[AO3 Crosspost] Dots: 2-4, 1-2-3, 1-3-6 [1/2]

[terresdebrume]

✗ TECHNICAL DETAILS

FANDOM: Marvel’s MCU
SERIES: The Dots Verse
RATING: Mature
WORDCOUNT: 10 599
PAIRING(S): FrostIron
CHARACTER(S): Loki, Tony Stark, Thor, Sif, Natasha Romanov, Clint Barton, Pepper Potts, Steve Rogers
GENRE: Alternate Universe (Blind!Loki)
TRIGGER WARNING(S): None
SUMMARY: In a moment of anger against his stepmother, Tony decides to screw his previous plans and applies to a British university for a degree in modern language. He doesn’t know it yet, but it may be the best decision he’s made all his life.
NOTE(S): Written for an Anon who wanted a college AU.

THE DOTS VERSE ON LIVEJOURNAL: [Series Masterpost]


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Sometimes, Tony wishes his sister weren’t so loud.

Granted, Pepper isn’t really his sister, more like the unfortunate daughter of his father’s second wife whom he vaguely remembers harassing in the first few weeks because, until they made peace over the fact that their parents were either too busy to properly care about them, or just downright hated kids and wished they didn’t exist. Tony remembers being six and seeing this toddler who looked oh so pretty, and realizing all of a sudden that hey, what if Howard liked her better than me? Fortunately, it appeared very quickly that red hair wasn’t the magical way into Howard’s heart, and Tony and Pepper soon became inseparable.
(To be exact, Pepper started trailing him like a duckling, and Tony agreed to let her stay because his best friend Steve thought she was cute.)

Said best friend is now groggily crossing the living room, mussed hair, star spangled boxers and cream on his nipples.

He can’t even bring himself to care.

{Two years and six months ago}

“Tony,” Steve insists, “she was only trying to get a rise out of you, please don’t make her win! Just because your mom—”

“She’s not my mother!” Tony spits, the screech of his pen on paper a fitting soundtrack to the fit of rage he’s in. “She’s a filthy bitch, and if she thinks I’ll give her the satisfaction of losing that argument, the cunt’s going to be sorely disappointed!”

“Tony!” Steve says, and he steals a glance at Pepper, who sighs.

“Tony, we all know she’s a bitch –Steve, don’t- but is it really worth getting into this just because of her? I mean, I know Howard insisted you took all your classes in AP but….”

“What?” Tony fumes, “You don’t think I can do it? You think she’s right, is that it? That I owe everything I got to Howard’s money?”

“Tony no!” She exclaims, “Of course not!”

“Then trust me when I say I’m going there, and I’m going to do that fucking degree, and I don’t. Fucking. Care. What anybody says about that.”

{Two years and four months ago}

“Vous êtes en retard.”

“Yeah,” Tony answers, because he knows that, thanks. “The traffic….”

“Mauvaise réponse,” the teacher says. “When I tell you that you’re late, the first word out of your mouth should be ‘sorry’, not an excuse about the traffic.”

“Well I’m sorry,” Tony answers, thankful of countless holidays in France for allowing him to understand the teacher, “I’m not used to driving on the left!”

“Neither are half your classmates and they were all here on time,” the man replies as he shuffles papers on his desk, “Now if you could make use of whatever it is you call you brain and catch up with the fact that this is a French class, I would be delighted to hear whatever feeble excuse you can come up with.”

Now, to be perfectly clear, Tony isn’t normally an asshole.

Okay, not too much.

Nevertheless, right now, he’s pissed. He’s just moved from the States on his own, left everything and everyone he loves behind, he’s discovered a new city, a new way of life, new food, he’s been forced to learn to cope with things without Pepper’s organizational skills –which is fucking hard, let me tell you- or Steve’s brilliant optimism, and now he’s almost gotten hit by a semi and subsequently ran all the way from the hall –and he got lost twice- all that for a stupid teacher to not even look at him?

Yeah, sure, whatever.

“Well I don’t know,” Tony answers with what Pepper calls his rich brat flippancy, “how about you show the good example and show a little respect by, I don’t know, looking at me?”

From where he stands, Tony has a good view of the teacher’s profile.

The man has curly red hair and a beard, and the cheeks of someone who has been skinny for a long time and is just now putting on some weight. Tony takes in the impeccable state of his clothes –dark green v-neck, black jeans, heavy watch on the left wrist- the straightness of the posture, and he surprises himself by thinking this man should be an actor or something, instead of hiding away in a classroom.

