Chapter 5
The kid came back six days later.
Tony was in his car, driving back from the compound, and he was alone because there was just no way that he was going to spend more than one minute in a confined space with Happy, the little traitor. Iron Man was not a murderer after all, and, well – Tony chuckled bitterly – he also wasn’t an Avenger anymore.
“You know the media better than anyone, Tones. They’ll get over it eventually,” Rhodey had said, smiled, and patted Tony’s shoulder.
“Why does it matter?” Romanoff had asked with a furrowed brow and honest confusion in her eyes.
Steve – Steve had been stubborn, unapologetic, unreasonable. “I’ll miss you,” he had said, when Tony had climbed into his car, as though they were talking about a beach vacation, as though the team wasn’t lost and disbanded.
Banner was gone. Thor was back home. Hawkeye was leaving and Tony – well, he didn’t know what exactly he was doing.
Taking a hiatus, he presumed, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. Adapting his focus, just a tiny bit, working on well-being, mental health, or medicine, for a change. That kind of stuff.
The prospect brought a faint smile to his face and, racing down the highway, he thought about the possibilities, the new directions and the fresh air lying ahead. He thought about how happy all of it would make Pepper.
In the city (sidling though backstreets because the media really was everywhere these days) his thoughts turned dark grey again. The battle was playing on repeat in his mind and he wondered, for the thousandth time, what he could have done differently, how he could have been faster and smarter and better at his job, but no matter what he did, no matter how tightly he gripped the steering wheel and how often he revved up the engine, Novi Grad fell over and over again.
By the time he pulled into the driveway, his thoughts had gone pitch black and he was using an unsustainable amount of energy to not think about the city or the lost lives or the face Steve had made when they had said their goodbyes.
When he spotted the kid and hit the brakes, his thoughts evaporated altogether.
The kid was standing in the usual spot, next to the trashcans, wearing the usual horrid, beat-down sneakers.
Beyond that, nothing about the scene was usual. The kid’s sudden reappearance was not usual. The tremor in his shoulders, the paleness of his skin and the shallow heaves of his chest, were not usual. The fear, the pain and the despair in his eyes were not usual, more, worse than that. They were alarming, terrifying, unacceptable. They made Tony’s heart freeze.
Before his brain could catch up to what the hell was going on, Tony was already reaching for the car door, his frost-nipped heart somewhere in his throat.
He hurried towards the kid, almost falling out of the car, watched the kid’s mouth move rapidly, no sound coming out, saw cold sweat run down the kid’s forehead, into his eyes, his brown eyes, strangely vacant –
Tony remembered, had seen that vacant look before, was suddenly watching blood, not sweat (too dark, almost black) trickle down the kid’s forehead –
He grabbed the kid by the shoulders and shook him.
“Kid,” he barked. Urgency and fear were slurring his words. “Kid. Kid. What’s going on?”
The kid stared at him. His mouth opened and closed and his eyes were huge, so huge, but there was no sound coming out and Tony didn’t understand, didn’t know what was happening.
“What’s going on?” he repeated, shouted, almost, because he needed to know, because his thoughts were running and running in circles.
What’s wrong? Why are you here? Why did you come back? What is wrong?
He gave the kid another shake, more firmly this time, and that seemed to do the trick.
Peter’s gaze cleared. “Mr. Stark,” he whispered in a strange, raspy voice. “Mr. Stark.”
“Kid, talk to me.”
Peter nodded fiercely. He wrestled a clunky and battered phone out of his pockets. “She called me, Mr. Stark,” he croaked, as though that was the worst sentence he had ever uttered, as though it would mean anything to Tony, anything at all.
“Who? Who called you?”
“May. My aunt. She called me.”
The wheels in Tony’s head were turning furiously.
Kidnapping, family death, abuse.
“Why did she call you?”
The kid took a shuddering breath and, God, he needed to give Tony something, anything.
“She – she… I think she took something?”
Addiction, overdose, hospital, death.
Tony could work with that.
“Do you know what?”
The kid shook his head and (no, no, no) tears welled up in his eyes. Tony tightened his grip on the kid’s shoulders, wondered if it hurt and found that he didn’t care because if he let go, surely Peter would shatter.
“Mr. Stark,” Peter whispered, pleaded. “Mr. Stark, I think – I think she did it on purpose.”
