Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Tony pov:

Tony had been an Avenger for four years, and ever since they’d taken down Thanos, the team had drifted back into their own lives. Weeks passed without a single emergency or call-in, leaving Tony alone with the one thing that never mixed well with him, boredom.

Rain hammered against the tower windows in relentless sheets, the storm outside doing nothing to quiet the restlessness inside him. He was elbows-deep in half-finished projects, pulling wires apart just to put them back together, when he finally gave up and reached for a beer.

That’s when the doorbell rang.

Tony froze, hand hovering over the fridge handle. Nobody just showed up at his door. Not anymore.

He walked out of the lab, heading for the foyer, and the second he opened the door, the storm seemed to spill inside.

A girl stood there, maybe sixteen, seventeen, drenched from the downpour. Dark brown hair plastered to her cheeks, hazel eyes wide and wary. She clutched a soaked duffel bag to her chest. Behind her stood a woman with light brown hair and sharp green eyes, her arms crossed, face set like stone.

“She’s yours, Tony,” the woman snapped before he could get a word out. “I’m done dealing with this monster.”

She pushed the girl forward. The kid stumbled into Tony’s entryway, protesting, “Wait, stop! Don’t just—!”

The door slammed in her face.

Silence followed, broken only by the pounding rain.

Tony stared at the girl. The girl stared at Tony.

And for the first time in a long time, Tony Stark had absolutely no idea what to do.

--- Y/ns pov.

I got suspended. Again.

Late October, cold enough for the windows to fog, and this was the third time they’d hauled me into the office. “What is wrong with you, Y/N!?” my mom shouted, her voice sharp enough to make the mirrors vibrate. I sat in the back seat, staring at the floor mats, the bruise on my ribs throbbing with every bump in the road.

“You got into a fight! And he ended up in the hospital! You’re lucky his parents aren’t filing a lawsuit!” She gripped the steering wheel so tight her knuckles went white. I didn’t answer. I just turned to the window and watched the city blur by.

New York was still trying to piece itself together after the battle with Thanos. Whole blocks were fenced off, construction cranes everywhere. A massive crater still split one district in half, the spot where Iron Man had fired that beam. Posters hung on the construction walls, plastered with a bold slogan:

“Anyone who stands up to a bully is an Avenger.”

I guess that made me… what?
A villain?
A mistake?

“A monster, Y/N,” my mom said, as if reading my thoughts. She didn’t even glance back at me. Just dropped the word like it was fact.

Monster.
I’d been called that more times than I could count, since kindergarten. You’d think I’d be used to it by now, that the word would bounce off me like rubber. But it doesn’t. It sticks. Like tree sap on your fingers, thick, stubborn, impossible to wash off. Every time someone repeats it, it clings harder.

But I swallowed it down, like I always did.

“I can’t handle you any longer,” she said, voice cracking in a way that made it sound like she’d already made this decision a long time ago. “I’m sending you to your father.”

I froze.

My father.
The man she never talked about.
The man I didn’t even know I still had.

I jerked upright just as she turned down a Manhattan street, my heart climbing into my throat. When the car stopped, I lifted my eyes, and froze again.

We were parked at the foot of the Avengers Tower.

My jaw hung open, breath caught somewhere between disbelief and panic. Before I could even form a question, my mom reached back, grabbed my arm, and pushed me out of the car and into the pouring rain.

The door slammed.

Mom stormed up the steps without looking back at me, her heels splashing through the rain puddles. She balled her hand into a fist and slammed it against the door, hard enough that I flinched. The sound echoed through the empty entryway like a gunshot.

We waited.

One minute.
Two.
Three.

I stood there shivering, soaked to the bone, clutching my duffel like it might shield me from whatever was about to happen. I kept thinking, Who the hell lives in Avengers Tower now? Is it even really them? Is this a joke? A mistake?

Then the door swung open.

Tony Stark himself stood there.

Grease smeared his hands and forearms, as if he’d been wrist-deep in machinery. His black T-shirt was wrinkled, jeans worn in, and his hair, God, his hair looked like he’d lost a fight with an electrical outlet. He blinked at us in confusion like he hadn’t expected anyone, let alone… this.

He didn’t even get a chance to speak.

Mom shoved me forward so hard I stumbled into the doorway. “She’s yours, Tony,” she snapped, voice ringing with exhaustion and anger. “I’m done dealing with this *monster*.”

“Wait, stop! Don’t just—!” I reached back for her, but she was already stepping away.

The door slammed.
The lock clicked.
The rain swallowed her footsteps.

Silence pressed down on me.

Tony stared at the closed door for a long second, then at me, like he was trying to figure out if this was a prank, a hallucination, or some cosmic punishment. He ran a hand through his messy hair, leaving a streak of grease behind.

