Chapter Text
“So here's the skinny,” something sort of skinny himself says, strutting across the stage in a suit. “The only reason you're taking this class is to fulfil a gen ed. The only reason I'm teaching this class is so the university doesn't yank my funding. Welcome to physics 101.” He gave them a sharp grin.
“Get off the stage, kid!” someone shouted.
“Automatic “F” for you,” the kid said, flowing into his next thought seamlessly. “Another comment like that, and I'll wreck your credit score for life. Don't disrespect me. I'm smarter than all of you. Rule number two: fucking me won't get you an “A.” We'll both enjoy it a lot—that's my guarantee here and now, but if you want an “A” you'll have to work for it.”
“Are you even legal?” someone else shouted.
“Idiot,” he stabbed the air in the direction of the voice. “Refer to rule number one. Rule number three, I don't do office hours. Email me.” He turned and wrote on the white board behind him: [email protected] .
“Mr. Stark!”
“Ugh! Disgusting! Rule number four: Tony. Always Tony. I am not 'Mr. Stark.'” He glared around the lecture hall. “Any questions?”
“Where's the real professor?”
“Fail,” Tony said without bothering to look at who spoke. “No? Fine. Get the hell out of here. First days are stupid. I have more important work to be doing.” And strode off the stage.
Steve blinked, thinking this was the strangest class he'd been to. But he couldn't help grinning. Hard work was something he was used to. He was going to get an “A” in Physics this semester, so help him.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Steve didn't like knowing what others thought of professors beforehand, but when he mentioned Stark at dinner that night, Clint groaned.
“Sucks man. Guy's a doucher.”
Steve frowned.
“Oh come on. Don't give me that I'm-judging-you face.”
“I'm no—”
“You disapprove. He's a kid genius and treats everyone else like idiots. Mucho brains plus disdain equals douche.”
“Clint! Stop saying that word!”
His friend blinked and then grinned a grin that meant Steve should either leave or find new friends. “Douche? Ooh... I bet you don't like pussy either!”
“I'm leaving,” he said, wishing to high heaven he didn't blush so easily. He dropped his tray off and went upstairs. Two hours later and he knew all sorts of things about Tony Stark that he wish he didn't. He was, certifiably, a genius though and knew his stuff, what with degrees in mechanical and computer engineering, robotics, and biomechanics, and physics for fun.
He also had an email from Stark with a syllabus attached. As well as the message: Memorize your syllabus and don't ask me questions. -S
Steve sighed and downloaded the thing, spending the next half hour reading it. It really wasn't very user-friendly, with asterisks and all of it's foot-notes.
He asked one of the other kids in class if he'd been confused by the syllabus and he said 'no,' so maybe Steve's non-math brain was just having issues. He'd have to ask Stark...
Waiting until the lecture hall was mostly empty, he stepped up to the table and cleared his throat. “Professor Stark?”
And was promptly laughed at.
He frowned and when Stark finally looked up at him, he burst into laughter again. Finally he said, “Jesus... Where'd you grow up?! Farm land of Iowa?”
“No,” Steve replied stiffly. “I—”
“Never mind. Don't care. Listen. It's 'Tony.' Professor Stark sounds ridiculous. It's worse than 'Mr. Stark.' So what is it, homegrown?”
“Oh, I grew up in New York, actually,” he said coldly. “And I wanted to ask you about the syllabus. Are the—”
“Geeze! I said no questions!”
“Well sorry ! I don't get math so well, and you wrote the thing like it was computer code or something!”
Tony's lips twitched into an amused smile. “You're not a science major are you.”
“No, I'm an art major.”
“Of course you are, homegrown. So why are you taking this class?”
“My name's Steve, you know., Would you stop calling me that? And I need it. Gen ed.”
Tony grinned, reminding him vaguely of Clint's “I'm-going-to-keep-doing-this-because-it-annoys-you” smile. “Right.”
Steve sighed. “Could you...help me out?”
“And what do I get out of it?” He leaned back against the table, patient and smug like he knew the secrets of the universe. Heck, maybe he did. None of the research the internet said he was working on made much sense.
“I don't know! The satisfaction of helping a person?!” He straightened and glared when Tony laughed at him again. He really was as bad as Clint said.
“Oh boy. You really are a relic. What, you play football in high school? Army kid?”
