Important: Okay, so, this is a college AU, but not exactly a normal one. This isn't much of a spoiler since it opens up with it, but the whole Tony-gets-kidnapped happens right before he went to college, which means his parents are still alive. The beginning has a weird amount of focus on that, I'll admit. And not all the Avengers are going to be the same age, so just so I don't get any PMs about where someone is, I'll just quick go over it now:

Steve: Howard's friend, married to Peggy (the poor guy deserves it), on-leave soldier

Bruce: MIT professor, dating Betty, friends with Howard

Clint & Natasha: Tony's friends, going into college

Thor & Loki: um, still trying to figure this one out, probably college students

Eventual pairing with either be Tony/Natasha or Tony/Clint...Give me your opinions. I'll make a tally.

Also, so ARC reactor in Tony's chest since there's no superhero aspect in it. And a sort of different coming home receptions since he's a minor with parents.

Anyway, disclaimer: don't own the characters.

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Waking Up

The first thing Tony became aware of was the talking. The angry talking.

"Doctor Yelin, really," said a familiar voice as he forced open his eyes. The room was bright—a hospital one, obvious—and he quickly shut them again. "It's been two days. I want to see him."

It took a moment, but suddenly the familiar voice clicked into place and he realized his dad was talking. His dad. They might not see each other a lot, but the fact that he needed to think about that for even a second was still enough to start the slow beginnings of a panic attack. Then another, definitely unfamiliar voice answered, "We don't know his mental state yet. It's not a good idea," and the anxiety stopped because it meant he was back, it worked, and that he must be really fucked up not have noticed it from the off-white hospital ceiling alone.

"He's my son. That has to mean something." He opened his eyes again, fighting through the pain of the brightness, and forced himself to sit up. His entire body protested, but he didn't care because by this point, he'd been through a lot worse than a sluggish mind and aching body. Through the thin slate of glass in the door, he can see two shadows. "Do you really think he'd rather wake up to a doctor he doesn't know?"

"Mr. Stark, he'll just be getting off of sedation. He might not even recognize you."

Though he sounded hoarse, and he wasn't very loud, he managed to force out, "Dad?"

The shadows stalled their movement and something was mumbled that he didn't hear well enough to understand before the door opened. His dad stood there, a scowling doctor behind him, and though there were about five people he should want to be with first thing after waking up more than the father he never sees, the relief that flooded through him was so strong that he could've cried. After the doctors told them they have fifteen minutes, his dad pulled up a chair and a heartbeat of silenced passed.

Then he said, "Hi," because geniuses weren't known for being particularly smart in the people department, and next thing he knew, he was wrapped up in the most awkwardly necessary hug of his life.

"I'm so sorry, Tony," his dad said, and though he was sure there had to be a reason for the apology, his brain still wasn't working right for him to figure it out. "You just—God, I can't even imagine, I was so scared—"

"Y-yeah," he answered, tripping over his words because he mouth was dry and he was having trouble doing anything normal. "H-how long was I g-gone, Dad?"

His dad was crying; his shoulders were shaking. Tony had never seen either of his parents cry before, even his mom after Grandma died. "Three months," his dad said, voice surprisingly even. "It's the middle of July. I found you two days ago."

The middle of July. Somehow, it felt longer and he thought it was a shorter. Apparently they vastly underestimated him—he could've made that weapon in a week, not three months, though he isn't complaining because that was the only thing that kept him alive. He pulled out of the hug, the uncomfortable way he was twisted becoming painful, and looked down at the coarse hospital blanket, playing with a loose string. Now that the thought of time span had entered his head, he really wanted to go home.

"Where's M-Mom?" he asked because after all the shit he went through, all wanted to do see his parents, even if logic told him that he was with his friends a thousand times more than he was with them so this made no sense.

His dad answered, "We aren't in America right now, Tony. You're at the nearest military base. What with the current situation here and all, both of us coming didn't seem like a good idea. Just in case something…happened."

Not in America. So he was safe but he wasn't home, and he should've known that because why would they fly him hours away with God knows how many injuries? Injuries. Oh, right. That was why his body hurt so bad. Internal damage inevitably, maybe even permanent to his lungs, knife marks, crude stitching—

He broke off the thought line there, not wanting the heart monitor's beep to speed up and give the doctor an excuse to come back in and shoo his dad away. Instead he said, "Okay. W-when can I go ho-home? Why ca-can't I th-think straight?"