“…Right,” he muttered, rubbing his forehead. “Okay. So. This is happening.”

And for the first time in my life, I wasn’t sure if I wanted to run… or cry.

Chapter Text

The place was huge.

Way bigger than anything I’d ever imagined someone actually living in. I sat stiffly on this massive sectional couch, soft, too soft, facing a TV the size of an entire classroom whiteboard. An electric fireplace flickered under it, throwing warm light across the room, and off to the side was a whole bar setup like something out of a movie.

It all felt wrong. Beautiful, expensive… and wrong. Like I didn’t belong anywhere near it.

Tony sat across from me, arms crossed, expression tight. He asked questions, basic ones at first. Name. Age. School. What happened. I answered them with the same sharp edge I always used, the only armor I had left. Every time I snapped back with a quip or attitude, his eye twitched.

Like he saw a reflection of himself in me and absolutely hated that possibility.

Then he hit me with a question I didn’t expect.

“So… are you smart?”

I stared at him. Of all things, of all things, that’s what he wanted to know?

“Why do you care?” I shot back automatically.

His frown deepened, and something in his expression shifted, like I’d just given the wrong answer to a test I didn’t know I was taking. He stood up without a word and started walking toward the bar.

Fine. Great. Another adult disappointed. Add it to the pile.

He grabbed a glass but didn’t pour anything, just held onto it like it kept him anchored. “You’ll stay in one of the guest floors,” he said, voice flat. “There’s about thirty rooms. Pick one. Don’t break anything. Don’t touch anything that looks expensive—which is everything.”

I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. The bruise on my side throbbed, the couch suddenly feeling too soft, like it wanted to swallow me whole. The tower was warm, comfortable, safe… and somehow that made my chest hurt worse.

Because I didn’t trust it.
Didn’t trust him.
Didn’t trust myself.

Mom’s voice echoed in my head like poison:

Monster. Monster. Monster.

I stared at the floor so he wouldn’t see the heat burning behind my eyes.

“Right,” I muttered. “Got it.”

Tony hesitated, glancing back at me like he didn’t know what to do with a kid who looked like she’d been dropped out of the sky and set on fire on the way down.

“…We’ll figure this out,” he said finally.

But I could tell, just from the way his shoulders stiffened, from the way he didn’t meet my eyes, that he wasn’t talking to me.

He was talking to himself.

--- Tony's pov

I watched the kid walk down the hall, shoulders tight, steps too careful, like she expected the floor to vanish under her at any second. And yeah… I felt a little bad about what I’d said. Not enough to apologize, but enough that it twisted something uncomfortably in my chest.

Great. Fantastic. Emotional discomfort. My favorite.

I pushed the thought away and turned back to the bar, grabbing the whiskey bottle with a little more force than necessary. I poured a glass, the amber liquid sloshing dangerously close to the rim. I took a long swallow, letting it burn a clean path down my throat.

“Friday,” I said, setting the glass down with a soft clink, “list the best boarding schools available. Preferably far away, expensive, and with a track record of turning little terrors into functional adults.”

A soft hum filled the room as Friday processed.
Then her voice came through the speakers, too calm, too logical, too… judgmental.

“Compiling a list now, sir. However, may I suggest exploring alternative options? Y/N is young, and---”

“---and a walking attitude problem,” I snapped. “Yeah, I noticed.”

“Sir,” Friday continued, completely ignoring my tone because she was built to be more emotionally stable than her creator, “she has been in your home for less than fifteen minutes. It may be premature to—”

“To what?” I cut in. “To admit I’m not parent material? To pretend she isn’t already planning to steal the silverware? To—”

“You do not own silverware, sir.”

I blinked.
“…That’s not the point.”

“It is worth noting,” Friday added, “that her speech patterns, emotional defenses, and combative tendencies closely mirror yours at her age.”

I froze mid-sip.

“Okay, one: rude. Two: absolutely not. Three: run that comparison again and delete the results.”

“Understood,” she said, though I could practically hear the digital eye-roll. “Would you still like the boarding school list?”

I didn’t answer right away. I just stared into the bottom of my glass, listening to the muffled hum of the tower, the air systems, the faint buzz of machinery, the soft echo of footsteps disappearing down the hall.

The kid had an attitude.
A sharp tongue.
A chip on her shoulder the size of a small asteroid.

And God help me… I hated how familiar it felt.

“Yeah,” I said finally, gripping the glass tighter. “Send the list.”

Even as the words left my mouth, I knew I wasn’t convincing anyone, not Friday, not myself.

Not really.

---

I skimmed through the list of boarding schools, half-reading, half-pretending that shipping the kid off was a real solution, when Friday chimed in.

“Sir, an injury has been detected.”

I froze. “Define injury.”

