A/N: Please be advised, for the technology in this chapter, I quite literally put together very big words and made up pieces of technology that quite literally don't exist, so…sorry, for all you science buffs.

Also: trigger warning for past child abuse

I'm standing very still, staring at the frosted glass doorway that leads to Tony Stark's personal lab, and I'm very nervous.

Do I…knock? Is there a secret keypad, or something, or should I ask FRIDAY? Is there some badass passcode I should know? Or, like, a hand sign? Wait, no, this is getting way out of hand. Tony Stark wouldn't have a secret hand sign for his lab door.

Wait, would he? Somehow it kind of feels like he would. But that's stupid.

"Um…FRIDAY?" I say quietly, glancing at the ceiling. "I, um…how do I…?"

"Sorry about that, Peter. Boss was distracting me. Come in."

There's a hiss of air release as the door slides open, and I jump at the sound before stepping carefully through. As soon as I'm past the threshold, I'm frozen, looking around at all the cluttered workbenches, the half-built contraptions and armors, the utter insanity of this futuristic bubble of scientific hyper-evolution.

"Holy shit," I mutter, eyes blown wide as I scan the lab.

"Language," a voice says to my left, and I jump before whipping around to see Tony Stark slide out from under an engine as big as me, grease on his forehead and neck, black streaks on his bare arms. "Aw, shit, I sound like Cap. Um…cuss as much as you want."

I blink at him as he rights himself, haphazardly wiping an elbow on his shirt in an effort to dispel some of the hot mess that is his entire person, but it makes it a little worse, somehow. "Sorry. Kinda in the middle of something. Figured you'd like to look around."

I can't speak to answer, but Tony doesn't seem to mind. He waves me over to a workbench, and I follow with stilted steps, nearly tripping over myself as my brain works overtime, trying to absorb everything at once.

"You like science, right?" Tony asks, plowing on even before I nod. "Good, good. Figured you might be interested in a project I'm working on. Take a look."

I do, excitement buzzing in my fingertips as I peer at the sophisticated contraption on the bench, surrounded by abandoned screws and tools. It's really awesome, and I look at it from every angle, my brain running calculations and categorizing parts before I finally realize what it is.

"Oh my God, is this a micro-engine made entirely of artificially intelligent nanotechnology? The kind people are experimenting with to power flying cars and to lighten commercial airliners?" I ask in awe, tempted to reach out in touch it, but wary of the delicate structure.

Tony Stark blinks. "Excuse me?"

I glance at him belatedly, realizing I've migrated to the other side of the table to get a better angle, eyes wide. He is staring at me like I've grown another head, and I wonder if I've made a fool of myself, shrinking a little. "Um…am I…was I wrong?"

"No. No, you were spot fucking on. What—how old are you?"

"…fifteen," I answer hesitantly.

Tony stares, and blinks again, and I begin to squirm under the weight of his gaze. "I…um…"

"Okay, what's this?" Tony asks, pointing at another half-built contraption on a nearby folding table.

Skirting around the original device, I approach the table, fiddling with the long sleeves of Bruce's shirt, and stare for the moment. The way the screws are lined up, the way the carburetor is angled with the fuselage so close to the exhaust channel…

"No way," I breathe, leaning on the table to peer closer into the half-constructed masterpiece. "Is this part of an Artificial Intelligence satellite resistant to gravity? The kind scientists are working on to instantaneously pick up radiation waves from nuclear fission from galaxies away? I thought that was all still theoretical! I mean, I haven't really looked into thermonuclear astrophysics in a while, but I thought this was years away!"

I circle the table with all the reverence I can, careful not to misalign the table—it looks really delicate, half-constructed, and I don't want to risk knocking anything out of place, but I want to look at the motherboard and the circuit breakers, because they must be masterpieces—

"This is not allowed," Tony says suddenly, and I turn, quickly taking in the scarily blank expression on his face. "You aren't supposed to be this smart without me hearing about it. I know all the geniuses in the Northeast and in California, plus a few areas in Europe and the Midwest, and I don't know you. Where've you been hiding?"

I stare at him, mind running a little to try to come up with something. "Um…Queens?"

Tony's eyebrow rises. "No, because I've got a file full of high schoolers with genius level intellect from New York, including Queens, and you're nowhere on that list."

Oh.