"Hopefully tomorrow we'll be able to transfer you to an America hospital," he said. Without looking, he knew the crying had stopped. "Travelling will be hard, but I'm sure you just want to get back to New York, don't you?" He nodded, which made him feel lightheaded, but sitting up felt too good to lie back down again. "Thought so. And you woke up about twelve hours ago, so they gave you a sedative. The effects should be wearing off now."

"They f-fixed me, right?" he said and realized vaguely for the first time that he and his dad pronounced words the same way.

"Your chest?" Again, he nodded, though he actually meant his everything. "Yes. It'll bother you for a while, though. You're going to be subscribed Vicodin."

As someone who had been on Vicodin before, he wasn't looking forward to doing so again. His thoughts hit about as much blockage as it did now.

"D-Dad?" he said.

"Yeah, Tony?"

"I'm tired."

His dad stood. "I'll get the doctor," he said, leaning down and giving Tony a kiss on his head. "I'll come back when you wake up. I love you, Tony."

Though he was caught off guard, he answered, "I l-love you too, Dad."

Because at a moment like what, what else could he say?

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Two days later and he was back on American soil, half asleep and clinging to his dad's arm because even on a probably too-high dose of Vicodin for his body size, walking down stairs hurt like a bitch. Somehow, there wasn't the clicking of cameras everywhere but there was his mom, and she rushed forward before he could walk more than a foot on solid ground. His parents exchanged a look and rather than get enveloped in another hug, she moved some hair from his face.

"Oh, Tony," she said and her hand was shaking. "I'm so sorry I couldn't be there. Your father and I thought…Well, that's not important. You probably want to sit down."

He nodded, dazed and tired and a little lightheaded again. Probably because he'd barely eaten anything in a really long time and over the past couple of days, he couldn't even look at food without feeling a sick. Effects of the painkiller, he was guessing. For some reason he wanted to apologize for talking, but that took talking too, and he simply didn't have the energy for it.

His mom reached over to take his hand, which his remaining cognitive function told him he should mind but didn't anyway. Gently, he was lead to the awaiting car and slid into the middle seat next to her, in between his parents. After ten minutes of sitting silently, letting his mom ramble on uninterrupted about how she wishes she had been there earlier, how sorry she is, how much she loves him, his succumbed to the natural side effects of the medication, and fell asleep again, slumped against his dad's side.

Time passed, and he woke up to the sound of voices again, this time considerably closer, but he was still too exhausted to move or talk or open to his eyes. He was lying on something comfortable that he could only assume was his bed, and he could feel his mom's fingers running this through his hair, so he couldn't have been here long.

"They honestly put him on a dose that high?" she said. "What were they thinking? Especially since he—God, Howard, how much weight did he lose?"

"Eighteen pounds," his dad answered. "And I agree, but I can take him off it tomorrow. The lowered appetite is worse than the pain."

"Why didn't Obadiah tell us? And why didn't we—this is all our fault."

"I know, Maria. I know."

A short silence. Then, "He's fifteen, Howard. How's he going to recover this?"

His dad sighed. "A lot of therapy, and probably some medication, too." The fingers stopped, and her hand left his hair. "And I don't know how much that'll do. As if his anxiety wasn't enough."

His parents knew about that? Tony always assumed they were clueless. How much else did they know?

"He's supposed to go to school this September. Should we let him?"

"September is a month and a half away. I guess we'll figure it out when the time comes."

He opened his eyes finally, expecting darkness and instead finding sunlight pouring through his window. His body felt heavy and his brain wasn't working and he wondered why the hell people bothered doing drugs if this was the effect. He was lying on his side with the comforter pulled up to about his waist and the air conditioning was blasting. Since his mouth felt way too dry to talk and his mom's arm was right next to his hand, he tugged on the sleeve of her cardigan to get her attention.

She jumped and looked over, surprise on her face melting into relief. "Hey, sweetie," she said with a small smile. "Do you need anything?"

"Thirsty," he mumbled, now slurring rather than stuttering, feeling stupid that his verbal ability seemed to have been boiled down to the usage of a single word at a time.

His dad stood up, and though he lost sight of him for a moment, he heard the sound of the mini-fridge on the other side of the room being opened. "How're you feeling?" his mom asked as he struggled to sit up because drinking while lying down never turned out well. An open water bottle was placed in his hand (he knew he had those in there for a reason) and after the first sip, he already felt better, even if his throat apparently still hated him.

"Better," he answered, trying to clear his head and failing. Roughly a year ago he was on the same thing for a broken wrist, but it hadn't been this bad.