“A bruise has been pinged on Y/N’s right abdomen,” Friday reported. A holographic model of the girl popped up, a bright red mark pulsing on her side.

I stared at it too long. Too still.

Then I exhaled sharply, pushing up from the chair. “Of course. Great. Why not add medical neglect to the list of surprises today?” I grabbed a first-aid kit from under the bar, yes, I keep it under the bar, don’t question i it, and headed for the door.

“Tell her I’m coming in,” I said.

“Notifying her now, sir.”

I knocked once before pushing the door open.

Y/N sat on the edge of the bed, back turned, her shirt halfway lifted as she tried to look at the bruise herself. She didn’t even bother looking at me.

“What do you want?” she snapped, voice sharp enough to cut.

I ignored it. I’d been stabbed with worse attitudes. “Friday says you’ve got a bruise. I’m here to help.”

That got her attention. She shot me a glare over her shoulder. “Your robot is scanning me? That’s… not creepy at all.”

I rolled my eyes. “She scans the whole tower. Security measure. Calm down. Now let me see it.”

She hesitated, long enough that I almost asked again, but finally lifted her shirt just enough to show the injury.

A deep, ugly purple stain spread across her ribs, blooming outward like someone had thrown a punch way too hard, and aimed to hurt.

My jaw clenched, but I kept my face blank as I sat down beside her and opened the kit. No point in scaring the kid off when she already looked like a kicked dog.

“What happened?” I asked, keeping my voice level.

“Not telling you.”

Of course she wasn’t. Of course.

I let out a slow breath and pressed the bandage pad against her skin.

She flinched hard.

I immediately gentled my touch, more carefully than I meant to, honestly. The reaction caught me off guard. Hers and mine.

“Alright,” I said quietly, more to myself than her. “Easy. I’ve got it.”

She didn’t look at me, but her shoulders lowered just a fraction, like she wasn’t sure whether to trust me or bolt.

And for some reason, that felt worse than the bruise.

---

Y/Ns pov

When Tony finished bandaging me up, I didn’t know how to feel.

Safe, maybe.
Calm, definitely.
And I hated it.

That wasn’t an emotion I trusted. Not from adults. Not from anyone. It sat heavy in my chest, uncomfortable and unfamiliar, like wearing someone else’s jacket, warm, but not mine.

I stared down at my hands, trying to focus on the small cuts across my knuckles instead of the weird tightness in my throat.

Tony cleared his throat. “Ever had shawarma?”

I blinked up at him. He had a small, crooked smile, like he wasn’t sure if the joke would land.

I shook my head.

“Alright,” he said, nodding once. “I’ll order some. You’re not allergic to anything, right?”

I shook my head again.

“Good. Meet me at the dinner table in twenty.” He shrugged. “Or don’t. Whatever.”

Then he walked out, casual as always, leaving me sitting there with a bandaged side and emotions I didn’t want.

I let out a long breath, half sigh, half choke, when my phone buzzed in my lap. I picked it up.

-MOM blocked you.

The words hit harder than the punch that gave me the bruise.

I swallowed, staring at the screen until the letters blurred, then shut the phone off before anything could break in me.

My stomach growled. Loudly. And honestly? I was too tired to fight that battle too.

I pushed myself up and stepped out of the room.

The hallway was quiet, echoing slightly with every step I took. Halfway down, a painting caught my eye, Captain America and Iron Man shaking hands, both smiling like they’d just saved the world.

I stopped.

Stared.

Thought about the fact that, apparently, my dad was one of them. A superhero. A man people worshipped. And me?

I was the kid who got suspended. The one who threw punches. The one everyone called a monster.

A bully.

I shook my head sharply, tearing my eyes away from the painting before it could make me feel smaller than I already did.

Then I kept walking, heading toward the warm light spilling from the kitchen.

The smell of shawarma already drifting through the air.

---

By the time I made it to the kitchen, the table was already set, wraps lined up, sauces scattered, the smell making my stomach growl again. Tony sat at the head, eating casually while scrolling through his tablet, like none of this was my life.

I grabbed a sandwich, too hungry to care, and took a bite before even checking what I’d picked. The warm food should have been comforting, but it didn’t have time to register before Tony’s voice cut through the room.

“You’re going to boarding school.”

I choked. I coughing violently on the bite of food I hadn’t swallowed yet. My eyes shot up.

“What!?”

Tony finally glanced up from his tablet, eyes calm, almost clinical. “I can’t take care of you. I work as CEO and an Avenger. And I’m not… dad material.”

The words hit me like a punch harder than the one that left the bruise on my side. Safe, calm, protected… all that disappeared in an instant. The ache I’d felt earlier evaporated, replaced with something sharper, colder.