Suicide. No, not yet. Suicide attempt.
“When was that call? Was she coherent?” Tony snapped, his voice terribly harsh, unfairly so, maybe, but they should have gotten to work, like, two years ago.
“Not– not long ago. 10 minutes. I was– in– in the neighbourhood and I didn’t know what to do, so–“
“Kid.” Tony gave the kid another firm shake. “Was she coherent?”
A violent tremor seized Peter’s body, and, for a moment, Tony was scared he would collapse into his arms.
“Not really. She– she was crying and–” Peter sucked in a sharp breath. “And she said that she was sorry and then she just, she just–“
The tears spilled onto the kid’s cheeks and Tony could not deal with it. He could not deal with it. "It’s– we’ll call an ambulance.”
Why haven’t you just called a fucking ambulance already?
“No!” Peter shrieked. He slipped out of Tony’s grasp and, God, he was swaying, but there was a fiery sort of determination in his eyes. “They’ll take her away, Mr. Stark! They cannot take her away!”
Okay. Okay.
“Okay. I’ll take care of it, kid. Okay?” Tony scanned the driveway in desperation.
Take her away?
“We’ll drive. Kid, get in the car. We’ll drive.”
What else can we do?
Tony grabbed Peter’s elbow, dragged him towards the Audi and tossed him into the passenger seat.
Suicide attempt.
He could work with that.
“Where does she live?” he asked and slumped into his own seat, but he didn’t wait for Peter’s reply, just jammed the key into the ignition lock and started the engine.
“20 Ingram Street, apartment 3. We’re from Queens,” the kid whispered.
We. Okay. Okay. File for later.
“Friday, you heard the kid,” Tony barked.
“Starting the navigation, boss,” Friday replied in the mellow Irish accent Tony just couldn’t quite get used to.
Directions appeared on the car display, but Tony didn’t bother looking at them. He changed the car into reverse and sped out of the driveway – a dangerous and potentially deathly maneuver, but also a necessary one because they didn’t have time, no time at all.
Peter was trembling in his seat, keeping his sorry excuse of a phone in a death grip, as though he was hoping that it would, miraculously, light up with just the right caller ID.
This wasn’t right, Tony thought, as they raced down the street.
“It’s at least a twenty-minute drive, kid. Seventeen if we really push it,” he said and by really pushing it he meant ignoring all traffic lights and bribing a couple of police officers. Peter stared at him uncomprehendingly. Tony tightened his grip on the wheel. “It’s going to take too long, Pete.”
Peter shook his head violently. “Mr. Stark, sir, it has to be enough! I know a short-cut and– and she did it on purpose. They’re going to, they’re going to–“ The kid’s breathing grew shallow and too fast, way too fast.
Tony cut through the traffic, jumped a red light and ignored the furious honking that followed them down the street.
“Kid. Kid, you said she wasn’t responsive.”
The kid didn’t reply, just shook his head, breathing faster and faster and, shit, Tony could not deal with it.
“Peter,” he snapped. The kid froze. “Peter, we don’t have the time. Pull yourself together and think. I know you can think.”
Peter stared at him with frightened eyes, looking as though he was seriously considering jumping out of the speeding car and if that happened Tony would– it would just be over.
“I’ll take care of it,” Tony said, hoping it would be enough to nudge the kid away from such desperate measures. Really, what he wanted to say was It’ll be okay and You’ll be fine and I promise. But those words would have meant nothing, nothing at all.
“We don’t– we don’t have insurance,” the kid croaked and it made Tony pause for one whole second.
He turned the words over in his head. Insurance concerns– it was a reasonable sentiment, he would give the kid that, but, and he glanced at the kid’s pale face, a desperate excuse nonetheless.
He scoffed. “You want me to put a band aid on her boo-boo and call it a day? Kid, she needs a hospital.”
“But–“
“I’ll pay for the ambulance and every single hospital bill after. Hell, I’ll throw in a private yacht for all I care.”
The kid gasped in shock. “You can’t, Mr. Stark! You can’t do that!”
Tony zipped past an array of suicidal New York bicyclists and took a deep, calming breath. The old frustration, the dusty anger at the kid, weeks and weeks old, was bubbling beneath his skin.
“I’m Tony Stark, kid. Money isn’t an issue.”.