“Stop it.” He'd not be able to, staying home to take care of his mom because his dad had jetted off years ago. “Are you going to help or not?”
“No, sir, Captain, Sir! Go ask a classmate. I have work to do,” he said, waving Steve off before turning to finish packing up his things, muttering to himself.
Steve sighed and left to a stream of, “shit universities and their shitty technology...”
By the time he got back that evening however, he had a dumbed down version of the syllabus in his inbox.
Here ya go, Captain Homegrown. Last freebie ;)
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Two weeks in and Steve found the classroom empty of Stark and most of the students muttering in their seats about the Sit your asses down message blinking on the screen.
The bell rang and a student stood near the front. “This is gay. I'm leaving.”
Pretty sure 'this' doesn't have a gender. Now get out, dick-wad. You fail.
Everybody murmured their shock, the kid standing gaping at the screen.
“What the hell!”
You read me. Get out. You fail. Bell's rung. Shut up.
“Big brother is watching,” Steve murmured.
Heard that, Homegrown .
“Dude! Where the fuck are you?” Another kid asked as Steve ducked his head and flushed.
Shut up. I'm sick, so running class from home. Get your pens out. We're taking notes.
Steve shook his head and opened his notebook, wondering how the heck Stark had managed this.
When class ended, one message remained blinking.
Stick around, Homegrown .
Steve packed his things slowly, waiting for everyone else to leave. “Um. Tony?”
Heya Captain.
“It's 'Steve,'” he retorted
Right. Listen. I'm calling in my favour. Could you bring me cold meds?
“Huh?”
Cold meds. You do know cold meds, right. You're not one of those weird netty pot users?
“You know, for a person asking a favour, you could be more polite... I don't know where you live.” He felt awkward talking to an empty room.
You live on Eighth. I'm on the north east corner of Fifth and Jameson, Red building. And the Walgreens is on Fourth and Cole. It's on your way.
“How do you know where I live?”
Computer genius. Also your student info is on my class roster.
“Convenient,” Steve grumbled.
Is that a yes? Please? I'll reimburse you.
“Fine! Fine, you win. I'll be there shortly.”
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Steve got the kind of cold meds he liked because he didn't know if Tony had any preferences. Some Advil too. The kind with the nice coating. He found Tony's place pretty easily too. Small red building with a black door and structurally unsound balcony on the second floor. Typical charming half-dilapidated university house
Come in , a voice sounded as he approached the door.
Steve jumped, heard the lock click and let himself in. “Hello?”
“Master Rogers,” a refined British voice said. “Master Stark is awaiting you in his bedroom.”
He whirled, seeing no source of the voice. “I'm sorry?”
“The stairs are straight back and to the left. Master Stark's bedroom is the second door on the right.”
“Uh... Thanks?”
“My pleasure, Master Rogers.”
Steve frowned and followed the voice's directions. “Um. Tony?” he called, a little nervous about the amount of people reportedly in the man's bed.
“Here...” a voice croaked, dispelling any fears.
Steve blinked at the kid in the bed, used tissues scattered on the blankets tucked up under his chin. “Uh. Hi.”
Tony scowled, nose red, and reached for the glass of water on the bedside table. He had a laptop on the table and another next to where his hips probably were. “Hi.”
“Man. You look.”
“Great, I know,” Tony rasped.
“I'm surprised you held class.” Steve inched closer.
“Got my drugs?” Tony fought so he was almost upright, glaring but accepting Steve's help.
“Yeah.” He handed the bag to Tony. “Um. Who was talking earlier?”
“Hm?” He wrestled with the bottle.
“Earlier. When I came in?” Finally taking the bottle back, Steve opened it and dropped the pills in his hand.
“Oh. You mean my butler.” Tony grinned and dry-swallowed the pills easily. “Wooster.”
Steve frowned. “Where...”
“Wooster,” Tony croaked.
“Yes, Master Stark.”
“You creeped out Steve. Say hello.”
“Good afternoon, Master Rogers. I am Wooster, Master Stark's artificially intelligent butler. A pleasure to meet you, Sir.”
“Electronic house,” Tony explained, falling back against the headboard. “It'll be huge. Gonna build my own home. Incorporate it.”
“Wow...” Steve said.
“Don't be so impressed, homegrown.” Tony's eyes fell shut.
“Um.” Steve looked around. “Uh, need anything else?” Tony was all alone. Sick. Didn't have any physical company.
