Chapter Text
Rock 'Em Sock 'Em Robots were the single most important thing in the world.
At least, that's what the son of famous inventor Howard Stark thought as he ripped into the wrapped present sitting on the table, early one dreary May morning.
He'd let slip multiple times that he desired the toy for his birthday, dropping some not-so-subtle hints to his parents that he yearned for nothing else.
As the end of May, 1978, had swiftly neared, the seven year old could hardly contain his excitement, buzzing about the house as he chattered nonstop about the toy he so desperately wanted. On one occasion, he'd even drawn out an intense battle scene of clashing red and blue robo-warriors, meticulously colored in with crayons and fingerpaints and decorated by a border of glitter glue. When the excited child had run into his father's workshop, waving the drawing in the air and grinning the largest gap-toothed smile he could muster, he was not met with the shared enthusiasm he’d expected, but instead with an exasperated shout of “not now, Tony!” and a door slammed in his face.
Regardless of this setback (and the various others he’d faced), Tony Stark thought he’d made it abundantly clear to his parents that his heart was set on Rock 'Em Sock 'Ems for his birthday.
That’s why, on the twenty-ninth of the month, the young genius awoke before the sun had fully even risen over the tops of the buildings outside his Manhattan penthouse bedroom window. Dashing to the living room and slipping haphazardly in his socks along the freshly-mopped floors, Tony tossed a quick, “morning, Jarvis!” over his shoulder.
When he reached the spacious living room, Tony was pleased to see that his mother was already awake, clutching her usual mug of morning peppermint tea in her hands.
“Good morning, Tony,” Maria Stark said, chuckling at the giddy look on her son’s face. “You’re up early. Anxious to not miss anything on your birthday?”
Tony, his complex mind reeling with the vigorous fights he’d act out with his new gift, just nodded fervently. “Can I open my present?”
Maria’s mouth twitched upwards in a half-smirk as Tony bounced impatiently on the balls of his feet. “Let’s wait for your father to get out here first, eh? In the meantime, I’ve told the cook to make your favorite breakfast.”
Tony highly doubted his mother had told their cook to prepare microwaved Eggo waffles with whipped cream and sprinkles (a concoction that six-year-old Tony had proudly whipped up when Maria and Howard were out of town and the cook wasn’t watching), but was nonetheless excited when he smelled the mouthwatering aroma of bacon wafting from the next room over.
While Tony scarfed down his birthday breakfast, eyes fixated unblinkingly on the box he just knew contained his long-coveted robots, Howard Stark walked into the dining room, already dressed in his work suit and tie.
“Good morning, Anthony,” he greeted his son cordially, patting him once on the top of his unruly-haired head as he walked past. When his father sat down at the large table, much too big for just the four of them, Tony’s heart sank a bit. His father’s eyes, which were mirror images of Tony’s own, were ringed with dark purple bags, scleras bloodshot and scarlet. If his eyes and sunken complexion weren’t enough evidence for the budding genius to infer what ailed his father, the strong whiff of liquor that bombarded young Tony’s senses when Howard passed his chair certainly gave it away.
“Is that bacon I smell?” the elder Stark genius asked no one in particular, casually unfolding the newspaper and beginning to scan it halfheartedly. “What’s the occasion?”
After studying the man for half a moment and coming to the heartbreaking conclusion that he was not , in fact, joking, Tony bit the side of his cheek to hold back the distressed comment that crawled up his throat.
Luckily, his mother beat him to the punch. “It’s your son’s eighth birthday, Howard,” Maria responded sharply, her eyes boring into the side of her hungover husband’s head. “We were waiting for you to join us before he opened his gift.”
Howard glanced at his wife’s scathing look over the top of the newspaper and instantly shifted his eyes back down. “Right.” He cleared his throat, then turned to face Tony, still feeling Maria’s burning gaze on his face. “I think you’ll appreciate what you’ve received, Anthony. I had Jarvis pick it out especially for you.”