The kid gaped at him. “You’re– you’re Tony Stark,” he whispered.
Tony’s eyebrows wandered all the way to the back of his head and he wondered if the shock had finally done it for the kid.
“So, can’t you just… fly?” Peter asked timidly, desperation clouding his words.
“What?” Tony snapped. They didn’t have time for this.
“You’re Iron Man! Can’t you just use your suit? You will be fast enough and then they also won’t have to see her in the apartment and, and, and they won’t, they won’t–” The kid trailed off and took a hesitant, shaky breath, as though the boldness of his own words had frightened him.
“No.” Tony said, curtly.
The kid stared at him and Tony stared back, wondering if the kid had honestly expected him to say yes. The question was answered when the kid clenched his jaw muscles and squared his shoulders.
“Why not?” he asked, tensely, more than ready to put up a fight for his aunt.
Tony chuckled to himself and made a sharp left turn. The tires screeched and the kid was pushed into the passenger door. Tony glanced at him from the corner of his eye. Why not, he thought. Why not?
Because if right now, in the current political climate, Iron Man crashed into an apartment in Forest Hills, they wouldn’t be met by a few paramedics but by an army of cops or, hell, the goddamn national guard. Alternatively, if things went smoothly, Tony would get to enjoy his next morning piss with Nick fucking Fury on the line, congratulating him for the brilliant PR stunt and if that happened, Tony would die. He would just die. That was why not.
“Because you don’t have a suit and I’m not leaving you here,” was what Tony said instead.
“I don’t mind! I’ll just– just take the subway and– and give you the keys,” the kid sputtered eagerly.
They would not discuss this, Tony decided. They didn’t have time.
“No can do,” he said and, before the kid could argue, he added, “Friday, we need an ambulance.”
The kid gasped. Friday and Tony ignored him.
“Location and emergency?” Friday asked and Tony’s heart ached a little bit because it was in moments like this one that he really missed Jarvis, his quirks and all the lost protocols.
“Kid’s address. Suicide attempt. Overdose. Unresponsive. Get them there as fast as humanly possible,” Tony replied, paying no mind to the protest coming from the kid. He glanced at his watch.
10 more minutes. Just 10 more minutes.
“Fuck you,” Peter muttered.
That got Tony’s attention. He whirled his head around to stare at the kid in shock. The kid stared back with impossibly wide eyes. A trembling hand came up to cover his mouth, as though he was realizing then and there and very belatedly that he had just insulted Iron Man.
“You were not supposed to do that,” he whispered faintly. “You were not supposed to call them.”
“You show up on my doorstep, you play by my rules,” Tony barked with the same steely edge to his voice that had sent the kid running all those weeks ago and if Tony had just kept his cool back then, if he hadn't sounded like that, then maybe, maybe the kid wouldn't be crying and shaking in his car right now.
He shook his head firmly (he had no time for this. No time), willed the memory away and forced his attention back to the street.
Houses were rushing by, pedestrians stumbling out of the way and bicyclists fleeing onto the sidewalk. Tony perked his ears, listened for the threatening wail of police sirens, didn’t hear any and jumped another traffic light. They didn’t have time and he was just being responsible for once in his life.
He sneaked a side glance at the kid, sitting next to him, stiff as a poker, unmoving. His hands were still clasped tightly over his mouth and silent, disbelieving tears were running down his cheeks.
They can’t take her away.
A foul taste coated Tony’s tongue. Maybe, if he had kept his cool...
“Pete,” he said, “she needs help fast. I’ll handle the rest.” The words I promise threatened to slip past his lips and they were so heavy and meaningful that he was almost thankful when Peter interrupted him.
“No, no, no. You don’t understand. You don’t!” Peter was shaking his head vigorously, squeezing his eyes shut and breathing so fast. “She’s all I have, Mr. Stark. She’s all that’s left and I can’t– I can’t–“
Tony sighed. A headache was building up behind his eyes. He took one hand off the wheel – a risky, borderline idiotic move considering his current speed – and hesitantly placed it on Peter’s scrawny knee. “I gotcha, kid. You can’t lose her. That’s why we called help. To make sure you don’t lose her.”
Clammy fingers found his own and he almost collided with a hearse. Cursing, he yanked the wheel around, but Peter’s hand only tightened on his, bitten nails digging into his flesh, not letting go.
