Chapter Text
Three weeks. Just twenty one days and Tony can go back home to heated floors, the comfort of his own workshop, and his maladjusted, dysfunctional little team. Three weeks and he can have a real burrito again and, god, if he never again sees another endless field it will be too soon.
He counts himself lucky that the lead scientist knows what the hell he’s doing or else getting the facility trained and the tech up and running would have been a hell of a thing. Charity missions are good for public image but not great for Tony’s sanity. Why he had let Pepper talk him into this one is a mystery when any competent Stark Industries scientist could do the same thing. It’s his name they want, not some particular experience that he alone possesses.
In any case, Tony is there now and there’s no going back, or at least not for another twenty one days. He’s learned a bit of the town, and it’s a tiny thing in the middle of nowhere so he should really probably know all of it by now but there’s not much that really catches his interest. It’s given him some good ideas for the Starkmapp that he didn’t think of in a big city, but other than that it’s really not much but a slog to the end.
But he can’t work on apps right now anyway, busy as he is getting this town’s tech infrastructure going, and Tony’s exhausted from all the visitors that suddenly have very legitimate business in whatever room he’s in at all times. It will get better over the ensuing days, he knows that, but it doesn’t stop him from slipping away from the crowd with his late lunch to find somewhere quiet to sit, somewhere he doesn’t have to struggle to concentrate on his own for one second.
Silence is a blessing, come to find out. He’s going to have to remember that actually; maybe apologize to Pepper for the way she never has any when he’s around. The whole team, really. Nick Fury, except that is so incredibly not happening it isn’teven worth having the fleeting thought.
A sound from above knocks Tony from his thoughts. It was soft, barely there, like a hollow tap. He freezes for just a moment, listening. The slightest of sounds comes again, this time identifiably a shift along metal, then silence again. If he hadn’t been so on edge he wouldn’t have even noticed, but his ears have been trained on every small sound and movement for so many hours that he hasn’t successfully stopped.
Another sound, this time across the room. Tony waits several long seconds before turning his head up, gaze locking on a grate above and to the right. Empty now, he’s sure, but… Had it been a some one up there or a some thing ?
--
“Work?” his associate asks, looking puzzled. “We’re all working here.”
“No,” Tony says, gesturing at the walls. “I mean, work on the building. You know, HVAC, electrical, maintenance?”
“No,” the man says. “No… Work wasn’t being done yesterday.”
“Any pest control issues?” Tony asks, taking a swig from his cup and feigning disinterest, because the man is starting to look concerned now.
“No. Mr Stark, is there something wrong?”
“No, all’s good,” Tony says, flashing him that award winning smile. “Just wanted to make sure. If we’re going to install this for the city, can’t have it being eaten by rats, huh?”
“No,” the man agrees, frowning at the schematic Tony’s pushing in front of him. “We can’t have that.”
--
No one in the building is aware of the lookie loo above, judging by the way Tony is the only one who ever looks up at the vents and the grates in the ceiling. They run through the whole building, he knows that much from looking at the building blueprints. If this were Stark Tower, JARVIS would be able to tell him what’s going on, what’s in there, how it got there, what it’s doing-
But this isn’t Stark Tower. There’s no use being bitter about that. It’s not like the plans he’s putting into place are anything dangerous in the wrong hands, just high tech quality of life improvements that they’re hoping will spread and be adopted across the neighboring counties with time. He doesn’t even have to hide anything because he’s made the plans public, and it’s really just expertise they need to get it set up.
So Tony works as normal, and at the end of the day when it’s time for dinner, he slips away to his quiet space and he waits. He goes back the next day, and the next, and the next. On the fourth day he hears it again, that hollow, metallic creak from above. It’s not an animal. He’s not exactly sure why he’s so confident about that, but there’s just something about the way their weight shifts and slips away that screams human, the quiet but thoughtful presence behind it. There’s a person up there, for some reason. A person no one knows about, doing things no one knows about, and it’s seen Tony down here at least twice and gone away.
Tony intends to figure this mystery out, and it’s really just a bonus that he gets some peace while he’s at it. He leaves his unopened pasta salad on the bench when he goes, and the next day it’s gone.
Could just be the janitor, he thinks. Except there’s a fine sheet of dust over most everything but a single supply closet in the back, and even that one is hardly used.
