Chapter Text
Perspiration runs in little rivulets down five-year-old Tony Stark’s back, staining his shirt a darker shade of blue. He narrows his eyes, unwilling to submit to the merciless sun beating down upon the earth, but the heat persists, and finally, he retreats under the canopy of a clump of trees. He lowers himself to the ground, settling into the cooler dirt of the shady area. Swiping at the wetness running down the side of his face, he turns his gaze back to the lone individual seated on one of the two swings on the sheltered playground.
She’s small-built, like him - maybe just half an inch taller - and sports a head of red hair. He doesn’t quite remember when she made her first appearance. Two weeks ago, or maybe three. He's been in this place a lot longer than she has in what he gathers is similar to a boarding school with custom-made programs for special kids.
A kind of school that he has never left to go home for vacations.
All he knows is that she’s always alone, and no one ever comes to visit them.
He pushes himself up, brushing his hands against the backseat of his shorts in a futile effort to rid the fabric of any soil stains left there. He’d probably get into trouble later, but it isn’t a top priority, and the thought is forgotten in the next second. He strides forward and squints into the brightness, the tips of his mostly white tennis shoes meeting the edge of sunlight.
She makes a forlorn figure, her hands curled into fists around the chains of the swing as she digs a foot into the sand, giving herself a half-hearted push.
He chews on the inside of his bottom lip. In a surprising show of bravery, or perhaps utter stupidity, he puffs out his chest and marches over to the playground before coming to a stop at the swing set. There, his muscles twitch. The sudden courage abandons him. Losing his nerve, he makes an abrupt turn and drops onto the other swing. He clutches the slightly rusted chains and pushes off the ground, pretending not to notice the presence of another. He gains momentum, pushing back harder with his feet.
The wind, warm as it may be, is a welcome sensation. He isn't progressing as fast as he'd like, however, and it isn't long until his legs are tiring.
Why aren't there swings that go high on their own?
He decides that when he has grown up, he would create some. Wouldn't that be a blast.
“Hi.”
The voice startles him, interrupting his temporary quest to get as high as possible. Had he imagined the hesitant greeting? He sinks both feet into the sand, and tilting his head, peers questioningly at her.
She offers a tentative smile. “Are you here for that?”
His hand follows the direction of her gaze, landing on the warm, metallic circle emitting light at the center of his chest. He gives a nod. “And you?”
The words are out before he has a chance to hold them back.
Her eyes flicker.
They're the colour of emeralds. He knows because he's got a book on gemstones somewhere.
"I'm Tony." He tries again, sticking out his hand. “Really Anthony Edward Stark, but you can call me Tony.”
A beat passes. The corners of her lips edge up just the slightest, and she shyly clasps his hand with hers. "Natalia Alianovna Romanova," she says, voice tinged with an accent he can't place. "They call me Natasha."
The bell rings. He hops off the swing, and she mimics him. For a second, they look at each other in an unspoken understanding.
"Race you to the door!" He cries all of a sudden. "Last one there is a computerized clod!"
He dashes off gleefully, hearing her running footsteps not far behind. The bell, signaling the end of break time, ceases, and though it threatens with the possibility of punishment for tardiness, he cannot help the grin that spreads across his face.
He finally made a friend.