Yeah, surprise surprise, Tony was sent to counseling after all the shit with Dad and Obie went down, but fuck all if he cared. Well, okay, it wasn't just because of the Dad and Obie shit, but really what happened after that. After Obie was walked off in chains and Dad ran away for a three-week bender in Amsterdam, Mom was left to run the company on her own. And run she did. It was the longest Tony had gone without seeing either of his parents in years. He didn't bother going to school or answering the door when Bruce and Thor showed up - probably everything had been spelled out on the news by now, and Tony wasn't in the mood to deal with that. With Jarvis in the hospital and his parents and Obie (fuck, Obie, why?) scattered to the wind, there were even less people in the big, big house. But Tony didn't care, he just broke into the liquor cabinet (literally, he broke it, glass everywhere), opened a bottle of expensive vodka, and had himself a party of one.

School was not happy when they got wind of the police visiting Tony at home. They let him off extraordinarily easy considering, but they, along with everyone else in the nation, had seen the news. That, and he lied that Mom was asleep in another room and if they woke her up there would be hell to pay. Anyway, Fury was pissed at him, again, but Tony was used to Fury being pissed. What he wasn't used to was Fury looking at him with that stupid fucking eye not glaring at him, looking at him like he was Bruce, someone to be pitied and watched and checked for new scars. Tony wasn't going to need a babysitter, he wasn't weak, and he wasn't a flight risk.

Except sometimes, in the dark and the quiet of his big empty house at three in the morning, staring drunkenly across Dad's workshop at the hundreds of tools that could easily pull off a man's head with the wrong handling, Tony wondered if maybe he was all of those things.

So he went to fucking counseling. He slouched his way through the meeting with Mrs. Taylor, the counselor, went home and slept until school was over, then went back for the first of two fucking group counseling meetings a week. Bruce was there, why the hell was Bruce-? Oh. Right. Foster care. Duh. Tony hated that Bruce was so good at making people forget that. He didn't do it out of any desire for normalcy or acceptance, but because Bruce was always hiding. Hiding was a necessary skill for kids who were used to being slapped around when they looked at Daddy the wrong way. Yeah, Bruce finally fessed up about his dad being an alcoholic prick, and Tony wanted to taste the fucker's blood even if he was serving for 20 years, but that was beside the point. Not once had Bruce asked if Tony wanted to visit Mrs. Linwood's, even though the four other foster kids had friends over all the time. They were all in counseling, too.

Some guy from the art school downtown, a twetysomething-year-old named Steve Rogers who graduated a year or two before, was leading the group that day. He looked about twelve and puffed on an inhaler every few minutes to catch his breath when he wasn't even talking. "Okay guys, we're just drawing today to ease in some of the newcomers," he announced with a sideways glance at Tony. Puff. "We don't have to have a discussion, but if anyone wants to talk about something on their minds before we start, that's okay too."

No one said a word, staring down at their easels clustered in a circle. Bruce tried to meet Tony's eyes, but Tony was inspecting the pastel crayons with an acidic feeling burning a hole in the bottom of his stomach. It wasn't that anyone expected him to say anything, but it felt like they did. It felt like they were staring at him. Waiting.

"I had a dream about my mom last night," Bruce spoke up when it was clear that Steve was awkwardly about to set them to work. His face was red and he was playing with a paint brush between his hands, but he was still looking nervously at Tony. "We made pancakes. It was nice."

Smiling encouragingly, Steve waved Bruce along. "No dad in this one?" he asked.

Bruce shook his head. "No, Dad wasn't there. He wasn't anywhere. I-I felt safe, it was the best dream I've ever had."

Steve nodded. "Good, Bruce. That's really good. Anyone else want to share? No? Alright, let's get to work, then! Raise your hand if you have questions."