“No,” Peter whispered. A tear dropped onto Tony’s thumb. “They’re going to take her away. I should have– we used to be able to stop it.”
Tony froze. “Stop what?” he asked, dumbly, because he knew what, of course he did, but the question seemed to be just what Peter had been waiting for.
His fingers slackened in Tony’s hand. His voice grew strangely distant. “I remember it from when they had just taken me in. She went all weird, sometimes, for a few days and she didn’t talk and didn’t get up and– and,” the kid swallowed heavily, “Ben would say that she’s in the ‘dark place’ and that we’d have to get her out. We’d cook for her and stuff and watch movies and she’d be back to normal. Everything– everything was good, but– but– but– “
The kid fell silent and Tony almost hoped it would stay that way because he didn’t like this story. He didn’t like it one bit and he didn’t want to hear it.
“And then Uncle Ben– he was suddenly gone,” Peter continued in his strange, far-away voice. “He was alive one day and then– they shot him. They shot him and I watched it happen, Mr. Stark. I was there and I didn’t, I didn’t, I didn’t–“
Tony’s heart clenched, something painful settling into the pit of his stomach. He felt Peter’s eyes on him and wondered if he should say something, anything to make this better, but how was he supposed to do that when he couldn’t even look at the kid?
“I tried to get her out of the dark place afterwards. Without him. I did. I tried everything Ben had shown me, everything that used to be enough, and I cooked and I cleaned her sheets and all that, but I couldn’t get her out, Mr. Stark. I just don’t know how.”
Out.
They were a few minutes out. Just a few more minutes. Tony could do this.
He clenched his teeth, cut past a hilariously slow Citroen in front of them and tightened his grip on Peter’s hand.
He could do this.
“She has good days sometimes. Yeah. She does,” the kid said, his voice a bit steadier now. From the corner of his eye, Tony could see him nodding to himself, a stubborn, determined expression etched on his face. “The good days are nice. We go to the park sometimes or order Chinese, but– she lost her job, Mr. Stark, not too long ago, and most days she’s just not there. I’m trying so hard to keep everything together at home because she’ll get better. I’m trying so hard and she will get better, I know it, but sometimes, sometimes it’s just…” The kid trailed off.
Tony wanted to punch himself in the face, pull his own teeth, scratch his own skin raw.
It’s what I do. I look for old tech and I fix it and I sell it on– on eBay.
Fuck.
He should have looked the kid up. He should have done something.
“And now they’re going to know, Mr. Stark and they’ll take her away, but they can’t do that because she’s all I have. She’s all I have.”
The last words were nothing more than a choked sob and Tony’s heart was aching. Guilt, buckets and buckets of it were bubbling in his veins. He wanted to say It’ll be alright and I promise and I’ll do anything but it didn’t feel right. The kid deserved better.
Tentatively, he drew a small, stuttering circle on the back of the kid’s hand with his thumb, just the way Pepper always did, when he startled awake screaming during one of their rare nights together.
The kid had fallen silent, the words dead in his throat, his fingers clammy in Tony’s hand. He was staring straight ahead with wide, horrified eyes, tears rolling down his cheeks as street signs rushed past and they got closer and closer to his home.
When they were just two streets away, Tony couldn’t stand the silence anymore. He cleared his throat. “Don’t you worry,” he said, as though it would mean anything to the kid. “I’ll take care of it.”
Peter nodded weakly. His anger was long gone, replaced by the vacant expression that made Tony feel queasy. Tony wanted to wipe it off the kid’s face, turn around in a screeching U-turn and, with the help of a drink or two, forget any of this had ever happened, but the kid’s fingers were still clutching his hand, and so he kept drawing stuttering circles in silence, promising himself that he would take care of this.
One minute later, they came to a stuttering halt in front of a run-down apartment building. Tony listened intently, hand frozen on the wheel, and he hoped, prayed that he wouldn’t have to deal with this on his own, but after a long moment of listening he had to admit to himself that the only things to hear were the rush of the evening traffic and the rustling of an emaciated stray cat rummaging around the overflowing trashcans. His heart plummeted.
“They’re not here yet,” Peter whispered, “They’re not here.” He opened his door and stumbled out of the car.
Tony followed hesitantly. He needed an ambulance or Rhodey or Pepper or anyone, anyone who could help him out here because what was he doing? What the hell was he doing?