But anyway, back to the matter at hand, which is that this guy, no matter how gorgeous he is, is as much of an asshole as Tony, and Tony isn’t one to sit idly by as people take his titles from him, damnit! So here he stands, arms crossed and waiting for an answer when the teacher finally turns to look at a point somewhere near Tony’s chin, or possibly his chest.

“How about you look at my face, and tell me what you see?”

At first, Tony thinks of huffing, because, seriously?

And then he notices. He has to come in closer to be sure, but there they are, pale and white on and around his irises, like someone drew them here with a needle. There’s also the ones on the man’s face, thin and almost unnoticeable, but yes, they are scars, spraying on the right side of his face like too-white freckles, scattered between ears and eyebrow, and then a last one, a bit thicker, in the corner of his left eye.

That’s when Tony notices the dog in the corner, and he groans.

“Well, he says, it’s not like it’s written in large print,” he mutters, and he’s pretty sure someone in the front gasps at him.

“I would comment on that, but I don’t really know what my face looks like these days.” Tony represses another groan, purely because yeah, he knows when he’s wrong, and also because the guy has gorgeous eyes –and Tony’s a sucker for beautiful eyes. “Now, what’s your name boy?”

“Tony Stark,” Tony says, and the man arches an eyebrow:

“I wasn’t expecting you in this field of expertise, Mr. Stark. Please, do take a sit.” Tony does, and feels more nervous now that everyone’s looking at ‘Mr. Stark’ than he was a few minutes ago when they all looked at Late Guy. “Good morning everyone,” the redhead says when Tony’s seated between a lethal looking girl in a dress that’s way too light for the weather, and a guy in a jean and a purple hoodie: “As I was saying before we were so rudely interrupted, my name is Loki Odinson and I will be your French teacher for this year. As you have been made aware, this class will differ from the others in terms of technicalities, but we’ll discuss that particular point a bit later. For now, I’m going to pass a few forms for you to fill, so I get to know you a bit better and am able to adapt to any specific requirement your health may induce. Please be aware that these forms will be read to me by a third person and refrain from drawing penises alongside your answers, the stupidity of this kind of action is really cringe-worthy.”

Purple Hoodie snorts on Tony’s right, and the girl on his left reaches around him to slap the back of his head. She’s a lovely girl, with the kind of old-fashioned beauty you expect to find in an Al-Capone movie. Her dress is perfectly up to date though, all red and form flattering, and Tony would risk a look, if she didn’t look like the kind of girl who can cut you to pieces with a butter knife.

“I’m Natasha,” she says with a heavy Russian accent, “And the idiot there is Clint. My roommate. Nice to meet you Lost Boy.”

“I’m not lost,” Tony says, seizing a copy of the form, and Clint sniggers:

“The whole planet knows you as a genius of engineering, and you end up in Cambridge for a modern language degree. You sound lost to me.”

“Well I’m not,” Tony repeats stubbornly. “I know exactly what I’m doing.”

Although, sometimes, he’s not really sure of that either.

{Two years, three months and one week ago}

“Seriously Tony, you still have time to come back and get into MIT,” Steve says for the third time, and Tony sighs.

“We’ve had this conversation dude. I’ve made my decision, and I’m going to get that fucking degree with awesome grade, and I’ll find a job I like with it, and that’s it.”

“But Tony….”

“Don’t make me bring up the fact that you’re dating my sister, Steve.”

Steve, at last, stops to insist, and Tony starts getting ready for work.

He found the job on the same day he moved in, actually, still sleepy from the plane journey, and he still doesn’t understand how he managed to land the post. Still, he’s grateful for it, because he gets free coffee all the time now, and also because it’s enough to pay for his food and rent, which in turn allows him to keep his scholarship for his books –and they’re numerous.

Surprisingly enough, he finds himself liking it here.

The job requires him to do a lot of shuffling and walking about, but that’s all right because now he can run from one side of his department to the other without feeling like he’s going to vomit his lungs. Plus, the tips aren’t that bad, and the occasional Stark geek coming in make for entertaining conversation afterwards, when he and Sif and Thor sit down for lunch.

Ah, Sif and Thor.

They’re married, apparently, and very intent on having Tony calling them by their first name –then again, Tony doesn’t know Thor’s family name, and Ægisdóttir is way too much of a mouthful to be used every day. It’s clearly Sif who wears the pants, but the coffee shop was Thor’s before it became hers, and between breaks, he’s the one who rules. They’re both easy going and loud, and Tony finds them a nice contrast to his parents, laughing every time Thrúd comes in from school and climbs her father like a jungle gym before she settles in the back of the café to start on her homework.

