Part I

Chapter 1

God, Tony was going to be sick.

There was no way in hell that he was going to make it to the bathroom, on the other side of the ballroom, without making a scene. If that happened, it meant that he would be forced to hurl all over his mother's Victorian Era Axminster carpet and ruin this entire goddamned party, which was supposedly for him. And the moment he ruined the party, his mother would jut her chin out and sniff, giving him the look, which in no uncertain terms meant 'how could you possibly be so thoughtless as to embarrass me?' or even 'how are you my son?'

The look hurt, to say the least.

And, of course, as soon as his mother gave him the look, she usually followed it with polishing off the rest of her glass of wine before hunting down another. At the same time, his father would make an excuse to his guests, laughing heartily to downplay the scene like the suave businessman he was, to get him alone. Then Tony would be well and truly fucked.

A sudden hand on his shoulder had Tony biting down on his tongue to keep from yelping in surprise. He turned around slowly, putting his brilliant mind to work in an attempt to dispel the rising nausea that threatened to crawl up his throat.

"Anthony, my boy!" Obadiah Stane, Obie - his father's CFO and Tony's godfather, tightened his white-knuckled grip that would undoubtedly leave a bruise and greeted Tony with a hungry look and a wide grin that contained far too many teeth. His tailored suit clung to the weight around his gut. He'd been indulging far too often over the past year. "Happy birthday, Son. Fifteen, that's a fine age. You'll be stepping into Howard's shoes in no time at all," he shot him a wink that did nothing to help the gurgling in Tony's stomach. "And I must say, your father truly outdid himself this year. It's an excellent celebration, don't you think?"

Tony nodded with a slight jerk of his head and plastered a weak smile on his face. "It is; he was very generous to host it here at the manor."

Which was complete and utter bullshit, of course, but Obie didn't need to know that. This party, with its high ceilings and intricately carved statues, might have fallen on Tony's fifteenth birthday, and might have been marketed as such, but it was really just an excuse for Howard to get dressed up and shmooze all of the potential SI clients that were dragging their feet on signing their contracts before the next fiscal quarter. He hadn't even been allowed to invite a single one of his friends.

Not that he had that many to begin with, but still.

So yeah, bullshit.

He hadn't even wanted a party. When his mother asked him-in what Tony assumed was boredom, or perhaps a sense of propriety-what he wanted for his birthday, it was during one of the rare occasions where both of his parents were home during a meal. Tony had simply sucked in a sharp breath in preparation and then replied that he would like to enter his robot into the competition down in Brooklyn. Howard, to absolutely no one's surprise, had snorted in derision.

"Please, as if anything you built could possibly hold its weight in a competition. Don't be ridiculous, Anthony; you'll be here, entertaining your guests."

Which - ow.

Tony was fully aware of how his father saw him, thank you very much. Irresponsible. Slow. Trouble. Less-than.

It sure as hell didn't stop him from stealing Tony's designs and presenting them to his board at Stark Industries as his own, though.

Of course not.

When your only son and heir comes to you at four years old, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, presenting a fully functioning circuit board in hopes of making his father proud, the logical thing is to crush it with the boot of your cane and shove it into the fire so that he's so desperate to please you for the next ten years that he spends all of his time designing weapons for the largest weapons manufacturer in the world.

Obviously.

So instead of taking his robot down to Brooklyn for the competition that started in an hour, Tony was here, at the manor, stuffed into a tux that made him internally beg for fresh air, surrounded by fifty guests who didn't give a damn about him, pretending to be grateful for their presence at a party he didn't even want.

Hence the nausea.

"Anthony?"

Obie caught Tony's attention, snapping him back into reality. He blinked a few times to clear his head of the sudden dizziness and looked back up at his godfather. "Sorry about that; what did you say?"

The older man narrowed his eyes as he examined Tony's pale face that held a bead of sweat gathering at the temples. "Are you feeling okay, my boy?"

Tony swallowed and glanced around nervously. "I'm fine, thank you," he bit out as politely as he could. The fear of having his father bear witness to his weakness was unthinkable, and Tony cursed his body for being unable to get better. What was the point of being a genius with an IQ of 225 if you couldn't even control your own body?

Obie hummed thoughtfully. "Why don't you head up to your room and rest? I'll talk to Howard."

"What?" Tony asked incredulously before covering up the sudden urge to cough into his sleeve. "You'd do that?"

