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There are few parts of Tony’s life that are private, but his autism diagnosis is one of them.
He hadn’t been diagnosed as a child- Howard never would have allowed it. Most people chalk stuff up to him being an eccentric genius and, despite that being one of the biggest autism stereotypes ever, most people never seem to connect the dots.
It was, interestingly enough, Clint who suggested it. Not even Natasha, but then again Clint isn’t called Hawkeye for nothing.
Clint had noticed how Tony wears sunglasses to avoid having to force eye contact. How he’s always fiddling with something. His words flow a mile a minute and, while he often bugs people on purpose, he does so by accident quite often too, and doesn’t know when he’s crossed a line between quippy teasing and genuinely hurtful remarks.
Tony hasn’t yet revealed his diagnosis to the world, though doing so would probably make a lot of kids and teenagers feel more confident about their own diagnosis. Or maybe not- Tony would only reinforce the autistic tech genius stereotype, and given how famous he is, it might rocket that cliché to the stratosphere.
So Tony keeps his diagnosis hidden, but he helps in other ways. He invents the greatest noise canceling headphones ever, all the while ironically blasting Black Sabbath in his lab.
Tony invents sunglasses that filter to the perfect lighting. He’s also invented glasses that analyze facial expressions and body language, translating them for the wearer with a little caption in the corner of the lens.
Pepper says there are privacy concerns with constantly scanning people’s faces, but everyone has a camera with them nowadays.
Tony’s always been hyper verbal, but he works on Augmentative and Alternative Communication software for people who can’t speak, making it easier for anyone to ramble on like he does.
He first met Peter while testing the software. Peter hasn’t spoken a word in his life, and he quite likes that the tablet talks, but so far Tony’s software hasn’t passed the Peter test phase.
When Tony arrives at the Parkers’ apartment in Queens, Peter’s rattling a toy that’s an accurate representation of an iron molecule. He walks right up to Tony and leans against him, which he’d done even when first meeting Tony.
“Hey, Pete. Ready to try this again?”
Tony can’t imagine living without access to his words. Even if he couldn’t speak, he’s sure he’d sign or type as much as he talks.
Peter clearly doesn’t feel the same way. He completely ignores the tablet that his surprisingly attractive Aunt May fetches. Tony had mentioned that, right in front of Uncle Ben, the first time they met.
Peter gnaws on one of the atoms, then thunks his molecule against Tony’s chest, where the arc reactor used to be.
“That’s Iron.” Tony says, poking around the software to bring up the periodic table of elements. He taps the Fe icon, and the tablet says “iron” in a voice that’s as smooth and realistic as Jarvis, although this sounds like a child instead of a British butler.
The other communication apps still have rather robotic voices. Tony strives to give everyone a natural sounding voice. His software even includes tonal inflection, though Tony knows some speaking autistic people don’t show much emotion in their voices. The app can adjust tone itself for those who struggle knowing which tone to use.
Peter drops the iron molecule and picks up another toy. This one’s a clear plastic rattle shaped like a chemistry flask, which Peter shakes vigorously. Like Tony, he’s constantly seeking stimulation.
“You’re giving him too many options,” Aunt May says, not for the first time. She tells Tony, once again, that it’s better to start with yes and no, or a few photos of Peter’s favorite foods and toys.
“Yeah, because he can’t possibly have more to say than that.” Tony mutters. “If I didn’t speak and someone limited my vocabulary to a few items, I’d reprogram it to say fuck you first.”
Tony can almost hear Steve chiding him for his language, especially in front of a kid. Peter keeps shaking his flask.
“Seriously, what’s the point of giving him this if he can’t say whatever he wants?” Tony demands.
“You don’t see how overwhelming that is?!” Aunt May asks. “There are, what, hundreds of pages and thousands of word icons? How is anyone supposed to find anything?”
“It’s incredibly intuitive.” Tony says, as Peter starts to sing along with his flask-maraca music. Really, Peter’s singing sounds more like screaming. Steve seems to think most of Tony’s music is screaming, but there’s an obvious difference.
Peter smacks the flask into his palm, hard enough that if it were real and made of glass, it surely would have broken by now.
“What if Peter needs to say he’s bored, or hurt, or tell someone to shut up?” Tony demands. “You’re his aunt. Don’t you want him to be able to say whatever he wants?”
“Of course I do,” Aunt May gives Tony an annoyed look that he recognizes quite well, having received such looks his whole life, and Tony can tell he may have crossed a line here. Not that that usually stops him, but he genuinely likes Peter even if Peter can’t talk science with him. Yet.
“You think I don’t think about that every day?! What sorts of thoughts he can’t share?” May demands.
“May,” Ben says, while May glares at Tony.
Peter presses the flask to May’s pressed lips, like she’s drinking the beads inside.
“Mmm,” she tells him, with a smile. “Is this the Super Soldier Serum? Or whatever Doctor Banner drank to become Hulk?”
“Neither of them drank anything.” Tony corrects. “Steve had Erksine’s serum pumped into his veins. Trust me, dear old Dad told that story literally hundreds of times. Bruce was over-exposed to Gamma Radiation, and-“
Peter presses the flask to Tony’s mouth next, like he’s trying to silence him.
