PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE read the Author's Note at the end! But enjoy first XD

Chapter 1

The first time Tony meets them, he's only just turned thirteen.

He's outside in the garden his mother used to love, crouched by her hydrangeas, fingering the delicate petals and dreaming of another time. Of arms wrapped around him and of sweet and citrus perfume.

Of course, that was before the "accident."

He was late with the schematics again, and his ribs ache and burn with every movement. His father asked for plans for nerve gas capable of incapacitating and potentially killing hundreds of people at a time, and Tony had refused. Again. His father yelled and roared and threw his bottles and his glasses and spare parts, but that was normal.

What wasn't normal was that Obie was there. And when Obie was there, it didn't stop when Howard was finished.

Tony sighs, wrapping a protective arm around his middle and hissing. He really should wrap his ribs, but he's too tired, now. Too at peace out here in the cool darkness with nothing but the plants for company.

Or so he thinks.

A branch snaps to his left. His head whips around so fast his ribs scream, but he's too startled to notice. His breath comes in one short gasp and stops abruptly, like that of a cornered animal.

Have Obie and Howard come after him? Or is it someone else?

Silently, he slips his hand from the outstretched petal, moisture from its last watering dripping from his fingers. He slinks back into the shadows as quietly as he can, as quickly as he can, hoping to hide before they see him—

A hand claps over his mouth and pulls him back against a firm chest. The grip is tight, but not painful. Tony doesn't register that as he lashes out on instinct, reaching up to pry the hand away, kicking backwards at his attackers' knees, striking out with his elbows—

He feels his right elbow connect with flesh, and a wheezed oomph follows, but the hold only loosens slightly. His ribs are screaming, now, and it's not the first time he's been kidnapped, but no matter how much it happens, Tony's always terrified that it's going to be the last.

Small, calloused hands seize his right wrist and lock his arm, not painfully, but none-too-gently, and he's left kicking at air and clawing at the hand over his mouth with just his left hand, muffled noises of fear and protest just barely sounding.

"Hey," a voice says authoritatively. Tony keeps struggling, but settles down enough to see the man speaking to him. He's a hulking figure in front of him, at least a foot taller than himself, and he comes into the light, and—

—and he can't be more than a few years older than Tony. If Tony had to guess, maybe sixteen.

"Hey," he says again, his expression serious, but his eyes gentle. "I'm sorry for scaring you, okay? Clint and Natasha and I aren't going to hurt you. Alright? Do you understand?"

Tony's eyes are wide, and he's still squirming, but his ribs ache fiercely and he's exhausted himself. He's all but slumped against the one holding him, his legs shaking, his heart hammering.

"I know you don't know us or trust us, but you're gonna have to help us, okay?" The man—well, not quite a man, Tony thinks, but more of a man than he is—has an expression crossed between concerned, regretful, and nonnegotiable. "One of our friends is hurt, and we need some supplies."

The more he keeps talking, the more Tony begins to recognize him, and the names become more familiar. Clint, and Natasha—the face in front of him—they're three members of the vigilante group of runaway teenagers the media has dubbed the "Avengers." A Russian orphan capable of tricking, seducing, and killing anything alive, a scarily accurate circus kid with a bow, a genius with interesting side effects from his father's unethical gamma testing, a victim of a criminal organization's brainwashing and training with a metal arm, a Scandinavian boy with a special weapon that responds only to him—

—and the product of the government's physical enhancement testing, whose parents had given him to them in exchange for a new house and an early retirement.

Tony's stopped struggling at this point, simply focusing on the guy in front of him and trying to breathe deeply through his nose to get rid of the black spots in his vision. The grip on his arm has lessened in response, and the hand over his mouth isn't nearly as tight.

"We just need some first aid supplies, and we'll be out of your life," the guy says, and Tony remembers that his name is "Steve" something—Hodges? Dodger…? "If Clint and Natasha let you go, are we going to have any problems?"

Tony takes a slow breath through his nose and shakes his head. His arm is released, and then he's standing on his own, gasping in a breath. He wraps an arm around his ribs.

He looks up at Steve, who's frowning. "Did they hurt you?"