He watched in silence, rooted on the spot, as the kid stumbled towards the front door and began to fumble with the key, not quite getting it into the lock, not knowing what direction to turn it. It was a pathetic sight, the kid growing more erratic by the second, and Tony wanted to snatch the key from the kid’s hand and do it himself, but his legs wouldn’t listen to him.
Finally, finally the door clicked and swung open. The kid’s shoulders relaxed. Without as much as a glance in Tony’s direction, he slipped through the door, into the house.
Tony tore his legs away from where they had become one with the floor and lunged for the door before it could snap shut. His fingers were numb, his heart was pounding and everything inside him screamed to stop now and reconsider because this was not his area, but he could hear the kid dash up the stairs and he couldn’t leave him like this, not now and not here. He swallowed, forced his heart to slow down and the blood to flow back into his hands, and took a tentative step into the house.
Stale air and the distinct smell of old shoes welcomed him. He steadied himself on a piss-yellow wall. This was not what he was used to. This was different and strange and confusing.
The kid's pounding footsteps were getting quieter and Tony had to hurry, had to pull himself together if he wanted to protect the kid from what was lurking inside that apartment and erase that vacant expression once and for all.
He let go of the wall and rushed towards the staircase. The beaten steps creaked under his feet as he sprinted up the stairs, desperately trying to catch up to the kid and keep the bubbling panic in his chest under control.
On the second floor, he almost collided with Peter, who was standing in front of a faded, blue door, staring at a withered Christmas wreath dangling over the peephole and waiting – waiting for him.
Tony panted and wiped a drop of sweat from his forehead. The kid turned around, wide eyes and dried tears, and regarded him with a long, expectant look. Tony nodded slowly.
Peter didn’t even hesitate before punching the key into the lock, pushing open the door and hurrying inside.
All in all, he gave Tony very little time indeed to mentally prepare for what was coming and, following the kid through the door, much slower, much more terrified, Tony had all of two seconds to take in the apartment.
It was cozy, he thought distantly, decorated with family pictures and childish watercolor paintings and not nearly as messy as he had expected. There were no week-old dishes piling in the kitchen, no heaps of smelly laundry littering the floor, and no mangy rodents running over his toes.
I’m trying so hard to keep everything together at home.
Indeed, you are, kid. You are.
In fact, and the realization made Tony shudder, there wasn’t much of anything. The apartment was strangely empty – no living room couch, no TV, no stacked bookshelves or snack boxes, just a battered dining table and a stained carpet and on that carpet–
Peter, was by the woman’s side in an instant, patting her cheek, whispering her name, pale and trembling, begging her to answer, and Tony–
Tony was standing in the stuffy apartment, doing nothing but watching.
The woman – Aunt May – was sprawled over the carpet, next to a worryingly dark pool of vomit and an empty box of pills. Her face was pale, almost blueish. Sweat had gathered on her forehead and she was thin, dangerously so. Of course, she was also neither moving nor talking nor– was she breathing?
Tony regained control over his legs. He stumbled towards the woman and knelt down next to her, knees making twin dips into the carpet. Ignoring Peter’s increasingly desperate mumbling (no time, no time, no time), he felt for a pulse on the woman’s (cold, clammy) neck. For a terrible second, his heart clenching and crushing his lungs, he found nothing. Then, finally his trembling fingers picked up on it – a pulse, sluggish and slow, unsteady, but there.
He leaned back to pry Peter’s trembling hands from the woman’s body - “I’m sorry, Pete. I’m sorry, but we have to reposition her. Come on.” – and carefully rolled her onto her side.
One, two, three. A deep breath.
He pushed his fingers into the woman’s mouth. Her (slimy and warm) tongue was where it was supposed to be and not halfway down her throat. Good. She, apparently, had also managed to get all of the vomit out on her own. Thank God.
Tony sighed in relief, and pulled his hand out of her mouth, wiping it on the carpet. He picked up the pill box and examined it in the dull evening light streaming through the fogged windows.
Vicodin.
Tony dropped the box. It landed softly on the fluffy carpet.
He hated it. He hated it.
Next to him, Peter was not shaking anymore. Instead, and infinitely worse, he was stiff on his knees, staring unseeingly at his aunt, mouth slack with terror.