"That's good," she said, and his dad took a seat next her. For someone who barely slept, this utter exhaustion was possibly harder to deal with than anything else. "Are you hungry?"

Oh God, food. Even if he knew the curbed appetite was a side effect of the medication and that his body needed nutrients to function, he couldn't stand the thought of eating and shook his head.

"Does anywhere hurt?" his dad asked. Again, Tony shook his head. "Good to hear. Do you want to go back to sleep?"

Yeah, he thought, yeah, he does. Unfortunately, this would probably cover his sleeping quota for the rest of the year, but maybe that could be a good thing. At the moment the medication was probably blocking out nightmares, but that wouldn't last forever.

"I'll hurt tomorrow, won't it?" he said, rubbing his eye.

"Yes," his mom answered. "But you'll be able to eat and move around, too."

"Okay." It was a lame response but he didn't care, and took another sip of water. "Do I really have to go to therapy?"

"You were awake for that?" his dad said as he put the water bottle on the end table. "Well, yes, but we'll talk about that…later."

"You mean when I can think?"

"That's right."

"Can I go back to sleep?"

His mom smiled at him, and said, "Of course, honey. One of us will check in on you in a few hours, okay?"

He lay back down without answering, because even three minutes of talking was too much effort, and pulled up the comforter. By this point he was very used to heat and though the air conditioning was most likely set for around seventy, it felt freezing. Heat rises, but getting stuck in a desert cave with a fire going most of the time was on average around a hundred degrees already. Almost immediately he started falling back to sleep, and one of his parents kissed his forehead again before they left.

The door clicked shut behind them.

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Though his body was on fire from recovering gunshot wounds, knife marks, and internal scarring from once badly removed shrapnel and repeated drowning, he managed to pull himself out of his bed and out into the living room, where he found his dad sitting in an armchair reading.

"I'm hungry," he said as his dad looked up, putting the book down on the coffee table. "Where's Mom?"

"In the kitchen," he answered, and stood. Tony slumped against the doorframe, trying not to show how out of breath he was from that short trip. Survival instinct and a project kept him going for the past three months, but after nearly dying during an escape attempt, losing his friend, going through hours of surgery, and being put on and off painkillers, he couldn't quite do it anymore. Finally, he was home and it just didn't seem worth it anymore. "Sit over here. I'll tell her to make you something."

He nodded and forced himself to move again long enough to flop on the couch, feeling more useless than he ever had in his life. His dad disappeared into the kitchen and a moment later came back. "She said she'll make you scrambled eggs," he said, and resumed his position on the armchair. "You don't have to eat all of it."

Scrambled eggs wasn't something Tony normally had. Like his dad, he couldn't cook for shit even if he could read a recipe fine and measure better than most professionals. Somehow, he always managed to screw up and usually just lived off microwaveable food.

"Okay," he said, trying to ignore how difficult breathing was and wondering if that doctor on the military base screwed up somehow and left some type of medical equipment inside of him. Stuff like that happened all the time. "Hey, Dad?"

"Hm?"

"How widely publicized was this?"

Before his dad can answer, his mom came in, carrying a plate of scrambled eggs in one hand and a glass of water in the other, putting them in front of him on the coffee table. As he gave the instinctive, "Thank you," his father said, "Not as much as you'd expect since you're a minor. We knew you weren't in America, so we could avoid Amber Alert, but Natasha and Clint do, and the Rodgers know by default, as well as Rhodey and Obadiah."

As long as the entire world didn't know, he was fine with anything. The last thing he needed was to finally get healthy and then stared at whenever he felt like leaving his house. "Okay," he repeated and picked up the plate and fork. Now that the thought of eating didn't make him sick, actual food tasted amazing.

"Tony," his mom asked as she sat down next to him, "are there any foods I should avoid for a while?"

"Crackers and green beans," he answered without having to think about it. After a moment of hesitation, he added, "Can I go use my lab? I came up with an idea for something."

His dad smiled with something that looked like affection and said, "Just keep the door open and stay seated as much as you can, okay?"

He nodded and stood, steadying him quickly before he could fall backwards like an idiot and shoot his chances of being able to leave. For the past three months he'd been working on the idea, but since his sample ran out of battery, he'd have to make it from scratch, though with actual lab equipment that wasn't saying much. Then he made his way along, using the wall as support once he was out of eyeshot, and reached the room in twice the amount of time as it should have.

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If you don't find this so incredibly strange that you couldn't like it, review please. They're good motivators. ^^