Cracking an eye, Tony looked him over. “You're sweet. Glass of water?”
“Do you want a sandwich?”
“Sure, Cap.”
Steve shook his head and left the room to stop himself from asking Tony how old he was. Sighing into the open fridge, he shook his head. It was filled mostly with Redbull, some expensive type of cheese Steve was fairly certain was foreign, orange juice, and strawberries. The freezer held...ice. And vodka. Oh wait. There was a TV dinner.
“Um. Wooster?”
“Yes, Master Rogers.”
“I'm...going to the supermarket. Er, Fresh Market. Tony doesn't have any groceries. Is it okay if I come back in about twenty minutes?”
“Master Stark will reimburse you.”
“Oh. It's not—”
“Master Stark will reimburse you.”
Steve sighed and walked down to the store to get bread, meat, mayo, milk, pickles, and eggs. The door clicked open for him when he returned, and he set about making two sandwiches in Tony's small kitchen. Tiptoeing up to Tony's room, he called the man's name softly.
Tony's head was tipped back on the pillows, making snuffling snorey noises.
Steve huffed. Just like every other sick kid he'd babysat. “Hey, Tony. Wake up.”
Tony flinched and blinked at him. “Oh hey, homegrown. A sandwich. I didn't know I had bread.”
“You didn't. I bought some for you.”
“Aw...” Tony grumbled, dragging hands over his face. “Thanks, Cap. You should... I dunno. Be Captain over all th'sick people or something. The university. Hell, all uh America. Captain! America!”
Steve snorted. “Um. Right. You feverish?”
“I'm always hot,” Tony mumbled, making grabby hands at the sandwich. “Oh my God. This is a good sandwich. Can I hire you to make me sandwiches?”
“Tony, I'm one of your students. I'm pretty sure this is inappropriate.” But Steve pulled an arm chair closer so he could put his plate on the bedside table “Isn't there someone to take care of you? Did you take more cold medicine?”
“It's only inappropriate if we're naked, and I've got you over for sex. And like I said, it won't get you any better grades anyway, so it doesn't matter!”
“Tony...” He fought against a blush, losing brilliantly. “Did you take more cold meds?”
“I did,” he said around a mouthful of mashed sandwich.
Steve valiantly looked away. “How old are you?”
“Nineteen. Twenty next month. I'm legal, Captain America. Damn do you make a good sandwich.”
“It's not that har—nineteen? Who takes care of you?”
“Me. Duh. I don't need a keeper.” Tony downed his water and held out his glass. “Not from the bathroom. Brita. In the fridge. Tastes better.”
Sighing, Steve fetched him a glass of water.
“You're being too nice to me. What do you want,” Tony asked, squinting as he retook his seat.
“Wha? I don't want anything. Where are your parents?”
“New York. London? Paris maybe. New Jersey? Who knows.” He shrugged. “Don't stare at me! I don't want your pity, Captain America!”
For someone who called his mom every weekend, the whole concept of not even knowing if one's parents were in the country was a bit appalling. “It's not—sorry.”
“How old are you, homegrown?” Tony stuffed the last bit of sandwich into his mouth.
“Uh... I'm twenty-five. I had to work to affo—you know what, you don't need my life story. I don't even know why I'm still here. I've got work to do. I hope you feel better by Wednesday.”
“Uh. Sure. Um. I'll pay you. Back,” Tony mumbled, eyes drooping. “See ya. Cap.”
“Bye, Tony.” He stood and carried the plates back to the kitchen, washing them and putting them away.
“You are most kind, Master Rogers,” Wooster said, making him jump. “I will remind Master Stark of the debt he owes you.”
“Sure. Ah, no problem? Remind him to do the shopping and eat too, while you're at it?”
“Of course, Sir. Might I program your mobile number in so you may be contacted in the future?”
Tony's house. Asking for his number. What was his life. “Well, I don't actually have a cell phone, but my apartment number 617-291-7650.” Why. This was crazy. He didn't want to get messed up with Tony Stark, billionaire, boy-genius, smart-ass, teacher .
“Excellent, Master Rogers. Thank you very much for your presence. I hope to see you back again.”
“Right.” He looked around and waved in the direction of what looked to be a camera. “Bye.”
“That is unfortunately a decoy, but I read your gesture of parting. Farewell.”
Steve gathered his backpack and portfolio case and headed home.