I wrote this while dead exhausted. I graduated yesterday, then spent the night in the city where I didn't get more than an hour of sleep. But on the bright side, I'm officially no longer a high school student! I am free forever now!

Disclaimer: don't own the characters.

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Perceptional Differences

Despite creating and preferring technology to most other things, Tony had always liked actual books rather something like a Kindle or a Nook. He liked fiction, too, which surprised most people, as long as he avoided anything involving a scientific future. So this was why on Wednesday, three days after class started and his mind was a blank slate of ideas, he found himself rereading some of the Adventures of Sherlock Holmes, half-asleep but not tired enough to go to bed.

It was four in the afternoon, and he assumed he was home alone. So it was pretty surprising when Clint opened the door without a knock, a phone pressed to his ear. "He's right here, Mrs. Stark," he said, obvious relief flooding his face when he caught sight of Tony on the bed. "Hold on, he's sleeping, I'll wake him up."

He pressed his phone against his shoulder as he sat down, and said, "Why didn't you pick up your phone, Tony?"

"My—wait, what?" He twisted around and grabbed his phone from the end table, only to find it shut off, which meant not even JARVIS could pick up on it. "Well, fuck."

Clint rolled his eyes and shoved his phone into his hand. Tony pressed it to his ear and said, "Sorry, Mom," making himself sound as sleepy as possible. "Fell asleep."

As his friend went to stand, Tony grabbed his sleeve to keep him in place, remembering that he wanted to talk to him. "I'm sorry for waking you, Tony," his mom said apologetically. "It's just that—well, you know, first call and all. It's good that you're sleeping."

Except that he wasn't sleeping, and since he moved in a week ago, he'd crashed for maybe four hours in total. "Yeah," he said, and sat up so he was next to Clint. "You know, long day with classes and all."

"How are they? Are you getting to them okay?"

He glanced over to his friend, trying to think of a way out of this conversation because he sucked at talking to anyone who wasn't Clint or Natasha over the phone. There was a reason he usually kept to texting. Then again, he never needed to do anything but send the occasional text before. "Yeah," he answered. "I don't get winded anymore."

"That's good. Bruce told your dad that he walked you to Dr. Erskine's the other day. How was it?"

"The appointment? It was good. First meeting stuff you know." He faked a yawn. "Hey, Mom, I'll call you or Dad later. I want to go back to sleep."

"Oh! Of course, sweetie," she said. "I love you."

He said, "I love you too, Mom. Bye," and hung up, handing the phone back to Clint. "Thanks. I don't know what happened."

Slipping it back into his pocket, his friend said, "Your parents are still pretty paranoid."

"They don't have to be," he answered, and for the first time said very bluntly, "Everyone's dead."

If Clint was surprised, he did a good job not showing it. He hadn't told that to anyone yet. "I don't think that really matters," he said. "Honestly, Natasha and I are pretty worried too. Might not be logical, but this is our own version of the aftermath."

Tony looked down at the floor, away, and he couldn't remember what he wanted to talk to his friend about in the first place. "I guess," he said dully. "I mean, I get that you guys are freaked out, but I just don't want to think about it anymore."

"You have PTSD," Clint said. "Unfortunately for you, I don't think that's happening any time soon, even with meds. You're going to hate me for saying this, but I think throwing yourself in a new environment probably doesn't help."

Don't cry, he told himself because he could feel the pressure building, but he hadn't even broken down when he woke up in the military base hospital and he refused to let himself have a delayed reaction now. It just hurt like hell hearing it from anyone other than a psychiatrist sitting on the other side of a desk with folded arms and too exhausted to care about the individual anymore. Being told by a friend was completely different and a million times worse.

"I think the flashbacks would go away on their own if people didn't keep bring it up," he said, feeling stupid and awkward and even though the words were definitely coming from him, he felt like he wasn't actually saying anything. Because he shouldn't be admitting this. "Talking about it isn't helping."

"It works for soldiers and other kidnap victims."

"Well, I'm in the unique position of not being a soldier while going through a warzone," he said, "and technically I was taken hostage, not kidnapped. But that's not the point," he added quickly. "Basically, I've dealt with anxiety and other 'issues' alone and it's worked fine for me so far."

Immediately he knew he said something wrong. "You've got to stop saying that," Clint said. "Seriously, do you call not sleeping and living off caffeine dealing with it? I mean—fuck—let's face it, Tony, there's shit that me and Natasha can say to you that no one else really can, so I feel pretty justified in saying that you really aren't fine."

Clint was right, of course; there really were things he and Natasha could say that he wouldn't listen to from anyone else. Because they were more consistently present than anyone else in his life, but Tony liked his methods of coping, even if no one else understood why he did things the way he did. But he supposed, realistically, that his friend had a point. Usually had a point, really, and Natasha too, because for all his genius and creativity, he really was a fucking idiot. Clint said, "If you don't want to talk to a stranger, you can always talk to us."