--
It’s another four days of visiting, leaving different foods behind as he goes, before he hears the sound of them up there again. Tony chews steadily, eyes straight ahead. There’s not another noise and that… is some sort of progress, because at least they aren’t leaving this time. They’re there above him still, watching, and it makes his skin crawl a little but mostly it piques his interest.
“It’s a meatball sandwich today,” Tony says, projecting his voice but not looking up.
There’s a thunk overhead, the sound of something frantically sliding, and then they’re gone. Tony tracks it as they rush away through the vents. He knew he was pushing it but that doesn’t stop the restless disappointment in his belly. It could have gone better, it could have gone worse. That’s something at least.
He wraps up the last half of the sandwich--and yeah, a meatball sandwich is probably the closest thing to describe it to but it sure ain’t a sandwich from home--and sets it on the bench. Hopefully the stranger likes it more than he does.
The next day he leaves a drink and a piece of cake behind, as some sort of weird food apology for scaring the mystery off.
They’re back the next day. Tony has to put real effort into not smiling around his lunch because that was fast, so much faster than he expected. They obviously know he knows. Have they come to terms with it? Are they just as curious about Tony as Tony is about them? He’s at a bit of a disadvantage if he’s honest with himself, seeing as he’s never, well, seen anything.
He talks again because he can't help himself. It's sort of what he does. He tells the ceiling how the deli he ordered from didn't have what he really wanted but, well, what he really wants is a slice of pizza from that place down the street from the tower, gooey cheese all over his hands and it's the best fucking thing. They don't leave this time, like maybe they were prepared to be talked to, and Tony is probably projecting but he really feels like they're on the edge of their seat as he waxes poetic about his favorite toppings and then transitions seamlessly into that great Thai place they get delivery from about once a week.
He’s not even sure his mystery peeker understands English, but it’s gotta be kind of lonely up there with no one even aware of your existence. Tony’s watched the security footage; no one comes or goes from the building that doesn’t belong. He even installed a couple of his own to watch the entire exterior of the building. Nada. Whoever it is up there, they don’t leave, and when they come down they know how to slip through the holes of the security inside.
So Tony is betting that after who-knows-how-long of silence, it might be kind of nice to have someone talk even if you can’t understand a word they say.
The softest rasp of metal on metal draws Tony’s attention, but he doesn’t stop talking. He doesn’t even glance in that direction until his meal time has come to an end. Only once he has stood, clearly telegraphing his every move and hearing the cave-creature slip away, does he look up at the vent, finding it just slightly askew.
--
Tony is discussing the minutiae of the fine art of steeping a tea bag in hot water when he hears the rasp once again and catches movement from the corner of his eye. He looks before he can stop himself, and they’re stuck staring each other in the eyes for several long seconds, both of them frozen in place.
He’s… a he. Young, not a kid and maybe old enough to be on his own, but not so old that it’s a stable life with no support system. Not that the kid has to worry about rent or car insurance or anything, but scavenging food from the ceiling of a work building isn’t exactly a life of glamor either. Better than the streets, maybe, exposed to the elements. There’s fresh water and bathrooms available at all times here, and no one to look down on him as they walk by. He gets to look down on them, just as he is now to Tony, all wide-eyed shock.
Then the moment is over. The kid pulls his hanging head right back into the vents, not even bothering to close it up before he’s slipping away, creaking off into the ether. To Tony’s surprise, though, he doesn’t go far, the sounds of movement stopping halfway across the room. Thinking, maybe, or perhaps reconsidering? He imagines they’re both breathing in tandem, hearts puttering madly in their chests to the same beat.
I’m safe , he thinks at the kid, and says: “You like baklava?”
The room is quiet. Tony unwraps the little paper packet he’d been saving for last, removing a sticky square of baklava for himself and setting the extra one on the bench beside him. Impulse purchases are a real skill of his at this point, and he’s glad for the distraction right now. Anything to keep the kid’s attention, keep him from running away again.
He eats the baklava slowly, listening closely though no sound comes from above. He is just beginning to think the kid had calmed down enough to up his sneak to max level and gotten away when there’s a light tap-tap from the last place he’d heard sound.
“Still here,” Tony says, rubbing his finger with a napkin and grimacing. “Trying to get delicious baklava off my fingers. You got any tips?”
