ice floe
"For humans—trapped in biology—there was no mercy: we lived a while, we fussed around for a bit and died, we rotted in the ground like garbage. Time destroyed us all soon enough. But to destroy, or lose, a deathless thing—to break bonds stronger than the temporal—was a metaphysical uncoupling all its own, a startling new flavor of despair...There was a sense of being past everything, of looking back at land from an ice floe drifted out to sea."
- Donna Tartt, The Goldfinch
25.
The inexplicable numbness hits after Christmas. Tony barely feels anything the whole way home; he stares distantly out into the empty skies beyond the plane window.
He barely remembers having left. The slow two days post-Christmas, the weighted feeling of knowing he has to say goodbye. "I don't want to overstay my welcome" (he does). "I'm sure your family misses you" (they don't). Packing up his meagre suitcase of luggage, some half-hearted, awkward goodbyes from people he never really learned to say "hello" to in the first place, Sarah Rogers's tender smile as she drops him off at the airport. It feels like a dream, forever ago, and even longer since he stepped foot across the Rogers' threshold for the very first time.
It's like he had something good but it was all illusory, and so the memory of it is intangible. Like it never belonged to him. Well, he knew that already--none of what he had there was really his. He was a short intrusion on an otherwise perfect holiday celebrated by a real family and friends.
From one blink to the next, he's in the snow feeling like he's somehow giving everything up and yet nothing at all, and then he's on the plane with his face aimed towards the window instead of the distrustful gaze of the passenger seated next to him. And then the familiar thrum in his body when the plane lands and his insides go against gravity and he lifts against the seatbelt a little and everything presses back, his seat to the chair, his arms on the rests. Feels the pressure of his tongue on the roof of his mouth. Feels the chill of California, almost warm compared to the New York snows.
Obie's there waiting for him after he gets out of baggage claim. His godfather wears a troubled smile on his face, with a trouble that slides off as smooth as butter when he catches sight of Tony across the terminal. "My boy," he murmurs into Tony's ear, and Tony allows himself to be grabbed and hugged tight to Obie's chest.
"Hey, Obie, I missed you." It's not until he says it that the underlying sentiment truly hits. He has missed Obie, so so much, and he relaxes his weight into Obie's arms. "How's, uh...how's Dad?"
"Oh, your father? He's fine. Annoying the hospital staff with his numerous complaints, but then again, what more could you expect?" Obie chuckles and loops an arm around Tony's shoulders companionably as they head out of the airport. Tony spots their ride as soon as they step into the fresh morning air; there is nothing so distinguishable as a sleek black Maserati GranTurismo Sport idling in the pick-up line. Of course, its appearance is nothing compared to the flashier cars parked in the depths of the mansion garage, but nobody can miss the sheer wealth that follows every graceful line of the vehicle.
"But enough about all the commotion here," Obie says as he steers Tony into the backseat of the car. The driver—a man called Happy Hogan and Tony's personal favorite—nods briefly at Tony and offers a warm smile before pressing on the gas. "How was your little excursion?"
"Excursion?" Tony says.
"You know." Obie waves a hand airily. Happy slows as they move over a speed bump. "That little vacation in that… Well, I tracked the location of your call, Tony, and you were staying in a pretty shithole town, huh? Glad to have you back."
Tony's torn between defending the Rogers' hometown and ignoring the criticism in favor of the warmth that bubbles in his chest. Obie missed him too! Reiteration: Obie missed him too. "It wasn't—it's not a shithole town," he says weakly after a pause. "It's, it's nice. Quaint."
Obie snorts. "Aren't they all." His face darkens for a second and he glances almost surreptitiously up at Happy before returning his gaze to Tony. "Hey, look, about those little schoolmates of yours."
"Hm?" Tony says. He's busy thinking about what everyone else must be up to right now—making use of their new gifts, probably, or having more snowball fights. Maybe curling up in the living room together with Sarah to just kick back and relax.
Obie opens his mouth, then shakes his head. "Never mind."
"What is it?" Tony straightens and turns to his godfather. "What?"
"No, nothing, my boy, nothing you need to concern yourself with," Obie says with a placating smile. He reaches out to ruffle Tony's hair with one large, heavy hand. "Just had a thought. That's all."
The rest of the drive home is long and quiet, save for sparse conversation between Happy, Obie, and Tony. Obie gets an important-sounding phone call halfway through and Tony's forced to sit there silently as Obie conducts his business call. Despite the lack of charged conversation, however, the peace—it's nice. It's the quiet of a boy heading home with his godfather after Christmas, nothing more, nothing less. California holds the smell of a country freshly washed from the rains, and the sky holds patches of pale grey clouds that allow for slivers of white-gold sunlight to shine through.
"Hey, Haps," Tony murmurs, leaning forward to whisper into the driver's ear. "Mind stopping by an In 'N Out? I'm feeling kind of down for a cheeseburger."
Happy catches the cheeky grin on Tony's face in the rearview mirror, giving him a look. "Do you ever think about your arteries?"