Something in me sags, too heavy and too dark, and I look down. "I'm not…good at school." I was, admittedly, but I'm not nowadays.

There's silence for a long few seconds, only the static whirring of machinery in the background, while I shift awkwardly under the weight of Tony's stare. It's more intense than I thought it would be—he makes eye contact with a lot of his photos in the tabloids, during interviews, but there's something inexplicably knowing about his extended gaze in the same room.

"Do you not apply yourself, or are you trying to avoid attention?"

I flinch at the suddenness of his voice, ducking my head further.

I hate this. I hate this feeling of inadequacy that eats away at my bones as I admit to my idol that I'm far too tired and stressed to do well in school. "I'm not, uh…I just sleep in class a lot, I guess. A-and…I don't really study if I'm not interested in it."

"Ah," he says, like that was all he needed to hear. "Yeah, I hear that. I bombed Art class in grade-school cause I never did any work, then my dad paid the teacher to let me submit my mechanics and architecture sketches as projects and I got an A. All about perspective, kid."

I blink, finally raising my head and suppressing the feeling of dread and the anticipation of disappointment as Tony nonchalantly returns to work, sitting on the scooter that rolls him under the car.

"Hey, hand me a socket wrench while you're up there," he says, voice muffled by the car.

I jump, then rush to do so, tripping over the leg of a workbench on the way there. "Sorry, uh, I'm so sorry," I mutter as I rifle through the toolbox until I find the socket wrench with shaking fingers, thrusting it under the car…

…and directly into Tony Stark's ribs.

Tony lets out a whoosh of shocked air, grunting, and I freeze, dropping the wrench with a clang.

"Ow," Tony says, rolling out from beneath the car, holding his side with his right hand as he wheels out from beneath the car, cheeks hollowed out as he sucks on air, face pinched in pain. "Damn, you pack a punch for a scrawny kid. You could probably give Steve a run for his money—"

His face goes uncharacteristically blank when his eyes meet mine, but I barely notice.

I'm breathing I'm sorry as quietly as quickly as I can, over and over, and I can feel myself inching backwards in a stilted, creaky crab walk away from him, but I can barely see him. The edges of my vision are darkening with panic and fear.

"Get me a fucking beer, Peter," Jacob shouts from the living room. I hear him from my room, I know that both he and Melissa are closer to the fridge than I am, but I also know that means nothing. I sigh from where I'm curled up on the bed scrolling through pictures, rolling onto my feet.

I pad quietly past the living room and through to the kitchen, catching a glimpse of the dark living room flecked by staticky light from the older-than-dirt TV. Melissa is high as a kite, blissed out on the blunt dangling from her fingers as she stares at the ceiling, and Jacob is buzzed, four empty beer bottles beside his chair. I get to the fridge and find a beer at the back, behind a questionable box of takeout and a molding orange.

"Took you long enough," he says as I appear in the doorway, biting my tongue as I cross the room to bring it to him.

I don't see the fifth bottle, which had, I guess, fallen and rolled to just behind the arm of the couch, and right in my path, at some point.

I trip, and it's so jarring that even the tiny modicum of control I have over my new powers isn't enough to stop me, and I fall right into Jacob in his recliner, the beer bottle smashing into his ribcage bottom first. It's durable, so it doesn't break, but I see the way his face contorts in pain and anger and surprise.

"I'm sorry," I say immediately, scrambling off of him, but unable to stand, because my legs are shaking and suddenly he's towering over me, and his belt is coming off, and Melissa just slides cool dead eyes over to watch as he starts to scream and I cover my head but it's not enough and all I can say is I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm—

"—sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I'm—"

"Peter, Peter, Christ, kid, it's okay, I need you to shut up and breathe—"

He drops a hand on my shoulder and I convulse, then go absolutely still with my eyes squeezed shut, waiting on a hit that never comes.

After a long second, I blink my eyes open, staring at Tony Stark's knees where he kneels in front of me.

"Oh, hi, Peter, nice of you to rejoin the land of the living. Are you breathing? Cause if it's a yes, that's great, because you need that. Capiche? We breathing?" I barely understand some of his words, rushed and tense beneath the light tone, but I nod anyways, not daring to look at him just yet. "Oh, good. Okay. Good. You don't have to apologize, kid, I'm Iron Man. I've been blown up a lot of times. A little wrench to the ribs is no biggie. No harm, no foul."