“She’s alive,” Tony said, regarding the pills with one last, disgusted look. “She’s alive, kid. Come on.”
Peter whimpered.
Tony squeezed his eyes shut. The stench of vomit and something else (something rotten?) was making them water. He breathed against the stench, counted – one, two, three – and forced his eyes open again, had to.
“Peter,” he tried once more, but the kid still didn’t reply, just stared and stared and stared, that terrible vacant expression on his face.
With creaking knees and popping joints Tony crawled closer to the kid, and (one, two, three) placed a hand (the clean one) on his shoulder. He squeezed.
Peter’s head whipped around. Terror-stricken, vacant eyes found Tony’s.
Vacant. Terribly, terribly vacant.
Tony tried his hardest not to flinch and hold that (terrible, terrible) unseeing gaze. Peter’s mouth opened and closed, no words, only a soft, throaty whimper, coming out.
“I know, kid,” Tony murmured nonetheless. “I know.”
Peter shook his head, curls bobbing from side to side, eyes dancing manically. “Mr. Stark,” he whispered, “Mr. Stark. She did it on purpose, Mr. Stark. On purpose.”
Tony dug his fingers into the fabric of the kid’s shirt and watched fearfully as the kid swayed on his knees.
“Mr. Stark. Sir,” the kid croaked and Tony’s heart would not survive this day. It would shatter and burst and there was nothing he could to about it.
“It’s okay,” he said, whispering those dreaded words and biting back an empty promise. “We’ve just got to keep her safe until the ambulance arrives.”
Which had to be any minute now, had to be, because otherwise none of them would make it, least of all that woman.
“They’ll take her, Mr. Stark. They’ll take her,” the kid whimpered and squeezed his eyes shut and Tony couldn’t help it. He was a tiny bit relieved to be rid of that vacant gaze.
He stole a glance at the woman and – now that he didn’t have to think of her as a corpse anymore – detected the hitching, comforting heaves of her chest. The iron grip on his heart loosened marginally.
“She– she wanted to leave me,” the kid choked out and Tony’s gaze whipped back. “I wasn’t there. I didn’t help. I didn’t do anything and now they’re, they’re, they’re–“
The kid tilted forwards, suddenly, the strength draining from his body. Tony caught him by the shoulders, slack and empty. His fingers pressed into the kid’s collarbone. He hesitated, breathed in, breathed out, sucked in the sour stench of sick and something rotten and (one, two, three) carefully lowered the kid’s head onto his lap.
He would fix this. He would, somehow, even though he still couldn’t hear any sirens, even though the kid’s tears were dampening his jeans.
“It’s okay,” he murmured, pressing his palms to the kid’s wet cheeks in a clumsy attempt at comfort. “You’re okay, Peter.”
I will fix this. I will.
The kid whimpered. A pale hand grasped onto Tony’s shirt and Tony tugged the kid closer, awkwardly tried to encircle his small, shuddering shoulders, but it was no hug, not really. It was him running out of options, him trying to somehow keep the kid together.
Somehow.
“You’re okay. You’re okay,” Tony murmured, an empty, meaningless mantra, but he repeated it again and again because he was desperate and it was better than listening to the kid’s whimpers, doing nothing.
He tightened his arms around the kid, murmuring and whispering, watched the woman’s chest rise and fall and prayed that the ambulance would reach them soon because God knew they needed it. There was a woman dying on the floor and a kid sobbing in his arms and he didn’t know what to do. He didn’t know.
His fingers, desperately running through Peter’s damp curls, were itching for his phone. He could order a suit now, have it here in a few minutes and then he would take care of this in the only way familiar to him. He would crash through the badly insulated concrete walls of this god-awful building and fly the woman to the hospital himself; the national guard and the headlines be damned. Or, on second thought, he could just call Happy, that damned man, have him pick them up as soon as possible, hell, land a fucking helicopter on the roof with Doctor Cho in the backseat.
Yes, Tony would just– he would just do that.
Peter stiffened in his arms.
‘What’s wrong?’ Tony wanted to ask, but didn’t because that was a stupid question, considering that the kid’s aunt was currently drooling into the carpet. Instead, he rubbed a hand over the kid’s knotted back in what he hoped was a comforting manner and was just about to let loose another meaningless string of platitudes, when the kid howled in despair and Tony heard it, too.