"Oh, no," he answered. "See, not telling you is only partially for my benefit. For the most part, it's for yours."

"We can take it."

Tony shook his head. "You'll get nightmares. Or, maybe not. I don't know," he said, and thought that he was so bad at describing things that the odds were slim. He knew technical terms. Somehow, keeping those in mind helped keep him sane.

"If you have another flashback, we can't help you," Clint pointed out, and he wavered a little. He didn't want to admit that he still had those, they were pretty difficult to deny if anyone happened to be around. "Come on, Tony."

"You know the basics," he said, giving in. "They wanted me to build the Jericho out of scrap metal. I refused until I didn't anymore. And I was in a cave in Afghanistan, so it was hot and cramped and now I'm claustrophobic and don't like heat. I don't really like being dirty or submersing myself in water, and I really hate wires and if I ever freak out in my bed it's probably because a blanket's covering my face. And I haven't tested it, but I probably won't like fireworks either. They sound like gunshots."

"They really—"

Tony cut him off with, "Yeah, waterboarding, electrocution, senses deprivation, and mock execution. Enough for you, Clint?"

For a moment neither of them did anything, then his friend said, "Enough? Yeah, I guess. Thanks, you know, for telling me. Like I said, it can help. Does anyone else know?"

"Dad knows about the physical stuff," he answered miserably. "And he can

probably guess at least some of the rest. Maybe Mom, if he told her. But no, you're the first

person I've told. Tell Tash if you want but don't expect me to be able to pull it off again."

The thing about guys was that they didn't normally hug other guys. Clint was pretty typical and Tony wasn't big on affection in the first place, so it was a surprise when his friend's arm suddenly wrapped around his shoulders and pulled him closer. He went to say something but thought better of it and instead just hugged him back. He'd always known he was small for his age, but this made him feel little and skinny and unhealthy. Six weeks and he'd only gained back four pounds. The hug was awkward and weird and felt horribly out of place, but for once he let himself be held and tried his hardest not to cry. Stupid delayed reactions.

"I'm sorry," Clint told him and by this point he understood what it was like to be at a loss

for words. He dealt with it daily. "Natasha and I...well, we figured out some of it. Being afraid of water and how hard you've tried to avoid electrical wires and all. Might not seem like it, but we pick up on things."

"Right," he said. "Where is she anyway?"

Clint shrugged. "I think she has English Comp right now or something."

He untangled himself, feeling uncomfortable but not as much as he should've. "Thanks," he said. "Really. That wasn't exactly easy."

"Yeah," his friend said. "I didn't think it was."

Tony lay backwards, staring up at the ceiling. Without the talking, his room was silent. The ARC reactor didn't make noise the way normal electronics did. Earlier, back home in his lab, the quiet bothered him, but he'd grown to like it now. It didn't make anything sound muffled and he could hear everything clearly. Maybe he'd eventually get back to listening to music too. The ceiling was a light green, drastically different from tan or brown or any other color that rock and sand encompassed.

After another moment of nothing, he said, "I need to start running again or something. My stamina's shit right now."

"Didn't the doctor tell you to take it easy?"

Several had, actually, but he'd never been good at "taking it easy." It wasn't in his nature to be lazy, despite locked himself in the lab for days some times. But even then, he was always doing something, and even with all that sitting around, he was never really out of shape. This new inability to do just about anything was really starting to get to him, and saying out loud what happened to him (or at least some of it and in very objective terms) suddenly made it seem a lot worse. Now it was just another reminder of what happened, and he refused to believe that there was around a ninety percent change that somehow getting past the internal damage wasn't going to happen and he'd stay this weak and psychologically drugged up forever.

Somehow, Clint ended up lying next to him, though he didn't actually register the movement. "You still haven't showed me the sky thing yet," he said. "It's be a while."

It really had been a while, he thought. This was something he designed months ago and the most his friends had seen was a glimpse through a video chat screen. "JARVIS," he said, "activate N. -Twelve."

Immediately, the ceiling was filled in with an image of the night sky, darkening the light in the room, but it felt natural and out-side like. He said, "I wanted to design a way to capture the actual sky, but then I realized if I ever activated it during the day I'd just get a few clouds and the sun."

"How'd you manage this without a telescope?" Clint asked.

Before he could answer himself, JARVIS answered, "I researched pictures through Google images, Mr. Barton."

"You can call me by my first name, you know."

"Technically, I am an electronic butler and Mr. Barton or Miss Romanoff sound exceedingly more formal. Isn't that right, sir?"

Tony glanced at his friend, not sure if he was supposed to be embarrassed or not. "Um," he said, "I didn't actual design him like that. He just sort of decided he liked it."

With a slight smile, Clint said, "So, you've created life basically. Your AIs develop their own personalities. You aren't going to start building people any time soon, are you?"