His hand is still on my shoulder, steady, but it's hard to focus when I know I'm within hitting distance. I swallow, not looking. "Can you—can you—please, uh, let go?"

His hand disappears like he's been struck by lightning, and I'm already breathing easier. "Oh, sure. Didn't realize it was still there."

I exhale, shakily, and shake my head. "No, I'm—I know you said, uh, but I'm really sorry, I didn't mean to—"

"I know, kid, it's fine. Mistakes happen. I can tell you about the time I accidentally stabbed Clint with his own arrow, if it'll make you feel better."

I feel my eyes widen, but I still don't look up. "N…no, that's okay…"

A beat of silence. "Look, I know I'm not twenty anymore, but I didn't think I was this hard to look at."

I flinch, feeling my shoulders hunch. "It's not—uh—you're not—"

"Okay, okay. I'm gonna sit right here—" He makes a show of sitting cross-legged ten feet in front of me, exaggerated enough that I can see it from my periphery— "until you're ready to…I don't know. Move, or something. Or talk. Whatever. And if you want me to call Sam so you can have another heart to heart, I can do that, too. Just tell me what you need."

I breathe, long and slow, feeling the shaking ebb slightly. If he was going to hurt me, he would have already, and I know that, but all I can see it Jacob towering over me. "I—uh—can I just have a minute?"

"Yep. Have all the minutes you want."

And I do.

Tony, true to his word, sits in the same place the whole time, but after a few of me just breathing and calming myself down, he starts working. He's waving his hands in the air, tapping things that aren't there, but he has these strange blue-light glasses on, and I wonder if it's creating a screen with which he can interact in the air.

That's so cool.

I watch him for another minute or so, just letting myself be intrigued by the high-tech glasses and what must be happening on their holographic screens right now, before I sit up slowly. My hands are numb from the way my wrists have been bent, and my back creaks, but I don't rise just yet.

Tony sees me move in his periphery, and I hesitantly meet his eyes, tinted by the glasses. "Good?"

I nod once, and look down.

"Okay. Cool. So—what did I do wrong?"

My head snaps up, my eyes widening. He's looking at me intently, quietly, and beneath his carefree words is an undeniable current of concern.

"Oh, no, Mr.—Tony, you didn't do anything wrong!" I'm quick to assure, waving my hands in front of me as if to ward the very idea away from both of us. "No, no, definitely not your fault, I just—uh—"

How do I say this? I didn't tell Sam about the…the situation, and I don't want to tell Tony either, and I quite obviously freaked out just now, and—

"I just…I guess…I was worried I had hurt you?" I finish lamely, sounding like I don't even believe myself. I groan internally.

I'm so bad at this.

Tony obviously doesn't believe me either. "Beep. Wrong answer."

I swallow again, shrugging and picking at the hem of the shirt. "I just—I—"

"You looked like you thought I was gonna hurt you," Tony says abruptly, and I flinch, going very still.

"Is someone hurting you, Pete?"

Pete. I haven't been called Pete in—in a long time. He'd called me that before, too.

How do I answer this?

I can't say yes, because then he'll want to know who, and how, and for how long, and why, and—and I can't. I don't have a good reason for why I can't, other than ingrained obedience and secrecy, but I can't.

I can't say no, because something about the eyes boring into me—the ones that are so different from the suave, intelligent hot topic on magazine covers—won't let me. Simply won't let me lie.

I can't stay silent forever.

I shrug.

Tony's eyes narrow, and there's something dangerous there. "You don't want to say?"

Hesitantly, I shrug again.

I can practically see the steam coming out of his ears.

Still, he takes a deep breath, collecting himself, and simply sighs. "I'm taking that as a yes."

Almost immediately, I panic.

"No, it's not—it's not what you think, it's not that, I—" I'm scrambling, desperate to redirect his thoughts, to strangle any action before it can be taken, because—because if he gets involved, I'm dead. I can't stay here, I know I can't stay here, so even if he somehow finds out about Melissa and Jacob and arrests them or something, their Oscorp friend still knows about me. They have my information, I'm sure, and I know either of them wouldn't hesitate to sell me out for petty revenge or money or connections, whatever was offered.

And once they're in jail, I'm sure the Avengers will have no more connections to me or my future, and once they're gone, Oscorp will make me disappear, and no one will ever know. No one will ever know, and I'll live the rest of my life as an experiment until they kill me or worse.