Tony shakes his head, backing up a step as Steve's hand twitches out, like he wants to check out the injury. Steve stops short at the movement. "It's old. I'm okay."

Steve doesn't look entirely satisfied, but he nods, then squares his shoulders. "One of our friends is hurt badly. Do you have a first aid kit?"

Tony honestly has to laugh at the notion of a vigilante group roaming the country, running from the law, avenging whatever crime they come across—especially those in which children are hurt by someone. It seems like the plotline of a bad movie. It seems surreal.

If he's being honest, he admires them.

They turned their backs on the ones who hurt them, who treated them like they were nothing, and they found each other. If what the media says is true, they are their own family, and in the tightness of Steve's shoulders, the worry lines marring his face, Tony thinks it may very well be true. He's worried.

Tony wishes he were that strong, but he's not. So he makes a decision.

"I know some first aid," he offers quietly, afraid of alerting Howard or Obie, or one of the servants. "You can bring your friend inside and stay the night, if you want."

The look on Steve's face might have made Tony laugh if he hadn't been so tired.

"Or you can keep walking until the next cop sees you," Tony says, shrugging. He doesn't particularly want that to happen, but Steve doesn't need to know that. "I know you're those 'Avengers' on the news, and everybody's looking for you. It doesn't matter very much to me."

Steve's eyes harden again and flick behind Tony. A small figure comes around Tony's peripheral, stopping beside Steve. It's a girl around Steve's age, maybe a little younger, with fiery red hair and an expression that could freeze Earth's core. He guesses the other one, Clint, must still be behind him, then. Boxed in. "Why would you take it upon yourself to let us stay the night when you could be arrested for just talking to us?"

She's not asking disbelievingly. It's clinical, and probing, and Tony knows he has a very small window of answers that will be acceptable to her.

He dazzles her with his best high-wattage grin and says, "Because I'm bored."

It's his best act. The bored, rich teenager with no worries and a billion dollars of spending money to blow. He hates it every time he puts the mask on, but it gets him what he wants.

She—Natasha—regards him coolly. "You know first aid?"

"Yep."

"Where'd you pick that up?"

YouTube videos and med school textbooks on how to stitch yourself back together when some people seem stuck on injuring you in literally every way possible. "Well, if you know who I am, you know I'm a genius."

Steve's eyebrows are raised in amusement, but he looks confused. Natasha's arms are crossed now, and she looks distinctly unimpressed. "Tony Stark."

"Oh, so you've heard of me."

"Can you fix our friend or not?"

Tony pauses, glancing behind him. He catches a glance of Clint in the shadows, but he's looking for the injured party in particular. "I mean, I'd have to know what I'm dealing with, but I've dealt with a lot before."

And he really has. Obie and Howard can get…creative, sometimes.

Natasha eyes him for a moment longer. "Nat?" Steve asks, his eyes gentle as he looks at her, deferring to her opinion.

She gives one sharp nod. "Anyone else in the house with you?"

"Not on my side," Tony says. "Anyone else in the house is either asleep or passed out drunk, probably." Obie has probably left by now, and Howard is most definitely drunk himself into oblivion.

"One night," Natasha whispers to Steve, then eyes Clint. "You on board?"

"Bet your ass I am," a voice says from behind Tony, and he turns to keep them all in his line of sight. "Regulated temperatures? I'm there."

Three figures come stumbling out of the trees, the one in the middle limp, his arms over each of the others' shoulders. Tony can hear the ragged breathing from where he is.

"Steve, he's getting worse," a young voice says. A small boy—still older and bigger than Tony, but not by nearly as much as Steve; probably only by a year-with curly brown hair and glasses says, struggling under the weight.

Tony ignores all of his surroundings and focuses on the kid he's going to help fix, now. He shouldn't say kid, since the injured guy is probably Steve's age—it's the one with the metal arm. There's a crimson stain on his left flank, growing rapidly, and his skin shines with sweat. He's trying to walk, but the Scandinavian kid, who is freaking huge, is taking most of his weight. Tony guesses the big one is fifteen or sixteen, but his size could put him in his early twenties, if Tony didn't know any better.