Today though, Tony has the morning shift, which means no Thor and no Thrúd, only old Dr. Watson, who likes to come in every morning and watch the other customers to try and guess what they’re like –Sif said he lost a friend who used to do that, and to leave him alone, so Tony never linger when he brings him his order.

Tony looks up when the bell rings, signaling a new customer, and he starts when he recognizes Loki Odinson. His teacher stands in the doorway for a second, then walks up to the counter, his guide dog walking at his side, but not guiding him, and Tony thinks he’s probably a regular.

“My usual, Lucy,” he says, and Tony answers:

“Lucy handed in her resignation three weeks ago.”

“Damn,” Loki mutters, “I wasn’t aware it’s been this longs.”

“Don’t worry,” Sif says as she starts working the coffee machine, “We know how it is for the start of term. How are they this year?”

“Interesting,” is the word Loki settles on after a beat. “Some of them apparently think I’m deaf as well as blind, but I haven’t had the heart of correcting their assumptions yet.”

“Oh?” Sif says as Tony reddens, knowing exactly who Loki is speaking about, “Juicy story?”

“Very. The conquest of one Ms. Darcy Lewis by Natasha Romanov. Jane keeps asking for details about the mysterious Russian, but I’m not very good with faces.”

“Well, maybe Tony can act as a mole,” Sif smiles, “He’s in the Modern Languages department too.” She sets a cup on the counter and announces: “There it is. Grande mocha, extra shot, extra sugar, extra cream, enjoy your heart attack.”

“Thank you Sif. Mr. Stark, I trust you’ll remember this, since you have a knack for memory games.”

“Look,” Tony says, exasperated, “I’m sorry I was late on the first day, and I’m sorry I listen to Natasha’s stories, but I don’t think it’s a reason to try and personally humiliate me!”

“Believe what you will,” Loki says, “but this was actually a genuine compliment.”

{One year and eleven months ago}

As it turns out, Loki comes by the café every morning. He orders the same thing every morning –which Tony gets right on his first try- and sits at the same table every morning with his laptop, and then proceeds to type away for ten minutes, or half an hour, or the whole morning when he can. Tony, who managed to put all his lessons in the afternoon, is always here to serve him –and Clint and Natasha, sometimes, because they can’t get enough of him in an apron, apparently. Natasha even managed to get Pepper’s number and send her pictures, for which Tony hates her, because now his sister and his best friend poke fun at him every time he gets them on skype.

As a general rule, Tony tries not to disturb Loki.

They chat a little sometimes, exchange a few words on the weather, the latest happenings in university… nothing really deep or anything, but it’s nice to have a constant in this city where Tony’s circle of friend is still limited to Clint and Natasha. (Not that he doesn’t speak to anyone else, but too many of his other acquaintances seem disbelieving/disappointed/both when they learn or remember that, for now, Tony is actually living like any ordinary student, without any financial help from his massively rich parents.)

This morning though, he just can’t help noticing him sit at his table with his phone in his left hand, the right one nervously tapping on something that looks like a small keyboard with Braille on the keys, and a row of Braille writing. Tony sets Loki’s cup down on the table, whipped cream wobbling dangerously, and he asks:

“What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know,” Loki hisses. “Nothing is answering and the stupid maintenance took its sweet time answering and now I have to wait for them to find someone halfway competent, who would be able to try and diagnose what’s happening and—”

“Okay,” Tony says, cutting through Loki’s tirade, “first, you set that down.” He takes Loki’s phone from his hand, hangs up and sets the device on the table. “Next, scoot over.”

“What are you doing, Stark?” Loki asks, brows furrowed and body unmoving.

“Saving you hours of useless flailing,” Tony retorts. “Relax prof’, I’m just going to fix your computer.”

“Are you?” Loki asks, wearily, and Tony sighs:

“I thought we were past that. All that because I came in late on first lesson….”

“No it’s because you didn’t pay attention on the first lesson,” Loki cuts him. “As you just evidenced. I didn’t warn people about drawing penises for no reason.”

“What do you mean?” Tony frowns as he sits down in front of Loki –the shop is deserted anyway, everybody staying out to enjoy the premises of spring, Tony might as well enjoy it.