"I think it's exactly what I think," he says dubiously, but he makes no move to stand. "I tend to think very intelligent and often correct things."

"It's not," I defend, and I can hear the desperation in my own voice. "It's definitely not. It's not—uh—not bad, or anything. I get into—into fights a lot—"

"No, you don't. You're just lying now."

I flinch and shrink, because he's right, but he's wrong, but he's right, but I don't have a choice.

Tony doesn't say anything for a long time, then sighs. "What high school do you go to?"

I blink, surprised by the change of topic. "What?"

"What's the name of the building you're kept prisoner in for seven to eight hours a day with a bunch of other sweaty teenagers?"

I feel myself blush a little, stammering, "U-uh…it's, uh, Echols. Echols High."

"Echols?" He confirms, adjusting his holographic glasses, jabbing again at the air in front of him. He only takes a few seconds before his eyes narrow and he flicks his gaze to me. "You do pretty well on tests and quizzes. You have a bunch of zeros for assignments, though. If you did your work, based on the averages of your classmates, you'd have one of the highest GPAs in the school."

Ashamed, I lower my eyes.

"So why don't you do your work, again?"

"Just…don't want to."

"Uh-huh. Your records at this school only extend back a few months."

I shrink again. "I transferred from, uh, Midtown. Midtown Tech. When I changed homes."

"Mm-hm," he says thoughtfully, tapping the air with careful precision. His eyes widen a fraction. "Ah. This was on my radar. I do know you. Your file disappeared when your grades tanked."

I blink.

Tony Stark has—had—a file on me?

That's sick.

"So you're a smart creature," he summarizes, closing his hand and moving it to the side, then taking off his glasses; I suppose he's closed whatever screen he was on. "Smarter than your munchkin counterparts. Would you believe you?"

"…no, but that…" I start, and stop, still shaking under the weight of his gaze and this secret, so, so heavy, and I shake my head when words eventually fail me. "It's not…what you think."

It's exactly what you think, and it's crushing me.

"No one's hurting me, Mr. Stark."

Every time I turn around, someone wants to hurt me, and I can't do this for much longer.

"The…the rooftop, the panicking, it was…it's all a…a mistake. Just…it's fine. I'm fine."

I'm drowning, Mr. Stark.

And if I am ever honest with myself, if I ever decide to examine a shred of my inmost wants and desires, I'll remember thinking that I don't know if I want him to believe me or not.

I stare at a point over his shoulder as he stares at me, long and hard and unwavering and how does anyone fight against Iron Man when his gaze is just that, iron, but he sighs.

"I don't believe you," he says, "but I won't…push you. For now. Okay?"

I let out the smallest, tiniest sigh of relief, at the same time that something broken in me fractures the slightest bit more.

"Peter," he says quietly, and it's enough to make me look at him properly. His eyes are-they're something like sad, and it hurts to see. "If someone is hurting you…it's wrong. And I can try to make it stop."

He could. He could.

He was Iron Man, and he saved people, and he could.

But not me.

I shake my head. "I'm okay. But thank you for saying that."

He nods once, and I might be imagining it, but his jaw clenches. "Right. Okay. Well…you can…keep looking around, if you want. Or go…rest? I don't know, what do you want to do?"

It's not a lie when I say, "I want to keep looking around. This place is awesome."

Mr. Stark finally smiles. "Good. Look as much as you want." He rolls himself back under the car, socket wrench in hand, and says, "And it's Tony, Pete."

I cringe. I called him Mr. Stark earlier, didn't I? "Sorry, Tony."

"Whatever. Just tell me I'm old, it'll hurt less."

I'm surprised when I laugh a little at the petulance in his voice, and I continue to walk around the lab, quickly enthralled by everything I see.

Mr. Stark—the Avengers—can't save me. I know they can't, because I won't ask them too, and I'm too scared of the consequences to try to save myself. I'm not…I think I'm beyond saving.

But these few days of peace, this genuine concern and care, these people…I can't say I'm not glad they saved me from that rooftop, if only to create these good memories to carry into whatever comes next.

I don't know what it'll be, but I can hope it'll be better with this kindness.

A/N: I'm not dead lol. Sorry

Thanks if you're coming back to read. Love y'all