"Bring him inside," Tony says, totally in his element now that people have to listen to his directions. "Back door's unlocked, but be quiet. Go left down the stairs into the basement; that's where I'll be. I'm going to get some stuff ready."

Tony hurries back inside the house without waiting for an answer, his heart thumping. He knows this is a stupid decision, that this is going to come back and bite him in the ass, but…

…he'll never be strong enough or brave enough or capable enough to turn his back on Obie and Howard; they're all he's ever known, even if it's been horrible, and he doubts he can ever bring himself to leave.

He'll never be strong enough to be a hero.

If these "Avengers" knew what was happening to him, what his father and his uncle did to him when he refused to make weapons for them, they'd do something about it.

Which is why two things become certain to Tony as he set up the spare bed and grabbed his extensive first aid kit.

One: they would never know.

Two: he'd do everything he could to help them, because they were doing what he never could.

…

Tony hisses in sympathy as he peels the shirt away from the wound, the boy—Bucky, he knows now—flinching as he does so. His eyes are firmly on the ceiling, and he's gripping Steve's hand, his other fisted in the sheets.

"Stab wound," Tony says almost to himself, cutting the shirt away from the wound to give him room to work. "Didn't hit any organs, but you've lost a lot of blood."

"Can you do a transfusion?" Steve asks, looking concerned. "I'm the same blood type."

"I'm thirteen," Tony says, giving him an unimpressed look.

A blush creeps into his cheeks and he looks away. Clint snorts.

Tony examines the wound and gives Bucky a small warning before gently prodding the area beside it. Bucky flinches and stiffens against the bed, but relaxes quickly, his mouth set in a hard line. Natasha flinches from the side, looking like she's about to spring forward, but she restrains herself.

Tony's pretty grateful for that.

"I can clean it out and stitch it up," Tony says, focused on the wound, not looking at the others. "It should help prevent infection and help it heal faster. I know fighting crime is kind of in your job description, but he needs to take it easy for a few weeks."

Tony reaches beside him and starts sterilizing a needle, then grabs a bottle of prescription pills he'd gotten once after a surgery. Howard had gone too far and broken his ulna in half.

He shakes out two and hands them to Bucky. "They're just heavy pain meds. They're under my name, but they're generic. It'll take the edge off while I stitch you up."

Bucky eyes the pills warily, then looks at Tony with distrust and a bit of resentment. That's rude, considering Tony's saving his life. Tony gives him his best bitch face. "Or you can stay awake and fully conscious while I give you thirty odd stitches, pal. It's up to you."

"You could be a little nicer about it, asshole," Clint says, his arms crossed. He looks two inches away from throttling Tony. "I know you're probably not used to needing actual social skills, seeing as the only people you talk to are the ones who're just after your money, but your bedside manner is a little lacking."

Tony hides how much the words sting and sets the pills on the table beside Bucky's head. Clint isn't wrong, but it's not like he had much of a say about what family he was born into. "Well, you're no Mary Poppins yourself, Katniss," Tony spits.

Bruce, the one who looks like he's all of ten but is apparently fourteen, snorts into his hand and turns away to hide his shaking shoulders. Thor—the Scandinavian—doesn't even try to be quiet, laughing heartily, throwing his head back.

Oh, geez. "Dude, shut up," Tony hisses, running to the bottom of the stairs and listening intently. He raises a hand when someone starts to ask a question, listening, making sure nothing is moving and no one is coming towards the stairs.

He breathes a quiet sigh of relief after two minutes of complete silence, and trudges back to the vigilantes. "Could you please, please, be a littler quieter, big guy?" Tony asks, picking up the sterilized needle and threading it.

Thor nods, looking properly chastised. Bruce, looking comical beside his hulking figure, slips an arm around his back, and Thor tucks him to his side almost instinctively with a smile.

"Thought you said you were alone," Natasha asks, eyes piercing and wary.

"Well, you're not very observant, then," Tony says, tying off the needle and setting it to the side. He grabs a clean rag and starts gingerly wiping the crusted blood away from the enflamed wound. Bucky flinches, but remains still. "I said everyone else here was either asleep or passed out drunk, but they're not deaf."

She scoffs and turns away, pacing.