Nothing, of course. He hadn’t really been expecting a response.
“Wow, this stuff is like glue. I could probably make something out of it. Maybe use it instead of screws on the next prototype.”
There’s another creak a minute later, this time just at the location of the grate. He lets himself look this time, not studiously but a casual glance over and back to his hands, checking as he works until, there, a head appears. Just a pair of eyes this time and a forehead matted with hair. He looks wary, like a cub without its mother, approaching but with a hiss laying in wait as back up. Tony doubts there’s much oomph behind this kid either, though he has absolutely no evidence for it.
“There’s one left,” Tony says, pointing at the square beside him. “You can come get it.”
The head disappears. Is he surprised? No. Disappointed? Maybe a little. But patience has gotten him this far so Tony waits. Sure enough, the head appears again. Tony’s finally managed to get most of the sugar off his fingers with the use of his drinking water on the napkin, so he shakes droplets off and thinks.
“I’ll just bring it over, hm?” He picks up the baklava and slowly stands. The head is gone again, of course, but there’s no sound of running away.
He telegraphs every move with exaggerated swings of the arm and leg, brings his foot down louder than normal, and does everything he can to be as obvious and awkward as humanly possible. It works. He makes his way across the short space to just under the grate, and he can almost sense the boy breathing above him. He lifts the baklava up above his head, holding it toward the grate without actually looking directly at it, and waits.
And waits.
It takes a full minute, but the kid peers down at him and it’s so strange to see him from this close, let alone at all. His eyes are a deep brown and distinctly doubtful, but they look at each other and he reaches down with one hesitant arm. There are some false starts, the kid drawing back a couple times for no discernable reason Tony can find, but eventually he takes the baklava, snaps it right back up with him like he thinks Tony might make a grab for his arm any second.
He backs up then but doesn’t leave, and then they’re just staring at each other, nothing between them but air. As interested as Tony is in him, the kid looks absolutely rapt with Tony even through the fear. It’s not quite wide eyed wonder, but he looks at Tony from his perch like he’s trying to read him, and like he’s never seen another human before. It makes him feel like the alien there on the ground, like he’s the one breaking social norms by not being up in the vents.
Tony clears his throat and nods vaguely in the direction of the vent, where the hand and baklava had disappeared. “You should eat that fast, before it manages to coat everything you own in sugar.”
He kind of curses himself for that as soon as he says it because it doesn’t look like the kid owns anything more than the clothes on his back, but the kid doesn’t seem to mind, hardly even reacts except to set his chin down, still staring. He hopes the kid does eat it though. He looks thin, too thin and too translucently pale, and Tony’s drawn back in his memories to Rhodey talking about his Navy childhood and his time in Japan. Smoke demons, he had said as they puffed at a large blunt on their backs on Tony’s bed, waving his hand through the wisps to send them looping and dispersing through the air. Harmless demons made of the rising smoke from a fire. Captivating and fragile, and gone before you’d quite gotten a grasp on the fact they’d been there at all.
The kid doesn’t look like he’s going anywhere, his badly-barbered hair hanging every which way around his head. He kind of looks like he’ll sit there staring for as long as Tony will let him and, hey, yeah, it’s been great but Tony has a job to do and he’s kind of starting to feel like a bug under glass.
“I gotta get going,” he says, tapping his watch. “Not all of us get to spend our days in the sky.”
The kid blinks and his mouth twitches downward, but he otherwise doesn’t react.
“I’ll be back tomorrow,” Tony says, taking a step back. “See ya around.”
--
He shouldn’t care more just for having seen the lurking shadow in the sky, but he does. Before, it could have been anyone up there--an inept spy, a very large raccoon, a forty year old man jerking off to a man quietly eating his lunch every day.
Now that he’s seen the kid though, now that he truly understands that somehow the vents are inhabited by a strange, scared creature who really shouldn’t be alone in the world, well... All bets are off. His towering curiosity has become a sort of burning need to understand, and maybe a coal of concern underneath all that. He’s only got a week left here to figure this out and maybe get some more calories in the little demon in the sky. He was so skinny .