“Peter lets us know things in other ways.” May says, and Tony thinks there’s a hint of smugness there.
“They say seventy to ninety-three percent of communication is nonverbal.” Ben points out.
Tony’s worked the math on that one and starts to tell them it’s precisely 85.7%. May doesn’t respond.
Peter drums on a toy Captain America shield and claps two of them together like cymbals.
Tony’s glad when he drops the Cap shields to play with a set of colorful plastic gears. Peter bounces excitedly as he watches them spin. Some gears have spirals or dots, and Peter seems mesmerized. He stirs his flask through the air so the beads inside spin along with the gears.
When he was far younger than Peter, Tony was building real engines, not playing with colorful plastic gears intended for toddlers or even babies. But he sits with Peter and sets them up. Whenever he asks for Peter’s input on which one they should add next, Peter touches the gears instead of the color icons on the tablet. Sometimes he guides Tony’s hand instead of his own.
Tony sighs at Peter’s way around using the tablet, but starts explaining how torque is calculated as the product of circumferential force and the radius of the gear.
Peter grunts, frustrated, and at first Tony thinks Peter wants him to be quiet again, which never lasts long. But Peter’s batting the gears instead.
He runs off and returns with a photo he must have taken. Peter prefers his camera to the communication software, even though that saying about a picture being worth a thousand words is a load of crap.
Aunt May glances at the photo and says “Oh! You lost your spider?”
Does he have a toy spider somewhere?
Peter thumps his beaker against his chest. He rips the other plastic gears off the board, searching for something underneath.
Tony almost asks Jarvis where it is, but of course Jarvis isn’t here.
Eventually, Ben finds the spider under the couch. It’s not even a spider, just a large plastic gear with googly eyes. It has more than eight teeth, and they don’t look much like spider legs anyway.
Tony and Peter set up all the gears again, and Peter loves watching how the big “spider” gear makes the small gears spin faster. He spins his beaker even faster to match.
Tony supposes May has a point- Peter’s excitement comes across just as much without words.
Similarly, building with LEGOs doesn’t require words at all. The instructions are all pictures. Peter doesn’t have normal LEGOs, because still puts stuff in his mouth. Tony can’t believe he’s playing with the jumbo-sized kiddie version, but he builds the closest replica to Avengers tower that he can.
Peter builds for a moment before he’s back up again, careening to the next toy. Tony jumps topics and projects frequently, so he can’t fault Peter for his shifting attention.
Tony’s communication software may not be working for Peter, but Tony has another idea. While Peter’s toys are all science themed, they’re still clearly baby and toddler toys. Peter seems to like the sensory aspect, with the bright colors and rattling and different textures, and they’re safe for him to chew on. He has a toy Saturn with textured chewy rings that can be frozen like the real Saturn’s rings, and a dancing plastic robot that sings about numbers and the alphabet.
Tony could do so much better than that robot.
When Tony gets back to the tower, he stays inside his lab designing toys for two days straight.
Stark Industries making toys might be a shock, but Tony enjoys shocking people. And they already pulled out of the weapons business.
Tony isn’t going to claim his toys turn kids into geniuses like some companies do. That’s stupid. He might not even market them, since he’s building them specifically with Peter in mind.
Tony designs a whole fake lab bench with a place to sort stuff and bits to spin and fidget with. It’s colorful and enticing without looking babyish.
Then he remembers the Parkers don’t live in a giant penthouse, and his fidgety lab bench is almost as big as the real lab tables scattered throughout his lab.
He creates several materials with varying malleability for Peter to chew, and makes different molecule shapes.
Tony makes a robot spider with rudimentary AI. It’s even dumber than Dum-E, but it can dance and play the drums.
He gathers a whole collection of gears for Peter to play with, ones he can’t possibly swallow, with their sharp teeth ground down to be smooth and safe.
When Pepper finally comes to drag him out of his workshop, she glances at all the toy prototypes littered around the lab.
“I know I look like Stu Pickles.” Tony grumbles. “But I haven’t lost control of my life. I’m not making pudding at four o’clock in the morning.”
“Losing control of your life requires having it under control in the first place, Sir.” Jarvis snarks.
After eyeing Tony’s science-themed toys, Pepper suggests the name Little Laboratories, but Peter isn’t that little. He’s ten or something; Tony isn’t good with ages.
The next time Tony goes to visit Peter, he brings a box full of gears and more mature toys for Peter.
Peter’s chewing on the rings of Saturn when Ben lets Tony in.
Tony makes a big show of the gears and the spider robot. It’s no Stark Expo, but he sells it with more energy than he puts into board meetings.
Only Peter goes right back to playing with his plastic gears and rattling science toys. He shoos the spider out of the way when it scurries towards him, and the spider scuttles sadly to the side while Peter inspects the box.
He doesn’t pay much attention to anything Tony brought.
“People would kill for my inventions.” Tony grumbles later to Bruce. “It’s not even hypothetical, and Peter couldn’t care less.”
“I believe this would fall under the Kids Prefer Boxes trope, sir.” Jarvis says.