This was stupid. Stabbing holes through the paper with the tip of his pencil, Tony leaned on his elbow and sighed, annoyed. Everyone else was doing what they were told, one guy drawing cars on fire while a girl, another of Mrs. Linwood's, drew horses grazing in a meadow. Tony couldn't see what Bruce was drawing, but he was concentrating very hard. Probably his mom. Jesus that kid had issues with his mom. As they worked Steve walked around the easels, commenting and answering questions here and there. Puff, puff, so much talking, Stebe, maybe you should sit down, puff, puff, maybe you should sit in a plastic bubble where the nasty germs won't eat your translucent skin right off the bone, puff, puff, oh, look at Stebe, so smart and well-adjusted, puff, puff, so generous to spend his Wednesdays and Fridays watching losers draw out their feelings, puff, puff, you're such a good guy, Stebe, puff, puff, maybe you should take your fucking nice guy act somewhere no one will ever find you again, puff, puff...

"Tony?"

He shoved the pencil through the paper, then his fist, then his arm, then flipped the whole fucking easel because everything was so goddamn stupid and why the fuck not? Girls were screaming as though it were the scandal of the century, boys were standing up, ready to neutralize any potential crazies, but Steve was just standing there, three inches too short and ninety pounds too slight, watching him, broken easel having missed him by centimeters and he hadn't even flinched.

"Do you want to talk in the hall, Tony?" he asked in a voice too calm and too big for a man with such a small, breakable body.

And Tony meant to be cool. His plan was to sail through the shit with a smile and fuck the haters (both figuratively and literally, depending on how hot they were), his plan was to be okay because that's who he was, he was the king of okay, and he meant to say, "No, I don't want to talk in the hall," like a normal fucking person but instead screamed it at the top of his lungs and made the girl drawing horses cry. Well, fuck her (only figuratively, because yikes).

And Steve put a hand on his arm and took him out into the hall, and Tony totally freaked the fuck out. It wasn't funny or pretty or tragic like in the movies, he didn't punch the wall like a fucking man, or lean stoically against the lockers while letting a Single Manly Tear roll down his face, he sat on the floor with his back against the lockers and sobbed like a fucking toddler for four and a half minutes. Yeah, he kept fucking count so he could make up for it doing something real, something useful, later, so what? It was his fucking life, thanks very much. It had been a week and he was having a fucking meltdown in front of Boy Scouts of America getting his I-Helped-Losers-Fingerpaint Badge, but it wasn't like he could help the fact that one guy he'd grown up with was determined to work in his house until he died and and one guy he'd grown up with, one who'd changed his diapers and helped him built his first model car and taught him how to throw a baseball, had hired someone to kidnap him that fucking night, to paralyze him with one of Dad's weapons and kill him without asking so much as a ransom, just for the fucking joy of screwing over Howard fucking Stark once and for all.

Steve crouched on his haunches while Tony got it out of his system, calm as one of those stupid zen tapes people listened to while they did yoga. He didn't make Tony tell him anything, and he didn't presume he knew anything about Tony's life. He just waited until he was finished, and walked with him to the bathroom so he could wash the salt off his face. When they went back Tony walked in like nothing happened, and everyone else played along. They all had their easel-flipping days. His easel was set up again, if a little crookedly, and Tony squinted at the sight of something he hadn't done sitting on it. Just a ripped-off piece of paper with a scribbled pen drawing on it, a stick man standing in the shadow of an enormous man-shaped something. Tony turned it over.

We all have our monsters.
It sucks and it's hard and
we never want other people
to see, but sometimes they
need to be let out.

Come talk to me if you
want.

-B

The bespectacled boy was staring rapt at his painting, frowning at the apparently overzealous use of too much green, going by the thumb-shaped smudge of it on the edge of Tony's note.

There was apparently supposed to be a rotation of volunteers coming in to do different things with the counseling group, but with midterms coming up most of the college kids were busy. Luckily for Steve, he could work on most of his projects while working at the high school, so he was around more often than before Tony joined up, and Tony found himself almost looking forward to going after a few weeks.