His godfather threw back his head and laughed, the sound booming across the ballroom, causing Tony to wince at the pounding in his head it caused. "Of course, I've got to take care of the golden goose, don't I?"

Tony's eyes widened as his head snapped up to look at Obie in disbelief. "You…what…"

Obie snorted, flapping his hand. "Come now, Anthony. I know where your father has been getting his best ideas from these past few years. Did you think I was unaware of your contributions to SI?"

"Well," Tony hedged, proceeding with caution because he had no idea where this conversation was going or how they even got to this point. "My father never said…"

Obie shook his head and gripped his shoulder too-tight once again. "No, he didn't. He wanted to keep everything quiet for now, and I agree with him. But for now, you're clearly coming down with something, and the best thing for you to do is go upstairs and get some rest.

Unless you'd rather stay down here and mingle with women who want to eat you alive and men five times your age?"

Tony swallowed thickly around a sudden lump in his throat. "Er, no. T-thank you, Obie. I really appreciate it." His voice cracked with sheer relief as he spun on his heel and forced himself to slow down so as not to draw attention to his departure. He successfully slid out one of the side doors and made it up the hidden staff staircase to the second floor.

Once safely tucked away in his room, Tony yanked his tie loose and shucked his jacket, stumbling towards his bathroom. The gold plating around the mirror washed him out, reflecting a thin teenage boy with pale, flushed skin and sweat stains ringing his underarms.

Shit, okay.

So maybe he was actually sick and not just physically manifesting his resentment of his father. Although, to be honest, he wasn't sure which was worse.

He barely made it to the toilet before his knees gave out on him, crashing to the tiled floor with a painful crack and upheaving everything he'd eaten in the last twenty-four hours. Which admittedly wasn't much, considering how shitty he'd been feeling, but mixed in with his stomach bile, was still wholly unpleasant. Tony blindly reached for one of the washcloths stashed near the sink and managed to wipe his face, shuddering as he leaned back against the clawfoot tub.

He barely had time to close his eyes before his bedroom door was thrown open, snapping against the doorstop harshly as his father stormed into the room. Tony couldn't help it; he visibly flinched when Howard appeared in the bathroom's doorway, looming menacingly with narrowed eyes and a tight grip on his cane.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?"

Tony's breath started coming in faster as his heart rate skyrocketed. Shitshitshit. "I-I think I'm sick," he stuttered out. "Obie said it was fine -"

Howard's cruel sneer cut him off. "Oh, Stane said it was fine, did he? And tell me, Anthony, is he your father?"

Tony shook his head slowly, curling into himself to make himself a smaller target. He knew where this was going. He recognized the look in his father's eyes. Even if Howard hadn't been drinking, he despised the idea of Tony taking orders from anyone that wasn't him.

"Answer me, boy!" He snapped.

"No!" Tony ground out through clenched teeth. "No, he's not my father."

"That's right, I am. And I'm the only one that can dismiss you from an important event. And did I dismiss you?"

"No. I'm sorry, I -"

"Don't talk back to me!" Howard roared, whacking his cane against Tony's bicep and cutting through his damp white shirt, causing him to cry out and clutch at the bleeding wound.

Tony cursed himself for not holding a sound back because he knew, he fucking knew, his father reviled weakness. The more he complained, the more vicious Howard would be.

And more vicious he was.

For the next twenty minutes, Howard took out his alcohol-induced rage on Tony, who fought hard not to react more than his base instincts would allow. The cane, the damn cane, was careful not to hit anything that could show in public or be caught by paparazzi, so his biceps, back, chest, and the tops of his thighs were thoroughly assaulted until Tony was sobbing, curled up bleeding and aching on the bathroom floor.

Finally, Howard pulled back, his chest heaving heavily as he caught his breath. "Listen to me, Anthony. I am your father, and you will not disobey me again. I will go downstairs and make excuses for your brief absence. You will clean yourself up and come back downstairs in an hour, and then you'll do what you're told and help me close these deals. Do you understand?"

Tony's hand trembled as he wiped it across his face, pushing away the tears that had escaped during his punishment. "Y-yes."

"Yes, what?" Howard asked darkly.

"Yes, sir."

Howard hummed, seemingly mollified for now. He turned to walk out before pausing and looking back over his shoulder to examine Tony's limp form. He sneered, tossing his cane down by Tony's feet. "Use this to pick yourself up. Pathetic."