So the next day Tony calls Pepper and tells her there’s been a delay, some parts never arrived, well they did arrive but they’re the wrong ones, they need new ones, look it’s just that he’s gonna be here a little longer. Maybe a week extra? It’s really hard to say right now. And yes, he knows that he’s needed back at home, this was just supposed to be a little side effort, something to pump up the stocks, get people really feeling good about Stark Industries though really, shouldn’t the whole superhero thing be enough? No, yeah, he gets it, and he will totally be home as soon as he can, but he needs more than one more week left so maybe extend it out to two. Yeah, two seems good.
And then he gathers up dinner and heads back to the spot that is quickly becoming his home away from home, more than the hotel is. He wonders if he could get away with hiding a cot in here, except he is 100% sure (because he read the maintenance schedule) that the storage rooms back here are accessed at least weekly, and that’s also why he is about 50% sure that the reason the kid comes through here so regularly is so he can filch some of the supplies meant for the awful cafeteria.
The other 50% thinks maybe it has something to do with Tony being here, too.
“Dinner time!” Tony calls as he locks the door to the rest of the building.
He sets his stuffed full bag down on the bench and pulls a small rubber ball from his pocket. It was a stroke of genius when he saw the dispenser, honestly, best idea he’s ever had and that includes the suit upgrade that starts a pot of coffee brewing at the tower when he’s about ten minutes out.
Tony doesn’t exactly come at regular times. There’s no way of knowing if the kid is already up there, and there’s no messenger pigeon to send through the vent. Maybe a well trained rat would work but then he’d have to take care of that, too, and he’s got his hands full as it is. No, inanimate and replaceable is exactly what he needs. Before he could start planning a whole intercom system for some kid he’s only gonna see for another two weeks (and why that thought gives him pause is a worry for another day), Tony had grabbed a 25c rubber ball from a dispenser. Problem solved.
The vent is closed, but it’s the work of two seconds with a broom handle to push it back a bit, and then all he has to do is aim and shoot. Boing-oing-oing-oing-oing. The ball bounds down the vent, echoing through the system as it goes. Tony’d already taken the noise into account and he knows it can’t be heard outside of this room and nearby vents, but it still makes his muscles go a little tense. He has no intention of actually outing the kid to the building at large. He’s pretty sure that would be some sort of unforgivable offense.
There’s nothing for one long minute, and then the creak of movement above. He’s pretty sure at this point that the kid can actually move soundlessly, for the most part, and that he lets the vents sing for Tony’s sake, to announce his presence and maybe check for his welcome. When the ball comes shooting out of the vent a moment later, Tony grins and sets about unpacking the food because he intends to make the kid feel very welcome.
“Barbecue chicken,” Tony says as he pulls out two take away containers, wiggling it in the air a moment before setting it on the bench in case the kid is already peeking. “Vegetables.” Because he’s pretty sure the kid needs those. “Iced tea.” Down go two cups. “Chocolate pie.”
The bench is set with two of everything, a whole spread of food for the both of them. A bit overboard maybe but he hadn’t been able to help himself once he realized he had probably found the best eating spot in town. When he looks up, the kid’s peering out of the grate and he looks like he wants to give one big inhale and suck everything up at once, Kirby-style. Tony grins and sits cross legged on the ground, using the bench as his table.
“You’re welcome to it. Nice spot right there.”
It doesn’t work, of course, but that wasn’t exactly the goal today. The goal today was to introduce the concept and to tempt him. He’s pretty sure both of those hit at least a little, so when he leaves behind a little stack of food for the kid, he doesn’t feel too bad about the fact that he’s eating alone. He leaves a bottle of vitamin C tablets behind when he leaves.
He does the same thing three days in a row, and then he brings pizza. It’s nothing like the pizza at home, just some greasy chain pizza with sad little cheese packets and sausage you could put in a gun chamber. Still, it’s pizza, and it works. The kid is practically hanging halfway out of the vent, his skinny arms somehow clinging behind to hold him up as he cranes around to see. Tony sets out a second plate and puts a couple pieces down to really seal the deal.
“You wouldn’t be hanging like that if you’d tried my place in New York. Best pizza you’ll ever have.” Which is kind of defeating the purpose of luring him out. “This is pretty good too though. They get the gooey cheese right. It’s really best hot and fresh.”