Though his father had just openly admitted to not even having spared a moment of his time to buy his own son’s birthday gift, Tony couldn’t have cared less. His heart soared at Howard’s insistence that he’d enjoy the present. With the way he’d shamelessly advocated for his dream gift (honestly, Tony thought, if being an inventor didn’t work out, he could always fall back on toy advertisement), there was no way he’d be let down.
With as much patience as the hyperactive and overly-excited now-eight-year-old could manage, Tony sat in his seat and dutifully finished his glass of orange juice while waiting for his father to hurry up and get done already– or… finish eating.
Finally ( finally, Tony could’ve sworn he felt himself getting gray hairs from just sitting there so long ), Howard pushed back his chair, folded up the newspaper, and ambled over to the couch in the sitting room.
Vibrating at a frequency he was sure all of the dogs in NYC could hear with excitement, Tony looked to his mother with hopeful eyes. Chuckling, Maria nodded her head and said the words the youngest member of the Stark family had been waiting to hear for months: “yes, dear, you can open your gift now.”
Cheering, Tony dashed to the living room, his mother following amusedly in his wake. “Dad! I’m gonna open my gift now! Are you ready?”
Howard winced at his son’s volume and took another sip of his coffee.
Accepting that he was not going to get an answer to his question –or perhaps forgetting already that he’d even asked one, what with being so wrapped up in the moment– Tony viciously shredded the red paper that covered the box, his heart racing.
After fighting a losing battle with an exceptionally stubborn piece of tape for what felt like an eternity, Tony finally had removed all of the paper from his gift, revealing a plain brown box.
The boy frowned for only a moment before regaining his previous vigor and diving back in to open the cardboard container and reveal the surely amazing robots inside.
Tony Stark was one of the smartest eight-year-old prodigies on the planet. He’d constructed numerous small machines and had successfully taken apart every single piece of technology in his highly-expensive house and put it back together without anyone realizing it. He’d passed enough high school classes to be guaranteed a GED already, and was well on his way to surpassing his father’s fame and intelligence.
However…
Nothing, not even his insane mental capacity or monumental IQ, could have prepared him for–
“Cuff links?” Tony blinked down at the box, expecting someone to jump out and scream GOTCHA! “And a tie.” He swallowed thickly, his savantist brain whirring blankly like a malfunctioning computer.
Howard smiled proudly, completely missing the utter brokenness on his son’s face. “Made especially by the most expensive and esteemed designer in the state. Your mother and I have been discussing the very important work meeting I’ve been invited to, and have decided to bring you along with us. We can’t very well have you wearing the same old suit you were seen wearing at the last banquet, now can we?”
Just when Tony felt as though his heart couldn’t physically sink any lower, he felt his pulse go all the way down past his toes when the reality truly hit him: he hadn’t gotten his robots.
Above him, he saw his father’s face twitch with some unknown emotion, and the boy rushed to pull a shaky smile and fake an act of joy. “Wow! These are great! Thanks Mom and Dad!” He cleared his throat, feeling more emotions than he thought was possible to feel over a birthday present (and also feeling rather foolish and selfish for it). “I can’t belive you’re letting me go to your fancy work thing–”
“Mr. Stark!” Tony’s nonsensical, brokenhearted rambling was cut off by the distinct sound of their butler’s voice. “Excuse me, sir, but your coworker is on the telephone for you.”
“Ah, yes, I’ve been awaiting his call.” Howard stood up, nodding once to his son and wife before departing swiftly from the room.
Maria and Tony were left sitting in silence for a few moments before Edwin Jarvis spoke up again. “Would you like anything, you two? Another cup of tea, perhaps, Mrs. Stark?”
Maria looked down at the empty mug in her hand. “Yes, thank you Jarvis.”
“Of course, ma’am. And perhaps Anthony would like to join me? I have a small little treat for him since it’s his birthday.”