“Thor reads the forms to me, so that I can type them back and print them in Braille,” Loki explains. “The first batch was… less than savory. You kind of forget how stupid people can be at eighteen, until it smacks you right in the face.”

Tony gapes for a moment, not knowing what part of this shocks him most.

On the one hand, he likes to answer Loki’s explanations in class with ‘how did I not see this’, because it seems to amuse both his classmate and the teacher, and it’s just another one of these stupid puns he likes to use from time to time. On the other hand, he doesn’t understand why anyone would do something as horrible and belittling as trying to slip pornography onto Loki’s stuff.

When he makes his seeing jabs, he laughs with Loki, continuing along the path the man himself has designated on his first day, and Tony likes to think that their connection is different from what Loki has with his other pupils –because they barely even dare to use the verb ‘to see’ outside of texts analysis. The people who draw these things on the paper, they laugh at him, laugh at his difference, laugh because they don’t get him and they feel like they have to make him feel lower in order for them to feel better.

Tony isn’t disabled, but he knows how that particular point feels.

“Look he says, I promise I’m not going to do any damage to your computer. I just want to help. Let me have a look at it, and if I can’t fix it, you’ll be free to pay a fortune for a bunch of useless electronics.”

“That bunch of useless electronics, as you call it, is my main work tool, Stark. I use it for just about everything I do.” Loki sighs, then gives a resigned shrug: “It’s also not even worth half the price I paid for my keyboard. Go ahead, try it. Oh and please try not to lose any file I’m working on, I’m not sure when was the last time I saved them and I’d hate to lose my work.”

“I’ll do my best,” Tony grins as he checks that the shop is still empty, before he goes to seat next to Loki: “Scoot over,” he says.

Loki complies without a word, and Tony makes sure not to step on Fenrir’s tail as he sits down –the thing is enormous, and nobody should trust the white as an indication of purity, because Tony has learned the hard way that Fenrir is a prankster, and Loki is doing nothing to discourage him.

It’s kind of nice, sitting next to Loki like that, with their shoulders bumping from time to time. Tony can smell him as he works, the sharp scent of cinnamon, leather and freshly-washed hair spiked with coffee and the faintest trace of industrial ink, probably from the school printers. He has that calming effect Tony likes, not because he’s particularly calm or anything, but because he has a softness about him when he smile that Tony can’t help but get lost into.

It’s nice.

“You smell like motor oil,” Loki says after a few minutes of mute clicking and typing and still no sound beside Sif walking around behind the counter –Tony can already tell he’s going to be in trouble, but if she asks, he’ll say he was saving her brother-in-law’s ass and she should be thankful on Loki’s behalf.

“Sorry,” is what Tony says right now, “I wash my hands before I come here but it’s not always enough.”

“It’s okay,” Loki says, “I like it.”

“Do you?” Tony asks, not taking his eyes off the screen, and Loki hums.

“I used to like tuning up my motorbike. That’s one of the things I miss most, actually.”

There’s an idea popping in Tony’s brain at that moment, but it’s foolish and ridiculous and possibly a bit cheesy, so he bites the inside of his cheeks and clicks some more. Loki doesn’t make any further attempt at conversation, head turned to the window as if to look at the street, and Tony gets the feeling that maybe this is something he used to do before… before he was blind, probably.

Tony would like to know how that happened, but he doesn’t think Loki would tell him, and he doesn’t want to hear the story from someone else, so he doesn’t ask.

“There,” he says after a while, “good as new. You just got a nasty virus, but I bust it out. You can go back to your blank page.”

“Yeah, right,” Loki says, and Tony notices the tip of his ears going a little pink. “My blank page.”

But he doesn’t move and Tony wonders why, until he realizes he’s still in front of the computer, and looking at Loki like he’s a stalker. (He also realizes that he’s never really thought of the man as Mr. Odinson and it should probably worry him, but honestly, he can’t bring himself to care.)

Quickly, Tony clears his throat and rises out of his seat, collecting the now-empty cup of coffee and turning to the counter, where two clients have somehow managed to appear –honestly, he’s just thankful there aren’t more than that.

“Stark,” Loki stops him, “may I ask you a weird question?”

“A second one, you mean,” Tony chuckles. “Shoot.”

“What color are your eyes?”

Weirdly enough, the question doesn’t sound strange to Tony, and he smiles:

“Brown. Plain and boring.” Loki nods, the blue-gray-green of his eyes as fascinating as Tony’s eyes are ordinary, and in the spur of the moment, Tony adds: “My hair’s black.”

Loki smiles and nods.