The more blood Tony cleans away, the more certain he is that the wound is infected. "Stay here," he says to them, placing the rag in the now-pink bowl of water and snapping the rubber gloves off. "I'm going to get some antibiotics; the wound's infected. I doubt anyone will, but if anyone comes down the stairs—I dunno, just—say you're my friends and I invited you over. Unless it's my dad, they'll buy it."

Tony isn't sure about that, but he goes anyways, relatively certain no one's going to discover them.

He grabs the bottle of Augmentin from under a loose floorboard in his room, taking a moment to gaze at the precious keepsakes he doesn't want his father or Obie to find—a picture of him, a girl named Pepper, and his best friend Rhodey (both of whom his father had forced him to cut off all contact with)— and his mother's wedding ring, as well as a few other secret treasures from over the years. There are also the medications he knows he'll need sometimes—Hoard has a bad habit of taking whatever he finds, and sometimes it's prescriptions that Tony kind of needs.

He crouches there for a moment, running a hand through his hair and staring at the bottle in his hand. He picks up his mother's wedding ring and touches it to his forehead. "Mom," he whispers, feeling his hands shake. "I hope I'm doing the right thing."

Because he really does. He doesn't know these people. They seem good enough, no matter how horribly the media portrays them, but he's trusted enough people who've turned on him to know that it's only a matter of time.

He'll help them, but he won't trust them.

On a whim, he stops by his private kitchen and snags some bread, a tub of peanut butter and a separate one of jelly, some water bottles, and a family sized bag of chips. He puts it all into a bag and lugs it down the stairs.

America's most wanted are still in the same positions, though Tony notices with a bit of relief that the pain pills are gone from the table, and Bucky looks a little more relaxed. He hands the bag of food to Clint, who takes it, looking surprised.

"Knock yourself out," Tony says, snapping some fresh gloves on and handing the antibiotics to Steve. "It's not poisoned."

"Is it drugged?" Natasha asked, taking the bag from Clint before he could dive in.

"Are you kidding me?" Tony asks, because he's really getting tired of trying to be nice to these people.

"I'm sorry," Steve says, and Tony turns to face him. Steve looks tired; his shoulders are hunched in, and his face is creased in worry. "We just can't take any chances. We appreciate everything you're doing for us."

Tony knows he can't really blame them, but that doesn't stop him from being pissed off. "Fine," he grumbles, plucking everything out of the bag. He shows Natasha that the bag of chips and the bottles of water are completely sealed and untampered with, then makes himself and peanut butter jelly sandwich and takes a big bite.

"See? Still alive and coherent," Tony says sarcastically, crossing back to Bucky and preparing to stitch him up. "How're you feeling, Robo-Cop?"

Bucky sends him a glare, but it doesn't have any real heat. The drugs are working, then.

He notices out of the corner of his eye that the other four are digging into the food with no small amount of gusto, and he feels a twinge of guilt in his gut. Sometimes Howard and Obie take away his food as a punishment, but never to the point of starving. He knows these guys probably don't know when the next time they're going to eat is.

"Here," Bruce says as he comes over, handing a sandwich to Steve. His own is already half gone.

"Thanks, kiddo," Steve says with a small, warm smile. Bruce blushes as Steve ruffles his hair and puts an arm around his shoulders, pulling him close. Bruce relaxes instantly, melting into his side. Until then, Tony hadn't noticed how tense he'd been.

Tony watches silently, getting the suture equipment ready. Something aches in his chest, and he's reminded of just how much he misses his mother.

"This isn't going to be fun," Tony warns Bucky as he sits beside the bed, getting ready to make the first stitch. "Try to stay awake. You need to eat some after I'm done so the antibiotics won't make you sick."

After watching him warily for a moment, Steve squeezes his hand, and Bucky finally gives a sharp nod. Bruce sits on the bed at the end, next to Bucky's feet, and rests his hands on Bucky's shin in support. Bucky twitches him a small smile.

Tony ignores the ache growing in his chest, dismissing it as the ribs he still hasn't wrapped.

Tony ends up needing thirty-two stitches. By the time he's done, Bucky is panting, sweating, and two steps away from cursing him out, but the bleeding has mostly stopped. Tony cleans and disinfects the wound, then says, "Would one of you mind making him a sandwich? I want to get something in his stomach before he takes this."