And then he was gone, and Tony held everything in for three more heartbeats before letting the dam break. Finally, he whimpered, crawling back to the toilet and vomiting again, crying into the bowl with his face a wet mess of snot and tears. God, he hated his father. He hated everything about him. Howard was a monster, and all Tony had wanted to do tonight was to show off his damn robot.

The door creaked again, and Tony's head snapped up again, choking in fear that Howard had returned and felt a rush of dizziness and relief when he saw it was only Jarvis.

His family's butler had been the one to care for him growing up, rather than either one of his parents. His calm demeanor and soothing British accent had helped monumentally after every fight or argument, and Tony had learned more about first aid than most kids his age.

"Oh, Tony," Jarvis sighed, his expression pinched. He carefully helped him up, closing the toilet lid and sitting him on top of it. He didn't apologize because what could he say? 'I'm sorry, I won't let this happen again?' They both knew that was bullshit because Jarvis was powerless in the Stark household, as painful as it was. His word wouldn't carry much weight, even if he went to the police. Howard was such an influential man that there was no doubt in Tony's mind that every piece of evidence would be swept under the rug and the report shredded.

So all Jarvis could do was help Tony out of his shirt, unbutton it slowly so as not to make matters worse, and carefully clean off the blood and apply antibacterial cream to the shallow cuts. He explained what he was doing, outlining the process so that Tony would have something to focus on besides the pain. Finally, he bandaged him up and helped him into the bedroom after a quick brush of his teeth and shook out a few pills into Tony's open palm.

"For the pain," Jarvis told him softly. "And for your cold. I heard you vomiting earlier, and you have a slight fever."

Tony cast his eyes down, flinching again when he caught sight of his father's cane that somehow made it into the bedroom with them.

God, he despised that thing. It had been a gift from a Russian diplomat before Tony was even born, and his father loved it more than he could ever love Tony. It was ebony black, sleek and smooth, with an iron head carved into the shape of a lion. It was everything the family line was meant to represent, according to Howard.

"Stark men are made of iron."

"Stark men are fierce and strong, apex predators of the business world."

"Stark men are brilliant and quick, proud and protective."

Tony thought it was all bullshit, and it only made him hate the damn cane even more.

"Soon, you'll be able to leave this place," Jarvis assured him. "At eighteen, you will be free."

"I want to be free now," Tony whispered.

Jarvis made a sound in the back of his throat. "I know. But -"

A sudden idea popped into his head as the medicine kicked in, and the pain began to recede. Why couldn't he leave? Nothing was stopping him. He didn't have to put up with this any longer. It was still his birthday, and he'd wanted to enter his robot into the competition, didn't he? After what Howard did, Tony thought he deserved something nice. So, why not just do it?

"I want to be free now," Tony repeated, this time with more force.

Jarvis blinked at him in surprise, then frowned. "Master Tony, I don't know what -"

Tony pushed himself off the bed, rushing to his closet to take out a backpack. His mind whirred with possibilities as he shoved some clothes, including pants, socks, underwear, and shirts, into the bag, then hurried over to the bathroom to throw in his toiletries too.

"Master Tony, you can't -"

Tony spun around with wide eyes as he looked towards the only man who treated him like an actual person. "Jarvis, please. I can't stay here for even a moment longer. I hate this place; I hate everything about it. I don't belong here. I have to get out right now! Please!"

"But your father -"

"My father gave me an hour head start," Tony argued, carefully wrapping his robot in between several layers of clothing and zipping up the bag before changing his pants and throwing on a clean shirt. "He's distracted, and he won't want to make a scene when he finds out that I've gone. So you have to stall him for me."

Tony eyed the cane once again, a symbol of his father's power and the bane of Tony's existence. It didn't take long to decide that it was going with him.

Howard could go fuck himself.

"But where will you go?"

Tony paused as he tugged on the straps, wincing in pain as the weight stung his wounds. Finally, he turned around and crossed the space between him and Jarvis in three tilted strides, throwing his arms around his friend. Tony pulled back after a few moments, aware of the countdown clock nestled within his mind. He didn't have long if he was going to catch the bus out of town. The emergency stash of cash he'd been putting aside would sustain him for a few weeks at most, and then after that, Tony would need to find another source of income.

But first thing's first, he had a competition to get to.

"Brooklyn."

XX