For a total dork, Steve was actually kind of cool, in his own way. He didn't make people talk if they didn't feel like it, even when everyone was supposed to take a turn. He still signed the assignments Tony did in group if he saw Tony looking at or giving away answers. He loved baseball and thought the Dodgers should go back to Brooklyn, and he liked board games and trivia and all the boring things sickly kids were stuck doing instead of going outside and breaking bones. But he almost made Tony enjoy those things too because he was such a fucking goober about it, all big blue eyes and shiny blond hair and Gee Whizz, Mom, and Apple Pie about everything. Sometimes Tony would find himself wishing the twice-weekly meetings would come sooner, storing away tidbits of information that he thought Steve would find interesting or funny, because Steve didn't tune out while they were talking, he listened, and he talked back like a human being instead of a doctor or adult, even though he was older. He swore, and he laughed at dirty jokes, and mentioned how he'd had a huge crush on Mrs. Hill when he went to school there, and was so fucking decent Tony couldn't help liking him.

That was why he found Steve's number and called him when he woke up covered in a cold sweat, convinced that someone was breaking into the house about to come for him even though Obie was far away. "I-it's just so stupid, but I can't help it," he grumbled into the glow of his cell phone. Then, because it was two in the morning and he had to diffuse the attention away from him and his issues for a minute, he asked, "Should I draw a walrus or something?"

Steve snorted, not at all upset that he'd been woken up in the middle of the night. "Maybe a cockatoo," he sleepily mumbled, voice deep and rumbly. Over the phone no one would ever know this guy was on like eight million different meds and had two major surgeries before he was five. At least not until the telltale puff of his inhaler hissed over the phone.

"But seriously, Tony, having bad dreams is completely normal," continued Steve once their sleepy amusement had faded. "I mean, this guy, Obie, this guy you loved and you trusted - maybe even still do love - he betrayed you. Hell, he threatened you, your life, your family...if it were me, if I'd gone through half the shit you have lately, I'd be shaking in my boots and calling Ma to pray for my soul."

That made Tony laugh, albeit quietly and without much mirth. "Dude, I think you'd call Ma to pray for your soul if you got laid."

"Only because getting laid would probably kill me."

Their hushed laughter grew louder and something in Tony's chest, the great, tugging thing like a white-hot circle of electric fire digging right into his sternum, twisted and eased a little bit. He could breathe easier in the tight emptiness of his big useless house that tried to press in on him when he least expected it.

"Have you talked to Bruce, Tony? I can tell he's worried about you. Or your other friend, Thor, I've seen the three of you at McDonald's."

"Yeah, Thor's pretty much always hungry, so we go during study hall."

"During? Tony..."

He rolled over onto his back and grinned at the glowing plastic stars tacked to his ceiling. "Save the lecture, I know, we always go back and study once Thor's had his Big Mac," he assured Steve, who was puffing disapprovingly at him. "You could always come too, you know, if you're close enough to see us anyway."

Despite the friendly banter of only minutes before, Steve sounded stunned. "Really?" he asked.

Why the hell was Tony doing this? He hated people, they were needy and annoying and made him buckle his seat belt like a nerd, not to mention some of the friends he'd had freshman year who were only in it so he'd buy them stuff. Assholes. He smirked at the memory of Coulson pinning one of them for being tardy just last week. At least the specky little gnat was good for something.

"Yes, really," he retorted. "And I'm very selective about my friends, Rogers, you should feel honored."

"Oh, I do," chortled Steve. He chortled, like in that "oh, you" way dads did in fifties sitcoms. What a weirdo. "I'll think about it. Now go to sleep, Tony, I'll see you on Wednesday."

His voice came out a lot softer than he intended it to when he replied, "'kay," and he curled onto his side again.

The next time they went to McDonald's, Thor first creating a diversion (one word: turtles) so Coulson would run down the art hallways before they could make their escape, Steve was there too, with a stern look and two apple pies an an ice cream for himself. "You guys should really stop skipping class," he warned them. Then Thor started telling a story about going hunting with his dad and brother up north, and everyone forgot what was being said before. That family was fucking crazy, man.

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