Chapter Text
There’s a small child in Tony Stark’s lab.
Tony looks at it.
It looks at him.
“Jarvis,” says Tony, “why is there a kid in my lab?”
“I’m afraid I don’t know, sir,” says Jarvis. “I was not aware there was a child on the premises.”
“Ah, well, definitely looks like a kid to me,” says Tony. “And, frankly, I’m not really ready for this kind of responsibility.”
“Do you know my mommy?” says the kid, and Tony inspects it warily. It’s got sandy-brown hair and grey eyes and hits Tony at about mid-thigh.
“I don’t know, kid, who’s your mom? Jarvis, do we know any moms? Has Romanoff got some kind of secret underground family going on? And please tell me Pepper hasn’t bought a kid and not told me, because I think that at least warrants some kind of planning meeting.”
“My mommy’s name is Sylvia,” says the kid, screwing up its nose.
“Do we know a Sylvia?” demands Tony.
“No, sir,” says Jarvis.
“Do you know how much use you are to me right now, Jarvis?” says Tony. “None at all, is how much.”
“I’m very sorry, sir.”
“My name’s Philip,” offers the kid. “What’s your name?” He sticks out his hand.
“I- my name’s Tony,” says Tony. “Nice to meet you.” They shake hands solemnly.
“Can we find my mommy now?” asks Philip. Tony’s about to agree that, God, yes, they will leave no stone unturned to return the kid to his rightful owner, when Philip’s jaw drops. A second later the lab door swooshes open, and Tony turns to see Steve wander in.
“Hey, Tony, have you seen Coulson?” says Steve, not looking up from a fastening on the costume he was half-wearing. “We were supposed to be—”
“Is that Captain America?” It’s a tiny, awed whisper, but it’s enough to stop Steve in his tracks, head snapping up in surprise. “Wow! I knew it! I knew Captain America was alive! Captain America’s the best!”
Tony is, to be honest, relieved to see that Steve looks equally unprepared to deal with this situation, viz, a small, mysterious child jumping around in excitement at the foot of the Steve Rogers mountain, apparently fighting off Nazis or aliens or Russians with his tiny fists in homage to the derring-do of Captain America himself (there’s some narration going on, but it’s garbled at best). This lasts for about five seconds, which is how long it takes Steve to crouch down to the kid’s level.
“Hi,” he says. “I’m Captain America,” and Tony remembers that kissing babies was a big part of the Captain America schtick, which is an unfair advantage.
“I’m Philip,” says Philip, pausing in his one-man imaginary battle to stare adoringly at Steve.
“Hi, Philip,” says Steve. “Are you here visiting your daddy?” He shoots an accusing look over Philip’s head, and Tony embarks upon a detailed and indignant mime explaining that the kid had appeared out of nowhere and Tony has no idea who he is. This is wasted. Steve’s attention is back on the kid.
“I’m looking for my mommy,” he says. “We were buying apples and then I was right here.” He runs back a few paces, and points at the floor. “Right here.”
“Shall we go upstairs and figure out where your mom got to?” says Steve, holding out his hand. It’s obvious that Steve could have offered the kid razor blades to suck and a car to run in front of, and he’d have gone along just as happily. Tony is pretty sure he has no contributions to make to this endeavour and his efforts would be better used in creating visionary machinery to elevate the human race, but he suspects Steve will not see things in the same light. He follows them up the stairs.
To the living room, which- when exactly did his home become Avenger Central? Bruce is on the sofa, eating cereal and watching CNN, and Romanoff and Barton appear to be stripping off an armoury’s worth of weaponry after a hard day’s assassining. Tony doesn’t even know what they’re doing in his living room, unless… Pepper had said something about something.
Everyone stops and stares at Steve and Tony and the kid.
“This is Philip,” says Steve, patting the kid on the shoulder. “We’re trying to find his mom.” The kid looks suspiciously to Tony as if the overwhelming excitement of meeting Captain America is gradually giving way to the freakiness of the situation.
“You know what, I’m pretty sure this is not a superhero kind of crisis,” he says, whipping out his phone (Stark design, latest model, eat his motherfucking silicon dust, Apple). “I’m calling Coulson. He can deal with it.”
“Uh, Tony?” says Bruce, slowly putting down his cereal bowl.
Tony waves a dismissive hand. “No, it’s fine, he lives for this kind of thing. Call Phil Coulson,” he orders his phone.
A little hand shoots up. “I’m here,” says Philip.
Tony breathes deeply, and closes his phone. “Of course you are,” he says.
“Yeah,” says Bruce, picking up his cereal again.
“We might need a different approach to this,” suggests Barton. He swings the kid into his arms. “Hey, Phil. My name’s Clint. Wanna go eat marshmallows while Captain America figures out how to get you home?” Phil apparently considers his position, firstly spatially, secondly culinarily, and finds both acceptable. He nods. “Cool,” says Barton. They disappear through the doorway.
“So…” says Steve, “this is kind of unusual, right?”