Tony nodded forlornly, trudging after the butler. His emotions were mixed and scrambled, and trying to make sense of them just gave him a headache. Tony knew he was fortunate. He knew his parents were some of the richest people in New York (heck, even the world, for all he knew). He knew that deep, deep down, once you’d removed work and alcohol and his own personal trauma from the mix, Howard Stark truly loved and cared for his son. Tony felt like a spoiled brat, whining about not getting the toy he wanted. But seeing his father’s reactions earlier that morning –and seeing him forget what the day even was – gave the boy a sinking feeling that his father had never really listened to anything he’d said over the past few months. It made Tony feel as though Howard hadn’t cared.
You’re being selfish, the young boy told himself sternly, being reminded greatly of a similar circumstance two Christmasses ago when Tony had asked Santa for a Newton’s Cradle and instead had gotten the image of his father, blackout drunk and reeking of whiskey, stumbling into the house a few minutes before midnight on Christmas Eve, clutching a shopping bag full of gifts he’d obviously purchased last-minute. When Tony had unwrapped a pack of collectible shot glasses in a Walmart bag that next morning, while his father lay on the couch too hungover to move, he’d been outwardly upset, nearly crying. After all, he’d only been six years old, and had only wanted one thing. But when he’d approached his father about the Newton’s Cradle, innocently asking if perhaps Santa had forgotten to put it under the tree, he’d received a drunken backhand to the cheek and the slurred scold of, “dontcha know how good you’ve got it? You’re a spoiled little bastard, ain’tcha? Don’t be a jackass and act like you deserve all the shit you ask for. Be happy you’re gettin’ anything, you sonofa–” followed immediately by the “world’s greatest genius” slumping over on the couch and passing out cold.
Tony didn’t believe in Santa Claus after that.
“I can practically hear the little cogs in your head spinning,” Jarvis joked, pulling young Tony out of his thoughts. “What’s going on?”
Tony exhaled a sigh that held way too much emotion for an eight-year-old. “I dunno, Jarvis. I just really, really, really wanted this one thing for my birthday and I don’t think my dad ever pays attention to me when I tell him that.”
Jarvis pursed his lips, trying to approach the subject at an angle from which it didn’t appear he was talking negatively about his employers. “I see,” he said after a moment of deliberation. “And what was this gift you wanted?”
“Rock ‘Em Sock ‘Em Robots,” Tony replied, his voice picking up speed just from describing them. “They’re
wicked awesome,
Jarvis. And I told him like a hundred times that that was what I wanted for my birthday. But he went out last night and smells like alcohol today, and I know that means he probably has been doing the bad stuff Mom got mad at him for last time, and so he’s got other things to worry about…” The boy’s voice tapered off. “But I just thought that maybe if I got the robots he’d play them with me, y’know?”
Jarvis’ heart panged at the raw honesty in the youngest Stark’s words.
“I mean,” Tony continued, “all the boys at school talk about how their dad got ‘em these baseballs or catcher’s mitts or whatever, and then went to the park with ‘em to play catch… I know Dad doesn’t really like outdoorsy stuff like that, so I thought maybe since they’re robots, and one is red, which is my favorite color, and the other is blue, which is his favorite color because of Captain America, he’d want to play.”
Poor Jarvis almost melted. And then almost exploded with anger towards the Stark patriarch. But he kept his cool because he needed a job and the Starks paid well.
“Well, I can’t give you the robot toys you wanted,” the posh-accented butler said with a sigh, busying himself with making Maria’s new cup of tea. “But an acquaintance of mine did manage to find more old parts from the factory that were to be thrown out and managed to box them up for me.”
Tony’s entire boyish face lit up. “Really?!”
Jarvis smiled warmly at the youngest Stark’s reaction. “Yes, of course. Over there, on the countertop. Keep anything you’d like.”
Tony excitedly dug through the box of metal scraps and random parts. “Oh wow, Jarvis, thanks! This stuff is all great!” Beaming, the aspiring genius inventor pulled out a rectangular box-shaped scrap. “Look! I know just what to do with this! You’re the best!” Tony threw his tiny eight-year-old arms around his butler’s midsection and squeezed, then hefted up the box –which was nearly as heavy as he was– and lugged it off towards his bedroom.