"Why, did I ever give you the impression that I did?" Tony snarks back.
"Alright," Happy sighs as he adjusts his grip on the steering wheel. "I'm at your beck and call."
"Hey now," Tony says. "Don't pretend like you don't secretly crave a burger either, Happy, I know you. I'm sure you could be doing better things than picking me up on a Saturday morning, and not that I'm not grateful and all, but I think we could both use a little fuel."
Happy's smile ticks up before he schools his face into something more neutral when he notices Tony looking at him. "Hmmm."
Tony settles back into his seat before checking his phone. He's not expecting to see anything—his school friends sometimes send him pics of them vacationing in the Alps or France or Switzerland or whatever, and then there's Pepper and Rhodey with their goofy selfies and weird memes, but that's it; and Becky doesn't really get to use her phone at home because of her ever-mistrustful father. But when he clicks on the screen, a lone message notification amidst a couple lecture reminders and party invites pops up.
james barnes: we all hope you had a safe flight home
james barnes: kdljfsfh :'wjd
james barnes: sorry, accident. thor just sat on my face
The last two messages are dated an hour after the first one. Tony can't help the smile that flits across his face as he finishes reading. He imagines Thor's boisterous laughter and Bucky's disgruntled expression.
His skin prickles from the familiar sensation of being watched, and he glances up to see Obie looking at him closely. "Sorry, were you, uh, saying something?" he says hesitantly.
"No, no," Obie says, smiling at him. "You just looked quite happy there, my boy."
"Yeah, um." Tony blushes and scratches the back of his neck. "Just, you know, got a text. From one of the people I was staying with. They're really nice people."
Obie nods. "I'm glad," he says. "I'm sure they seemed very nice." Something about the tone of that sentence strikes Tony as odd, but since he can't figure out why exactly, he elects to ignore it.
tony stark: yeah, i'm in california now. thank you for letting me stay again.
Happy exits State Route 1. They drive for awhile through various streets crowded with post-holiday traffic before joining the back of a growing line at a nearby burger joint. "What's going on here?" Obadiah snaps, leaning forward in his seat. "What's this, Hogan?"
"I was just kinda hungry," Tony blurts before Obie can get truly mad. Obie has a thing about knowing what's going on at all times, including things as small as brief detours. "I asked Haps if we could get a cheeseburger or something. This was my idea."
Obie visibly softens. "Alright," he says, "but only because you've had an early flight." He scans Tony up and down. "I suppose you could afford to eat more anyway. You're skin and bones."
"Hey, Happy, order me a chocolate milkshake too, please," Tony adds, since, hey, Obie's basically given him permission for the extra calories. He's a growing boy and all that jazz.
"Only because I'm getting one too," Happy tells him.
When they get home, Tony heads straight to his room. The exhaustion hits him out of nowhere, a post-meal kind of exhaustion that burrows deep down to his bones. His limbs feel like they're drowning in quicksand, his eyelids are fluttering in the fight to stay up. He thinks that maybe it's not quite tiredness itself but rather just the feeling of being— home.
But not the definition of home that means you feel calmer there, or safer, or more secure, or happier. It's more a fond sense of familiarity, that acknowledgement of I've grown up here my whole life and I know every nook and cranny like the back of my hand . He could navigate his way through this entire goddamned mansion with his eyes closed and still find his room and bed.
He washes up in the bathroom before getting to the slow, dull task of unpacking his belongings. He lays out his few articles of clothing at the bottom of his bed and takes out his backpack, where the Christmas gift Sarah had presented to him is tucked away securely.
For a moment he stands there, just holding the box in his hands. He's almost afraid to open it—as if there will be nothing inside when he does. But when he takes the lid off, the stickers are still there, glowing faintly in the shadows created by the box.
Stupid, stupid. They're one-dollar cut-outs of phosphorescent powder sandwiched between strips of plastic. He's being obsessive, like those crazy people whose exes have to get restraining orders and move across the country. He's always been like this—taking everything so strongly, thinking everything means everything. Sometimes things mean nothing, and fathers are cruel because they're just men who don't know how to be fathers, and mothers leave to Greece because they don't realize children are this much, and Christmas gifts are just cheap things you saw at the dollar store, and people are just people.
Despite it all, he starts peeling the strips off the backs of the stars one-by-one, plastic sheets in hand as he stands up on his bed and reaches for the ceiling to paste them on. (Isn't that ironic—to get the stars up, he's gotta reach for them.)
As he's sorting out constellations on his ceiling, a knock sounds on the door. Tony promptly trips on the bedspread, lands on his ass, and bounces onto the floor.
Obie laughs.
"Even in this day and age, the stupid are still funny."
Tony blushes, clambering up and brushing non-existent dust particles from his clothes. "Um, what—what are you doing here?"
"I hope that doesn't mean you don't want me to be here," Obie says amusedly. "Witnessing your fall."
"No, no, I—," Tony rushes. "Just. Did not expect you to be down here. Thought you'd, I don't know, have to, see my dad or something. Did he mention if he wants to, um, see me?"