It’s a bit of a stalemate after that though. Tony eats a full slice in fidgeting dissatisfaction. Time is ticking, his days are running out. He needs to meet this kid, for real, sit with him and get him talking or something. If he’s under 18, maybe they can find him a safe home with a good family, picket fence with a dog, all that good stuff. If he’s older, a job and an apartment, and the job part isn’t even necessary, not right off the bat. Tony’s perfectly content to pay for the kid to eat and sleep somewhere safe and private until whatever his issue is can be worked out by a trained professional.
But those plans only work if the kid comes down. He can’t sic anyone on him up there, in the vents that have obviously become his safe haven. It just feels wrong and he’s sure their peaceful little meetings would end forever after that. No, it’s just him and the kid for now, if he can just get the kid down.
Maybe a change will help. The kid doesn’t seem bothered by Tony seeing him as long as Tony doesn’t stare too long, but maybe he’ll feel more secure if he’s invisible. So Tony gets up, feigning that he needs something from his bag, and when he comes back he sits with his back to the vent and picks up where he left off on the next slice.
It takes one slowly, thoughtfully eaten slice. Tony doesn’t hear anything, not a creak or a thunk or a whisper of cloth, but suddenly there’s a presence at his side and the kid is sliding down to sit next to him, a careful foot of distance between them. He’s not as short as Tony thought, is the first thing that comes to mind. His haircut is even worse up close, is the second one.
“The pepperoni pizza is the better of the two,” Tony says, and reachees for his soda. The kid moves with him like a fish in the tide, the space between them staying static as they move right where they are. Tony doesn’t comment on it, and takes another bite.
The kid hesitates for only a moment before grabbing a slice from his own plate. He shoves half the slice into his mouth at once and bites down in much the way Tony imagines a brontosaurus might take down an entire limb of leaves, ripping it from the main portion and chewing hurriedly. His cheeks are bulging with the food packed in his mouth, and he looks at Tony as if daring him to say anything or to take it away.
Tony has no interest in the latter, but he never has been good at holding his tongue. “You don’t have to store it in your cheek pouches. It’s all staying right here until we’re both full.”
The kid looks away, seemingly satisfied that at least the food is staying, and somehow manages to choke down the bite that just keeps on giving. He takes a long but silent drink of the soda at his right, and its then that Tony realizes he hasn’t even made chewing sounds.
“Are you on mute?” Tony asks. “Is there a remote somewhere?”
The kid freezes, every muscle pulled taut, and his hand poises against the ground like he’s about to push himself up and out of there. That’s probably exactly what he looked like before he fled through the vents all those times, if only they had been translucent. Tony back tracks, and quickly.
“I brought cookies too,” he says, rushed. “One of those cookie brownie mix things. Super good, probably still melty and warm.” And then, when the kid still seems uncertain, not looking at the vent but somehow visibly focused on it: “Sorry. No more jokes about talking. I talk enough for the both of us anyway. Pepper says she’s gonna duct tape my mouth shut one day and we’d be on even footing then, huh?”
The kid settles back down but he doesn’t exactly look happy about it. Tony pulls out another slice of pepperoni and slaps it down on the kid’s plate beside the sad sausage slice. Peace, love, and understanding, all in a slice of pizza.
Tony’s pretty well stuffed by the time he finishes the current slice. The kid has inhaled as many slices as Tony’s had the whole time, and is working on another with no sign of slowing. He’s going to ruin his dessert if he’s not careful and that would just be a tragedy, so Tony dishes out a piece of the cookie brownie monstrosity for each of them. He takes a forkful, gives it one good look, then groans and sprawls on his back on the floor instead. He doesn’t even care if the floor hasn’t been cleaned in a year, he’s going to explode.
“I should not have had that last piece,” Tony complains, shutting his eyes against the light. “Or those breadsticks. I haven’t been this full since I left New York and instead tortured myself with the scrapings they call food here.” He pauses just a moment, waits for a response that he had already known wouldn’t come, and continues. “It couldn’t have been Texas? Texas barbecue, yes, eat that immediately. Or New Orleans! I’d kill for some jambalaya right now.”
A plate scuffs against the bench but Tony doesn’t stop.