"What brand are the antibiotics?" Natasha asks, slipping over to pluck the bottle from his hands.

"Augmentin," he responds as Steve props Bucky up enough to eat the sandwich Clint has made. "And before you start screaming to high heaven about how it's not sealed, I took some a while ago and never finished them."

Natasha's eyebrow twitches.

Tony sighs, grabbing a water bottle and handing it to Thor. "Make sure he takes two. You can take the bottle with you; he'll need to take them for a few days. It's not a full course, but it'll help his body heal on its own."

"Where are you going?" Bruce asks. Tony realizes it's the first time he's spoken to him, and the guy's voice is small.

"To get you guys some stuff to sleep in," he says, "and on. I don't want you using the guest bedrooms; depending on how late you stay tomorrow morning, the servants may find you. No one comes down here. I know we have some air mattresses and sleeping bags somewhere…"

"Why would a rich kid like you need air mattresses and sleeping bags?" Clint scoffs, folding his arms in a challenge.

Tony freezes for just a moment. "My mother. She used to take me camping."

"Not anymore, though?" Clint continues, scathing. "What, did you get too old for it? Now that you're a big rich boy who can play with the socialites, you quit the boy scouts? Bet Mom was disappointed."

"Clint," Steve says in a warning tone, his eyes hard. "Tony's being kind enough to let us stay here, and he's done a lot more for us than we could ever ask. Don't do this." Steve turns to Tony. "I'm sorry. Clint's, uh…kind of a loose cannon." He shrugs apologetically, a small, remorseful smile on his face.

"You think?" Natasha asks, smirking.

The anger doesn't leave Clint's eyes, but he backs down, uncrossing his arms and wandering to Bucky's bedside, where they all have inevitably gathered. Bucky's breathing is much better, and a small smile graces his lips as he looks up and sees himself surrounded by family.

Meanwhile, Tony is struggling to breathe.

He not unfamiliar with people his age (or close) resenting him for his wealth and his lavish lifestyle. He's used to it. He's used to the hunger in the adults' eyes as the shake his hand and wonder how they can use him to put a stake in the family will, and he's used to the kids pushing him away for having more than they do.

He's used to that. But this? No one can be used to this.

"For the record, asshole," Tony says from the bottom of the steps, his face hidden in the shadows. Out of his periphery, he sees six heads snap his way. He doesn't like telling people, doesn't like the look in their eyes after he says it, but he can't quite forgive the jab. "I stopped camping because my mother died."

The air freezes in thick tension, and a small "Oh" is the only answer he receives.

He disappears up the stairs with a quick, "I'll get the mattresses."

His hands are shaking.

…

Tony doesn't sleep that night.

He can't stop thinking about the fact that he's letting six of the most wanted people in the country, wrongfully or no, crash in his basement. He ends up tinkering for several hours before he finally forces himself to scan the reports Obie left for him.

Tony helps with the weapons business, no matter how much he hates it. But he draws the line at actual weapons. Instead, he develops mainly surveillance technology and defensive equipment. His current, most engrossing project is a titanium alloy impenetrable to bullets that he can melt down and craft into a robotic suit with an interface system.

It's slow going. He knows he's not going to have his current assignments finished in time, and he knows what that means. Over the years, though, it's become normal. He can't bring himself to care much, anymore.

He leans back from his desk, glancing at the picture of he and his mother in her garden. He was only six or seven at the time, but she's holding him, kissing his forehead, and her eyes are open and so, so happy and bright.

And Tony is grinning like a maniac.

He sighs. It feels like a lifetime ago, but it was only two years ago that she died in the "accident."

A tremor of anger goes through his body as he crosses his room to his walk-in closet. He goes to the back-left corner and shoves his clothes aside, removing one of the rich oak panels from the wall. There's a safe, there, something his old butler, Jarvis—and the closest thing to a father he'd ever had—bought for him under his father's nose.

The passcode is his mother's birthday. He knows it's too obvious, but that's why there's a second and third layer of security—a thumbprint and a retinal scan.