Even though he knew the other boy was kidding, he shook his head. "I don't like biology too much," he said. "I know it, but I'm more of a chemistry and physics kind of person. And engineering, but that does a lot of combining of the two."

"Are you working on anything now?" Again, he shook his head. "Okay, guess I don't have to leave them."

He didn't protest because he didn't want to protest and they fell silent, falsely stargazing in the comfort of an air conditioned room.

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On Tuesdays, he had an hour long break between his Calc. IV class and aerospace engineering lesson that coincided with what Bruce called his "grading period" and he decided that Tony had to come up to his office for lunch. Even if he wasn't particularly hungry and had never been a big fan of anything involving olive oil, he picked at the pasta salad to be polite, avoiding as many red peppers as he could.

"So how do you like MIT so far?" Bruce asked and they were about on equal levels of not being able to talk.

"It's good," he answered. "Classes are easier than I was hoping."

Bruce smiles. "Thought you'd say that," he said. "I heard Professor Hammer complaining how you've slept through the past three classes."

Deciding that there was no way he was going to finish the pasta, he stuck the fork in the bowl and put it down on the table. "He's an idiot," he said bluntly. "I was this close to telling him he was doing the math the roundabout way the second day, so putting my head down seems easier."

"To keep yourself from correcting him?" He nodded. "Interesting…annoying, either way honestly. I've never had a person fall asleep in my class who didn't fail, but kids text. Especially the freshman."

"I don't want to risk getting my phone taken away," he said. "I could build a new one, but I have my reminders and schedule on it and that'll be a pain in the ass to reprogram."

He checked the clock on the computer and saw he had about half an hour. Bruce said, "It's rude, too." Tony didn't really care about that since he had no respect for his professor after he forgot to carry a one right after multiplying pi and seven eight-six incorrectly, so he didn't think the guy deserved it. "How's the apartment?"

"It's good," he said again since he couldn't think of a better answer. "Better than the dorms. I don't like the idea of a roommate I don't already know."

"My freshman roommate was terrible," Bruce said. "He never left the room for anything other than classes or hygiene reasons, so his side of the room was always covered in crumbs and laundry. And you know me—I hate insects and arachnids and anything like that. My second semester one was good though. We spent the entire time sharing Swedish Fish."

Well, Swedish Fish was a pretty good reason to like a person. "Natasha likes to cook and I actually have money for food, so we can eat pretty healthy," he said. "I think she's terrified of the whole freshman fifteen thing."

Bruce didn't say anything right away, but Tony had a feeling he was thinking something along the lines of you could use it. When he checked in with Peggy (Steve wasn't there) earlier this week as promised, she straight up said it. Unfortunately for all the adults in his life, his eating habits were as sporadic as they'd always been. Food and sleep, two things he routinely forgot about.

After a moment, the man said, "That's good. People shouldn't stock up on junk food all the time. I know that about half of your classmates eat those chocolate chip pancakes at least twice a week."

"I'm not a big fan of chocolate in the first place," he said. "I'm more of an orange slices or Sour Patch Kids type of person."

"Betty's allergic to chocolate so I have to avoid it anyway. Same with peanuts." He paused, taking a bite of the pasta salad. "You don't sleep in every class, do you?"

Most would only be a minor exaggeration since, after much arguing with nearly everyone he knew except his guidance counselor, he wasn't allowed to take more than five. "Not all," he answered, and by that he meant two. "And it isn't really sleeping, just not paying attention. So far we aren't going over anything new yet."

It wasn't respectful and he knew it, but respect worked both ways, and though he was smart, he was also young. For some reason, his teachers automatically assumed he was wrong about everything until he proved that they were the ones who made the mistake, not him. By the time he hit his junior year of high school, he gave up trying to reason with any "authority" figures. Blatant disregard was how he ended up meeting Natasha and Clint anyway.

Now there was the added reality that he didn't want to correct teachers anymore because he'd grown a fear of yelling. So far he hadn't gotten yelled at, and was trying avoid it happening until he wasn't able to anymore.

"Has your dad told you the stories of what he did in college?" Bruce asked, and he nodded. "I was in his physics class. Can't remember the professor's name, but he hated him."

Tony thought back, briefly, to their conversation, when his told him about what his grandfather said and even if his parents basically ignored him for the first fifteen years of his life, it could've been worse. Before this point, he never bothered comparing his life to anyone else's because it only bothered him to a minimal amount, but he could see the difference now and it was astounding. And definitely hard to get used to, even after six weeks.

"That'll happen to me eventually," he said. "Dad pretty much assured me of that." He took another glance at the clock. "I better be heading out. Next class is across campus. I'll see you later."

"Try to pay attention this time, okay, Tony?" Bruce told him and stood up to get the door because he was probably the politest person Tony had ever met.

"Right," he said, though he knew it would be another seventy-five minutes of just doodling. He slipped out the door with a quick smile, heading down the half-carpeted hallway.

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I think I should write more often when I'm tired. This is the longest chapter so far, I think.