“I bet I could order some jambalaya. Throw enough money at ‘em and it’ll fly straight here. I could send a private jet, actually. Usually I go to the place that makes the food, but considering the circumstances-”
Something brushes against his arm, right where the shirt ends to bare skin. Tony cracks open an eye and turns his head to look. It’s the kid, of course, but he still didn’t expect to come face to face with him. He’s laid his head on the concrete just below Tony’s arm, the top of his head just brushing against skin, eyes wide and dark like he’s gazing at the moon, or maybe just the man who hung it.
“That mean you want jambalaya?” Tony asks, blinking at the boy. “I can totally get you some jambalaya. You still hungry?” How quickly can the stuff get here? He starts trying to calculate time to cook it fresh, pack it up, and how often do the flights run anyway? No, it might be better to send a private jet, faster for sure, and better equipped to keep a pot of fresh jambalaya warm.
The kid shifts, just a little. He tilts his head so his forehead touches Tony’s arm and exhales, as silent as ever, eyes slipping shut.
“Oh,” Tony says, voice going low as his thoughts relax, whirlwind plans tapering away. “Food coma, huh? Yeah, I’m feeling that right about now too.”
They stay like that in quiet tranquility, but Tony doesn’t shut his eyes. The kid has a habit of staring right at him but he gets kind of antsy if Tony does it back for too long at a time, so this is the best chance he’s gotten to really give him a good look over. It’s not bad. Maybe it’s his imagination but he thinks the regular feeding has done some good for him already, filling in around his cheekbones and jaw, a bit of soft where once it had been too-sharp bones. He even looks a bit less translucent, somehow. The hair is just an absolute travesty and Tony is pretty sure that’s a home--office?-- job, but he supposes it probably didn’t really matter before. No one was going to see it. It looks clean and soft, and the kid looks peaceful, and Tony has almost not quite really believed he’s been real this whole time but now he’s down here, on the floor and close enough to touch.
So he does. It’s a risk that he’ll run away, he knows that, but the kid did it first. Tony bends his elbow and lets his arm come to rest against the side of his head, hand tucking in under his shoulder. The kid’s eyes flutter open but he doesn’t seem inclined to move, blinking slow at Tony like a cat, and if he were to make a sound it would probably be a purr. It scares Tony a little, the fact the kid isn’t scared of him now, a strange man he’s known for two weeks and who has lured him out with food. One of them should be and if it’s not the kid, his mind has decided it’s gotta be him.
“Shit,” Tony says.
He pulls his arm away and sits up, heart beating a frenzy now. What is he thinking, befriending this ceiling-dwelling kid, feeding him, laying on the bare floor with him? It’s not normal, and Tony leaves forever in just ten short days even after delaying some really important business to stay and, what? What exactly is he doing here?
The kid hasn’t moved except to turn on his side and sort of curl his legs up toward his chest, and this time when he looks at Tony there’s no star-struck adoration. He looks at Tony like he’s probably about to do something that the kid really isn’t gonna like, but he’s willing to take that chance anyway. Like food and a single friendly touch has brought him around so completely he might give Tony the benefit of the doubt, even to his own detriment, resigned, terrified, and impossibly hopeful. Tony is no psychic but the kid’s thoughts are plain on his face.
He doesn’t want to prove the kid’s fears right, is the thing. He’s made a big mistake and gained this kid’s trust--him, the most ill-equipped person in the world to be someone’s sole trusted friend--but now it’s too late to undo it. How long has the kid been here alone, undetected, never interacting with a single soul? Then Tony came along, stupid curious Tony, and ruined it all.
This can’t end in anything but pain.
Some of the fear has fallen from the kid’s face as Tony has stayed there, unmoving. Tony scrubs a hand over his face and sighs.
“You got a name, kid?” he asks, and he sounds as exhausted as he suddenly feels.
The kid tips his head, not in answer but just to regard Tony from a slightly different angle. He makes no move to respond, and Tony is starting to think that’s the thing. Whether he can speak or not, he seems disinclined to attempt to directly communicate his thoughts, even when questioned. No nods or shakes of the head. Not even a shrug.
“I’m not naming you,” Tony warns, leaning forward on both hands to look imperiously down at him. “You’re not a stray dog. I’ll just keep calling you kid if I have to.”
The kid smiles, just a quirk at the edge of his lips, and shifts to carefully set his cheek on top of Tony’s right hand. He meets Tony’s eyes and the adoration is back and Tony wants to shoot whoever chased this kid into the vents, alone and scared and desperate for kindness.