He removes a thick file and flips through it, reorienting himself with the work he's been doing for two straight years.

It's his file on his mother. They say she committed suicide, but Tony knows it's a lie. Tony knows that someone killed her, and did a very good job of making it look real.

Most of the reports, he'd been able to get himself with some hacking tricks. There are things not online, though, that he needs as well, and he's been pulling favor after favor, spending more money than he's probably allowed, doing everything he can to follow the trail. Recently, though, he's gotten nothing.

He stops on a picture of his mother. It's the autopsy photo. The sheet is pulled up to her thin, naked shoulders, and her face is pale and cold and still.

God, he misses her. He hates himself for looking at it for so long.

He ends up putting it back without doing any real research; the day's events are weighing on him, and he just can't take it right now.

He goes to his mother's garden. It's almost sunrise. Ever since she died, on the nights he can't sleep, he goes to watch it, and he's reminded of her.

When he gets to his little alcove, he's surprised to see that he's not alone.

"You really shouldn't be out here," Tony says, satisfied when Steve jumps and turns to face him. "And you definitely shouldn't be out here if you're that easy to sneak up on."

Steve twitches a smile. His shoulders are heavy with exhaustion and there are bags under his eyes. "Sorry. Been a long few days." He turns to Tony, his eyes so determined and earnest Tony feels like Steve thinks he's just ended world hunger. "Thank you, Tony. I…I don't know what we would've done if you hadn't helped us. If he'd died…"

Steve can't bring himself to say it, and Tony doesn't let him. "Yeah, whatever. It's fine."

Steve eyes him strangely, but Tony ignores him and wanders past him. He stops when Steve calls out, "I really am sorry about what Clint said earlier. About…about your mother."

Tony stops, but shakes it off, watching as the first wisps of pink peek over the horizon beyond the trees. "It's fine. He's not the first, and he won't be the last."

Tony doesn't turn to see his expression, because he knows he won't like it.

"Can I ask you a question?"

Tony closes his eyes and sighs deeply, looking towards the sky for patience. This isn't the relaxing moment of peace he's pictured. "What, Rogers?"

"Why are you helping us?"

Tony does look at Steve, then, and Steve's on the defensive again. His shoulders are set and his jaw is tight, his eyes critical and cautious.

"I don't know what you could possibly want from us," he says, guarded. "And I know you said it was because you were bored, but I don't buy it. A bored kid doesn't let six criminals into their house and treat their injuries and feed them for fun. So…what do you want?"

Tony crosses his arms. Looking at Steve, having a conversation like this, he doesn't really feel thirteen. He doesn't know if that's a good thing or a bad thing, though. "I don't want anything from you."

Steve looks frustrated. He runs a hand through his hair and turns away, muttering to himself. Dropping his hands, turning back around, Tony can tell he's not happy with that answer. "Then why?"

Because you're more of a hero than I'll ever be, Tony thinks wryly, a wry smile coming over his face as he turns his face away, hoping Steve will think it's a trick of the shadows. Because no matter how smart I am, I'm only thirteen, and I can't do anything. You're sixteen and you're already saving people, and I'm not strong enough to even save myself.

"Because you're not criminals," Tony says finally, glancing behind him to check on the sun's progress. The purple is turning red, now. It's almost time. "At least, not to me. I've seen the news: you don't kill, and you do your research on your targets. You don't make mistakes. Every single person you've attacked or exposed or blackmailed have all abused someone…usually kids." Steve's face is unreadable. Tony looks at him. Really looks at him, with none of the sarcasm he usually uses, and says, "Those kids need you, even if the grown ups say you're doing it wrong."

Steve's silent for a moment, his eyes wide. He opens his mouth, then closes it again, looking at a loss for words. Tony rolls his eyes and turns away, his sore ribs making themselves known again as he crouches by a dying rose bush. He'll have to remember to water them later.

"Thank you," Steve says, sounding suspiciously emotional. Tony gives him the benefit of not looking and simply nods.

After another moment of silence, he says, "You don't act like a thirteen-year-old."

Tony barks a laugh. "That's what happens when you grow up around adults, Captain."

There's a pause, then— "What did you call me?"