Obie shakes his head. "I don't think your father is seeking company right now. He's rather irritable. I'll let you know if he ever mentions you, though."
"Okay, thank you." Tony bites his lip. "Is there something you wanted?"
"No, no," Obie says, and finally his expression betrays his inner turmoil. He sits on the bedspread and pats the space beside him. "I think you should sit."
"What's going on?" Something sticks in the inside of his throat. "Is it—is it Mom?"
"Don't worry, it's nothing to do with your mother." Obie turns to him, looking him intently in the eyes. "Look, Tony, I know it's going to hurt to hear this, but it didn't sit right with me not to tell you."
"Just, just spit it out, Obie." Something like dread is beginning to pulse in Tony's bones beneath the numbness. "No matter if it's bad or not."
"I mean." Obie shrugs. "It's not bad. I'm sorry if I'm worrying you. It's nothing that shouldn't be expected, after all." He heaves a deep sigh. "But it still pains me to tell you."
"Well." Tony twists his hands into the hem of his sweatshirt. "Speak or forever hold your peace, I guess."
Obie shakes his head. "I'm just going to say it. The Rogers...they aren't who you think they are."
"What do you mean?" That sounds like something out of a spy movie, and while Sarah Rogers can kick some serious ass, Tony can't imagine how Sarah's being a secret assassin or whatnot would have anything to do with him.
"Your father...Howard...he hired them," Obie continues, and Tony—
"Wait, what?"
"Tony, Tony." Obie chuckles now, low and pitying. "You didn't think they'd just take you in and do a complete one-eighty out of the goodness of their hearts."
"What do you mean, hired them?" Tony's head spins. "What are you talking about, what did he do?"
"Your father…" Obie sighs like the admission pains him. "Someone from your school contacted him, said you weren't coming home. So he paid for those little schoolmates of yours to stay a bit longer and take you. He paid a generous amount for them to be nice to you."
"So they—" Suddenly, it makes all the more sense. Why they started treating him kindly, when they even offered their home in the first place…
So it wasn't real. Of course. Of course. Of course it wasn't.
A laugh bubbles up in Tony's throat. How could he have not seen something like this before? Since he was born, every friend he's ever made has been made from money. Why would he think this time would be any different? God, only a month ago they hated his guts! It was stupid, foolish, ridiculous to think that they'd like him after all that, after what he'd done to Bucky…
And Bucky.
Bucky'd seen his scars...seen him... they'd all seen him… And none of it had even been real. All a lie, all a lie, all a lie.
"Tony?" Obie says from beside him. It sounds like Obie's speaking underwater. Or maybe Tony's the one who's underwater—the one who's drowning. "You okay?"
"Yeah," Tony says. His voice breaks on a laugh. "Great, actually." He shakes his head; he shoves his shaking fingers under his thighs. "Clears a lot of things up, actually. That I was confused about. Before."
Was any of it real? is what he really wants to ask. When Bucky told him about the crash, about his parents. When Natasha let him braid her hair. Was any part of that, even a small part, real?
"Like what?" Obie asks gently. He doesn't push, and for that, Tony is so, so very thankful.
"I thought they actually liked me, but it didn't make sense," Tony says. His lungs are tripping in his chest, but outwardly he is calm. Placid. A still lake. "Now I know." Ha! Now I know.
Obie scoots close, strokes Tony's back paternally. Like a real father. "He meant well, you know. But I thought I should tell you. I didn't want to lie."
"Yeah, I—I know," Tony says quietly. He tries to imagine Sarah Rogers, and Steve, celebrating a shitload of money just for having been nice to Howard Stark's son. Surely it wasn't hard for them to be nice to him, since he doesn't doubt that they're genuinely nice people… But yeah. No wonder they were paid. He's not like them, he'll never be like them, never good enough for them. And, really, they were doing him a favor by entertaining his little fantasies of a close-knit family and actual friends. Is he actually bothered by this? Is he surprised? Because he shouldn't be, and he should be grateful for even one lovely week. "Thank you, Obie."
"Of course, Tony." Obie's hand pauses in its slow circles on Tony's back. "Are you sure you'll be okay here alone? I can send a servant down here if you need company. I don't want to leave you here to wallow, you know."
"No, I—" Tony shakes his head. "It's fine. I'm good." And it's funny, because strangely, he doesn't feel hurt at all. Instead he feels almost detached, like a balloon that's just been let go from its owner's hand.
"Treat this as a lesson," Obie advises, stopping at the doorway to Tony's room and turning around. His pitying look is gone, and for that Tony is grateful. "It's better to keep yourself away from other people, especially when you're a Stark. But you can come to me whenever you want, my boy. I'm here for you."
"Yeah." At least Obie's gonna be there, even if no one else will. It's strange how this realization still makes the backs of his eyes burn. "Thanks. Really."
Obie nods at him and then steps out the door. "Welcome home, Tony. I'm sure it feels better now to be back."