Sirens were wailing in the distance.
They were here. They were finally here and for a brief moment Tony’s heart danced with joy.
Then, the kid wrestled himself free from Tony’s embrace and scrambled to his knees. The back of his head collided painfully with Tony’s chin and the kid stared at him with huge, shiny eyes, shaking his head so fast that his brain was surely bouncing off of the sides of his skull.
“No, no, no!” he cried, fresh tears spilling onto his cheeks and, Jesus, what had he expected? What had he expected to happen? Had he thought that Tony would just drive them to the hospital, that they would be out in the matter of minutes, no questions asked, this whole fucked-up situation going unchecked?
Peter was not a naïve kid. He was quick-witted and considerate. He was cautious and smart. How could he have thought that this wasn’t so bad, that, somehow, Tony would find an easy, minimal impact solution? How could he not have understood that this – the overdose, the empty flat, the dumpster diving, everything – was not okay? How could he be hyperventilating, shaking, crying because of that woman on the floor, that woman, who had done nothing to take care of him in what appeared to be months?
“Pete,” Tony said, briskly, and caught the kid by the shoulders. “Pete, I’ll take care of it, okay? I’ll take care of it.”
The kid’s head stilled almost too quickly. He licked his lips. “Promise?” he breathed, barely enough air in his lungs to force out the words, staring Tony square in the eyes.
“Promise,” Tony said firmly before he could stop himself.
The words hung heavy in the air between them and Tony’s heart sunk to his stomach. He wished he could suck the promise back in and hide it behind his teeth where it wouldn’t be so damn momentous. He wished he would have thought twice before speaking, wished he could give Peter something more meaningful, something real.
Peter, though, seemed to be satisfied. Some of the tension left his body and he slumped into himself, brown, teary eyes never leaving Tony’s.
“Okay,” he whispered. “Okay.”
Tony’s heart sped up, pounding violently against his ribs and furtive determination blossomed in his heart because the kid was looking at him as though he believed Tony could fix this, fix everything.
---
Just minutes later, paramedics were pouring into the apartment.
Tony and Peter were standing in the kitchen, a few feet away from the action, watching in grim silence as the paramedics swarmed around the woman and got to work.
They were taking vitals, noting observations and barking out orders and Tony was beginning to wonder if, in the heat of the moment, they had forgotten all about him and the shaking kid at his side, when a big, bearded paramedic turned around to face them.
He held up the empty pill box. “She’s a habitual user?” he asked, curtly, face red and sweaty, ready to get back to work.
“No!” Peter exclaimed, his voice thick with emotion and fear or, maybe, shock.
The paramedic gave Peter a long look, evidently picking up on a piece of information that he filed away for later, but he didn’t say anything, didn’t even nod, just stared for a moment longer and turned his back on them.
Peter was clenching and unclenching his fists, watching with bright eyes as his aunt was wrapped into a thermal blanket and heaved onto a stretcher. When the stretcher was lifted up and maneuvered through the open front door, he swayed dangerously on his feet.
Tony hesitated only a moment (one, two, go) before slinging an arm around the kid’s shoulder.
Together, they scurried out of the apartment, following the paramedics down the creaking stairs, and, finally, out of that horrid house, into the fresh evening air – no vomit, nothing rotten.
Tony took a deep breath, relished the relief that the cool air brought. Peter twitched under his arm when they spotted the ambulance awaiting them. Silently, they stepped closer and watched as the paramedics heaved the stretcher into the back, made it disappear from their line of sight.
Tony took another deep breath, felt his heart slow and the chaos in his mind settle.
The kid wheezed.
“You’re okay,” Tony murmured, wondering absentmindedly if Peter would crumble again, if he would fall apart again, with Tony watching, unable to do anything – “You’re okay, kid.”
The bearded paramedic stuck his head (even more red and significantly sweatier than before) out of the ambulance and stared down at them, an unsettling graveness in his eyes.
“You’re related?” he asked.
“Yes,” Peter said immediately, trying hard to get his breathing under control, “I’m– I’m her, her nephew. I live with her.”
The paramedic nodded. He turned his attention to Tony, scanned his face, met his eyes and froze. His jaw went slack.
Tony did not have time for this. He raised an eyebrow.