"Captain," Tony says unashamedly, hiding a wince as he stands, wiping his hands on his sweatpants. "You're the leader of your boy band, aren't you? You're the Captain of your rag tag group of somewhat American heroes."

Steve chuckles, swiping a hand over his hair. "Well, I guess so…"

"Now shut up," he says, sitting on the steps of the deck, beckoning Steve to sit beside him. "This is the best part."

Tony's chosen a good day to watch the sunrise. The sky is a color palette straight out of an art show. There are minute colors he can never name mixed in with the predominant strokes of bright purple and deep reds and oranges that spread like fire slowly over the sky. The two sit there for several minutes watching the day arrive. When the sun finally clears the tree tops, Steve lets out a breath of air.

"That was…something else," Steve says, and Tony can only nod.

Tony smiles and closes his eyes for just a moment. This, right here. This is the closest he ever feels to his mother, watching the sun rise over her garden.

It never lasts, but it's enough to keep him sane.

"Come on," Tony says, standing. "I want to check Bucky's wound."

…

All in all, Tony thinks, it's a lot better than it should be.

After just one dose of the antibiotic, the infection is almost gone, and after just six or seven hours, the wound is scabbed over.

"I'm not saying I'm not still a genius," Tony mumbles, wetting a rag to clean the wound once more before they leave, "but someone needs to explain this to me."

Bucky snorts. He's well enough to sit up, now, and Bruce sits beside him, tucked under his arm. When Tony had first come in, Bruce had been curled against Bucky's side, Bucky's arm secure around him, both sleeping soundly. Thor had been dozing in a chair next the Bucky's head, his snores light as his head hung on his chest, his arms crossed. Clint had been on one of the mattresses in one of the sleeping bags, and Natasha had been sitting guard, watching over them.

They were all awake, now, though, and all of them looked up at Tony's comment.

"It's a side effect of the testing they did on him," Steve said darkly, putting a protective hand on Bucky's shoulder. "He heals faster than normal."

"You could've mentioned that," Tony mutters, cranky from being awake for so long.

No one responds. Tony finishes cleaning the wound and tapes white gauze over it, then wraps his stomach with bandages to keep pressure on the wound.

"Well, I'm not sure exactly how fast you heal," Tony says, pulling a smaller first aid kit out of his large one and putting a few clean rolls of gauze, a few bandages, a roll of medical tape, the antibiotics, and the pain medication inside, along with some assorted band-aids and anti-bacterial ointment. "But change that tonight and tomorrow morning, then every 24 hours after that until it's closed up. Take the rest of the antibiotics, even if the infection stays away. If you run out and it's still bad, use some of the ointment."

He hands the kit to Natasha, who eyes him for a moment. "We can't take anything else from you."

"You aren't. I'm giving it to you." Tony says, all but shoving the kit in her hands. "I'm not sweating the cash, Anna Chapman."

Obviously, she knows exactly who that is, because she looks pissed.

"Just one hit, Steve," she mutters, handing Bruce the first aid kit and stalking around the bed. "Just one, then I'd be satisfied."

Tony can't hold in a snort.

"Anyways," Tony says, and he really doesn't know why he's dreading this moment. "You should go soon. People are going to start getting up, and then it'll be harder to sneak you out."

Steve nods, squaring his shoulders. "We'll leave in ten minutes. Buck, you wanna try walking around some?"

Tony pads quietly to the stairs as the six standing vigilantes converge on their friend, and Tony sees Bucky faintly blush under all the attention, pushing them away with half-hearted exasperation.

Huh. For some reason, that ache in his chest is back.

…

Tony may have gone a little overboard, judging by the looks on everyone's faces, but he's not sorry.

"Tony," Steve says, looking at the three backpacks Tony's just dumped in front of them, panting from the exertion. "No. You've helped us already, we can't—"

"Zip it, Golden Boy," Tony says decisively, still catching his breath. "One has food and water, one has clothes, one has some rolled up sleeping bags. You'll have to share. Not Big Guy," he says, nodding at Thor, who's supporting a bit of Bucky's weight. Tony's happy to see he's mostly walking on his own, though. "That would be a mess."

Steve's eyes are grateful beyond what Tony deserves, and it makes him uncomfortable.