Watching him depart, Edwin Jarvis chuckled to himself as he stirred a spoonful of sugar into Maria’s tea. “That kid,” he murmured fondly to no one in particular, “is gonna go far.”
~*~*~*~
After nearly ten hours of nonstop working, the sleep-deprived eight-year-old Tony Stark stood back from his workspace and admired his handiwork. It was shoddy, sure, but the craftsmanship was fair enough considering it’d been built out of trashed scraps.
Grinning like a mad scientist and feeling the part with his disheveled hair and oversized lab coat (which Jarvis had given him last birthday as a surprise from another acquaintance who no longer needed it), Tony happily carried his creation downstairs to where he hoped his parents were.
Indeed, both Maria and Howard were on the lavish couch in the living room, their eyes fixated on the television set in front of them.
“Hey, Dad!” Tony called, holding up the device and showing it off. “Wanna play?”
Howard made a face that expressed obvious disinterest, but after being on the receiving end of Maria’s dagger-sharp glare for the majority of the day, he caved and sighed. “Sure. What is it?”
“It’s my own personal invention,” his son declared proudly. “I call it the WrestleBot! See, look, it’s like that one game Rock ‘Em Sock ‘Em Robots, but it’s completely controlled using these remotes!”
Howard still had an unimpressed look upon his face, but took the controller his son offered him.
“This button is the one you use to attack, and this one you use to run away from the other player! Get it?”
“Yep,” Howard said with another sigh.
“Great! I gave you the controller for the blue guy because I know it’s your favorite color because of your old friend, right?”
The vaguest glimmer of genuine emotion flickered across the elder Stark’s face before being replaced by his usual hungover, stony facade. “Sure.”
“Okay, I’ll count down and then it’ll start. Ready… Three! Two! One! Go!”
Tony instantly jammed his finger down on the attack button, making his red player inch forward within the small makeshift boxing ring.
Howard, looking bored and disinterested, lightly tapped the button a few times, allowing his blue player to jab meaninglessly at the air.
“ Da-ad, ” Tony said teasingly, drawing out the word and shaking his head as he giggled. “You’re supposed to get close to my player first! Like this, watch!” Tony quickly went to move his player towards his father’s, but the red character didn’t budge on the board. “Huh. That’s weird.” The boy flipped his remote over and checked the wires that connected it to the player. “It looks like the wires are fine… Maybe it’s internal.”
Howard rolled his eyes. “Anthony, if you want to be like me, you can’t do this. You can’t show off this game made of scraps if it doesn’t work. If you think you’re going to be a successful inventor, you’ve gotta do better.”
Tony was taken aback by his father’s words. They seemed to have escaped Howard’s lips and hit Tony directly in the chest, knocking the wind out of him.
“O- oh.” The young inventor grabbed his game, turned on his heel, and scampered away towards his room, praying that he could get the door closed before letting the tears fall.
~*~*~*~
It was around three in the morning and Tony still could not sleep. He’d tossed and turned for hours after fixing the bug that he’d found in the WrestleBot game, playing his father’s words over and over on repeat in his brain.
Suddenly, when he’d been about to give up and forgo sleep entirely, Tony heard a soft knock at his door. Heart soaring thinking that it was his father come to apologize, or offer up another game now that the bug was fixed, Tony darted out of bed and pulled open the door expectantly.
It wasn’t his father who stood on the other side, but the man who did warmed his heart just as much –if not more– to see.
“I heard you’d created a game,” Edwin Jarvis said kindly. “Can I play a round with you?”
Tony smiled his eight-year-old smile with two of his front teeth missing and beckoned his butler inside. “Of course! You wanna be red or blue?”
“I know red’s your favorite, so I’ll take blue.”
Tony laughed happily. “Okay!”
And as the child prodigy explained the controls to his homemade game, Edwin Jarvis leaned against the wall and wondered to himself how anyone could think the kid could get any better.