then he shakes his head a little, and his faces softens up again. "Thank you for making the arm. I don't know how we would've afforded it otherwise. Just don't hurt Bucky again; he's been through enough." Steve pauses and studies his face. "But so've you, haven't you?"
Tony doesn't know what to say in response to that - how can he say anything in response to that? - so he just stands there a bit awkwardly, staring up into Steve's face, arms hanging at his sides. "You know, you can go in, Tony," Steve says at last. "I still need to use the restroom." He gives Tony the briefest ghost of a smile as he leaves - and yet somehow, it carries the weight of something important. Something like understanding - something like peace.