Thor gives him a nod, a genuine smile on the guy's face, and while Natasha regards him critically, she nods, too. She comes forward and shoulders one of the backpacks, sticking her hand out. "Thanks for all your help, Stark."

"Oh, God," he says dramatically, but he takes her hand. "I'd rather be called Anthony. Don't call me Stark."

She smirks and steps back, and Tony realizes it's the closest she's come to a smile.

"Sorry about what I said about your mom," Clint says, looking sheepish as he picks up one of the other backpacks. "You're not so bad, little guy."

"Call me 'little guy' again and I'll shove you off my deck. What is it with you guys and nick names?"

"Says the one who's dropped 'Robo-Cop', 'Anna Chapman', 'Golden Boy', and 'Katniss' in about eight hours," Bucky mutters, and Tony won't admit it, but he's got a point.

"Um…" Bruce comes forward, timidly grabbing the remaining backpack. He struggles under the weight for a moment before swinging it around his shoulders, grabbing the straps, and standing up as straight as he can before the added weight can drag him down. "Thank you. For helping us, but especially for Bucky."

"Okay, this is getting ridiculous," Tony says, trying to hide the blush ghosting to his cheeks. "One collective thank you is enough. We don't all need to have a moment."

That draws a couple chuckles. Despite Bruce's protests, Steve effortlessly plucks the backpack from his shoulders and swings it onto his own, ruffles his hair, then sticks his hand out to Tony. "Just one more, then."

Tony looks at his hand and takes it, feeling a lot older than he really is. "You're welcome. Don't get caught."

Steve knows what he means, Tony can tell. Don't get caught. If you do, nobody'll be there for those kids.

What's he really thinking is: Nobody'll be there for me.

"We'll do our best."

They start to walk away, and the ache in Tony's chest is almost unbearable, now. He watches them as they cross the garden, and he knows, he knows it's a bad idea, but he sees the sun still rising and reflecting the small lily pond that he and his mother used to sit by…and he knows she'd want him to do this.

"Hey," he says, and they stop and turn.

He clears his throat and tries to look uncaring, shoving his hands in his pockets and looking away. "If you're ever out this way, and, uh…need a place to crash…you know where to find me."

Instead of looking surprised, Steve smiles and nods. "We may take you up on that."

And like a dream he can't quite hold onto, they disappear.

…

Two weeks later, as he flips on the news, Tony can't help but grin as he reads the headline:

"Leader of the Vigilante Group 'Avengers,' Steve Rogers, names himself 'Captain America.'"

A/N: Wow, look at me starting another story when I already have two in progress! Lol oops. I just really wanted to get this out there.

So this story is called Runaways, and it's loosely based off the plot of "To Save My Lost Soul" by Rikki Writinglover. If you haven't read their stuff and you like well-written Tony-centric stories with endless whump and fluff, go check them out, 100%! I PM'ed Rikki and they said I had permission to use their idea, so I'm so hyped to get this out there! It's an idea that's been bouncing around in my head for a while, and I think it's going to be the most complicated story yet. There's going to be a couple main plots and even more subplots. There's going to be action, and mysteries, and friendship, and betrayal, and allllllll the feels. I'm just really excited about it and I'd love to know what you think of the first chapter!

A couple things: Not every chapter will be this long. I just wanted to establish the storyline and get through their first interaction.

The first few chapters will be filled with time skips of all their interactions covering about two years before we really get into the heart of the plot, so Tony will be older than thirteen for the majority of this story.

It takes place in the US, but for the purpose of this fic, the legal age of adulthood is 21.

It won't be slash, it'll just be a bunch of highly emotional men and women who love each other a crap ton and are literally willing to do anything for each other okay

I don't know for sure what other MCU characters will be coming in, but review or PM me if you have a request, and I'll see what I can do!

I'm so excited to really start getting into this! It's going to be pretty long, so depending on how the arcs go, I may end up breaking it into a couple connected stories, but I don't know yet.

Please, let me know what you think! I'd love to get some feedback on this before I solidify the plot. But most importantly, I hope you enjoyed! Go check out my bio and my other stories if you have a minute :) Thanks so much!