Over the next few weeks, Tony packed his life away into shipping cartons and cardboard boxes to get ready for his spring transfer to MIT. The university had been more than pleased to hear that he would be attending so quickly; of course, they sent their congratulations and course catalogues mixed in with condolences for the untimely death of his parents. Tony read the sympathy card once, before tearing it up and tossing the pieces to the wind.

He'd withdrawn from UNIS, much to the consternation of the robotics club.

Rhodey had looked up at him as he came in to chemistry to announce that he was leaving the school, that he would be attending MIT at the start of January. Tony could feel his friend's gaze on his shoulder, but he didn't say anything, even as the teacher stood up and hugged him and whispered into his hair what a strong boy he was, how his parents would have been proud of him. As Tony left the classroom, he looked over. Rhodey and Pepper had a sheet of notes between them, and he was relatively sure they weren't notes about molecular orbitals, not from the way their toes were touching underneath the table. Rhodey had a pained look on his face, and Tony just rolled his eyes and walked out.

He ran into Annette in the hall, coming back from using the bathroom. She flushed when she saw him - and maybe it was just because of the bad memories he had around her or because that was just how she looked - but it made her face look splotchy and something rather like an overripe tomato. She stammered over her words, "I - I'm so s-sorry about your pa-parents," and he just nodded once, curtly, before stepping around her to his locker.

He cleared out his things, his notebooks, some of which hadn't even been written in once, his pens, a rainbow of reds and blues and blacks spilling out from the plastic jar he'd put on the top shelf just in case he ever needed one before a lab. The extra jacket that still hung in his locker, the one his mother had made him bring the very first day of high school just in case he lost his and it got too cold. Holding the red wool in his hands, he felt tears coming along again, and he scrubbed anxiously at his face, swallowing down hiccups and sobs just in case anybody was watching.

Jarvis had been waiting outside for him, the car idling and sending puffs of steam into the air. He'd jumped out when Tony had run down the steps, his things bouncing haphazard in his hands, pens scattering all over the sidewalk.

"Oh, Anthony," he'd said, gently hugging Tony and running his hands through his dark curls. "It's okay, it's alright, you're okay." Tony had cried into the starched lapels of Jarvis's dress shirt, had watched through blurry eyes as the stiff linen sagged under the assault of tears.

"Don't call me Anthony," he'd sobbed into Jarvis's shirt. "My father called me that."

Jarvis had sighed, patted Tony's head, and had helped him into the car before climbing into the driver's seat again.

Tony sorted through his childhood belongings, packing away memories of a happier time with a frown on his face. Though Jarvis had assured him that he would see to it that the apartment was kept clean and neat for the master's return, during spring breaks and summer vacations, he still wanted to get rid of some of the clutter he'd accumulated over the years, clutter that still hurt to look at, that still rent gaping holes in his chest every time he thought he had gotten over it.

An old pinwheel from the New York County Fair. He remembered his father hoisting him up in the air, laughing as carnival music played all around them and Tony stuffed pink cotton candy into his mouth. He wondered if he was remembering this correctly, hoped that he was.

A macaroni necklace from the third grade Art Appreciation class that he'd made for his mother. He'd never given it to her because it had been Maria and Howard's anniversary that weekend, and she came home with a necklace of rubies, and Tony had kicked the macaroni necklace into a bin and sulked for the rest of the night.

A silver framed photograph of him and his mother, only a few months ago as he was getting fit for his first suit. He smiled sadly as he traced the fine threads of silver in her hair, as he admired the beginnings of crow's feet at the corners of her eyes. She looked happy, and he pressed a kiss to the wrought iron frame and placed it carefully in the box of things he was going to take to MIT. He didn't have any pictures with his father from recent memory, and he preferred to keep it that way.

From the records that the police had talked to Jarvis about, sitting in the dining room with documents and manila folders spread out along the cherry wood table, tapping at photographs and talking in hushed voices that stopped whenever Tony walked into the room. But he still overheard things, like the fact that his father had been behind the wheel, that the blood samples they'd taken postmortem had contained a rather high alcohol level. The children of the two people he had hit in his skid out of control, an elderly couple who had been driving home after visiting some friends in Queens, had decided not to press charges, saying they didn't want to put Tony through more pain, not with what he was going through with the death of his parents. If it was any comfort to the boy, a police officer had said while Tony was listening in around the corner, his parents had died instantly. No pain.

And then there was the matter of Stark Industries. Who was going to take over it? Surely such an important, multimillion-dollar, international empire shouldn't be in the hands of a fifteen-year-old who wasn't even going to be in New York to oversee affairs at the domestic headquarters. As such, the vice president of the company, a man by the name of Mr. Williams who particularly enjoyed his prune juice, had been appointed chair of the company until such a time as Tony was old enough and able to take over the company. Tony would be kept up to date with the status of the company per weekly reports, in language that a fifteen-year-old would be able to understand, which would be sent to his mailing address while he was at university.

In other words, everything was sorted out, and he was all ready to leave. As he was beginning to yawn and stretch out on his bed, he flipped through a few of his old Captain America comics, the only nod to his childhood that his father had ever shown. He smiled as Cap punched Hitler straight in the nose, laughed at the silly lettered sound effects, fascinated as he was with the adventures of Private Steve Rogers and Mascot Bucky.

With a smile on his face, the first genuine one since his parents' death, Tony flopped down into bed, pulled up the covers, and went to sleep.