The paramedic stared for a moment longer, before clearing his throat. Quickly and with mediocre success, he schooled his features back into an impassive, professional mask.
“You?” he asked and Tony was pleased to see that the man’s awe had not impaired his eloquence in the slightest.
“I’m with the kid,” he said curtly, but the paramedic was not deterred.
“But not related to the patient?”
Tony shot Peter a questioning look, wondering if he should, well, stretch the truth, create his own reality and trust that his wealth and his reputation would allow him to cut his family tree to shape.
“No,” the kid said, very quietly and very quickly and Tony stared at him.
That, he had to admit, had come unexpected. “Well,” he began, ready to smooth over the creases, but the paramedic, whose audacity, apparently, had also remained unimpaired, interrupted him.
“The boy can ride with us, but it’s family only. Sorry.” He shrugged apologetically.
Tony tightened his arm around Peter. “Listen, chum, I don’t think you quite understand the situation here. He’s, a minor – you know, the thing where you can’t do stuff on your own – and that person in your pretty car there, is,” all he has, “his aunt. His only caregiver.” Apparently.
He stared at the paramedic expectantly. “I’m coming with him,” he clarified, after a moment, when the only indication that the paramedic had even heard him was a fresh crease on his shiny forehead.
“Well, you can’t. Sorry, it’s just policy, is all. You can come to St. Mary’s later or, you know, call in?”
The paramedic’s voice was filled with the sort of strained patience that was so particular to his profession.
Tony rolled his eyes.
They had no time for this.
He tried to climb into the ambulance with Peter stuck to his side, completely and deliberately ignoring the incredulous expression on the paramedic’s face. They had made it one step when the kid froze, refusing to budge.
“Mr. Stark,” he whispered, in a strangely pleading tone.
The booming voice of the paramedic cut in before the kid could say anything else. Apparently, his patience was as short-lived as it was strained.
“Sorry, sir, but it’s our policy. You can, you know, drive the kid yourself, but, you know,” he gestured at the stretcher behind him, “we really need to get going.”
Peter tensed. He slipped out of Tony’s grip. “Mr. Stark,” he said again, his eyes fearful. “Please. I need to.”
Tony swallowed.
For the kid. For the kid, not for that bearded asshole.
“Okay,” he said, clearing his throat and straightening his back. “Okay. You go on. I’ll– I’ll catch up.”
The paramedic pulled the kid up, into the ambulance, without another word and Tony was going to file a complaint or something, because Peter was a minor and because he had promised–
“I’ll see you there,” Peter called over his shoulder, a question more than a statement.
“For sure, kid,” Tony said, trying for a reassuring smile and, most likely, failing.
The kid offered a pained grin in return. Then, the paramedic pushed him into a seat next to the stretcher and the doors were shut behind him.
The engine roared to life; the sirens started to wail and Tony watched the ambulance race down the street. It disappeared around the corner and, after a while, the wailing was drowned out by the sounds of the city.
Tony stood alone in Queens, in a lower middle-class neighborhood, in front of a glum, unfamiliar apartment building. He rubbed one hand over his throbbing chin and pressed the other one against his pounding forehead.
Fuck.
His legs moved on their own accord, hurrying, sprinting towards his Audi. He threw open the door and slipped behind the wheel.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
The engine revved up. Side mirror, shoulder check, blinking – it didn’t matter. He was racing down the street, one hand gripping the steering wheel, the other one fumbling his phone out of his pocket.
His fingers had dialed the number before he realized what he was doing.
“Tony?”
He cleared his throat.
Fuck.
“The one and only.” His voice felt hoarse and scratchy.
“What’s going on?” Pepper asked, sounding exasperated and a bit uncertain.
Tony opened his mouth and closed it again. The thick something was back, wedged between his vocal cords.
“What’s going on?” Pepper repeated and this time she sounded scared.
Tony wanted to reply, would have loved to, but his eyes were burning and his face was hot. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, fighting against the something that was threatening to spill over. The car jolted over the curb stone and he cursed loudly.
“Tony? Tony, are you driving?”
“Yeah, yeah, very sorry,” he croaked and it sounded terribly, terribly desperate even to his own ears.
“Pepper, listen and don’t freak out.“
He was freaking out. He was freaking out.
“Everything's alright, I promise, but I am kind of on my way to the hospital.”