I froze, staring at him, then lowered my gaze to the table, nodding mutely. There was nothing else to say.

Tony went back to his tablet for a moment, then looked up again. “You’re leaving next week. And… no telling anyone I’m your dad. I don’t want to deal with a press conference about a kid.”

I swallowed hard, nodding again, my hands clutching the sandwich I couldn’t taste anymore. My appetite was gone. My chest felt hollow, my stomach twisting in a way that had nothing to do with hunger.

I stared down at the food, wishing somehow that this was a nightmare I could wake up from. But it wasn’t.

It was real.

And I had no choice.

---

I lay in the bed Tony stuck me in, too big, too soft, too clean. Floor‑to‑ceiling windows stretched across the room, showing the entire New York skyline lit up against the night. It should’ve felt magical.

It didn’t.

I felt like a piece of trash someone tossed out the car window. A problem passed around until someone finally got tired enough to dump it on the next person in line.

A scrap of meat nobody wanted.

My throat tightened. I gripped the sheets in both fists, hard, trying to squeeze the tears back down where they belonged. Crying didn’t help. Never had. It just made people feel right about calling me weak, or worse, a monster.

Tony didn’t want me.
Fine.

If he didn’t want me, then I’d make damn sure he regretted ever having anything to do with me. I wasn’t going to break for him or for anyone else.

And I wasn’t letting some stuck‑up rich‑kid boarding school turn me into one of their polished little pets.

I’d survived worse than this.
I’d survive Tony Stark, too.

I let out a shaky breath and stared at the city lights until they blurred. Then I blinked the tears away, wiping my face with the back of my hand.

If nobody wanted me, then I’d make myself impossible to ignore.

One way or another.

Chapter Text

Y/N’s POV

I sat in the back of the car, my bag of clothes clutched tightly to my chest like it was the only thing keeping me grounded. The leather seat squeaked every time the car turned, and I kept my eyes fixed on the window, watching the world blur past. My black hair had fallen over half my face again, shielding my expression from anyone who might care to look. Not that anyone was.

The further we drove, the thicker the fog became, curling around the road like pale fingers trying to drag us back. Trees loomed on either side, their twisted branches clawing at the gray sky. Then, slowly, the fog began to thin. A massive building emerged ahead of us, tall, ancient stone towers piercing through the mist like something pulled straight out of a gothic fantasy.

It looked like a dark, twisted version of a castle… like someone took Hogwarts and drained all the warmth from it.

Iron gates stood at the front of the school, cold and towering, with polished metal letters reading:

PHILIPS ACADEMY

My stomach twisted.

This was the same place Tony had talked about once, carelessly, like it had just been another boarding school, another chapter in his life he didn’t want to think about too much. Seeing it in person made it feel heavier. Real. Like I was stepping into his past.

Standing in front of the gates were two figures.

The first was an older woman, her back straight and posture sharp as a blade. Her gray hair was pulled into a tight bun, not a single strand out of place. Her dark coat hung perfectly around her as if even the wind knew better than to touch her. Her face looked like it had forgotten how to soften years ago.

Beside her stood a boy, probably around my age, dressed in the school uniform. Long black dress pants, a deep red button-up shirt, and a matching tie with the academy’s crest stitched on it. His dark hair fell neatly around his face, and he watched the car like he’d seen a hundred students arrive just like this before, nervous, uncertain, pretending not to care.

The car slowed to a stop.

Tony didn’t even turn around. He stayed in the front seat, one hand on his phone, scrolling like this was just another random drive and not him dropping me off somewhere I’d be living for who knows how long.

After a moment, he finally glanced back at me over the seat.

“No fighting,” he said casually, like he was reminding me to take out the trash.

I raised an eyebrow. “That’s it?” I muttered.

He smirked slightly. “Try not to get expelled in the first week.”

The door unlocked with a quiet click.

I took one last look at him before stepping out into the cold air, the fog curling around my legs. The car behind me felt suddenly very far away.

I stood frozen in front of them as the black car rolled away, its tires tearing through the gravel and sending a storm of orange leaves into the air. The wind tugged at my jacket, carrying the sound of the engine until it disappeared down the long, foggy road.

The girl beside the older woman let out a small, irritated huff.

“Jordan Stark—”

“Don’t,” I cut in sharply, before she could finish. “Don’t call me a Stark. Or any last name. Just Jordan.”

Her lips pressed into an even deeper frown, like I’d personally offended her ancestors.
“Fine,” she said coldly. “Just Jordan. You will be escorted to your room and are expected to change into your uniform immediately. After that, you will report to the head of the academy’s office to receive your schedule. Dinner follows afterward.”

I groaned internally. Day one and I already hated it. Uniforms. Schedules. A stupid formal dinner. Everything about this place screamed posh prison.

I didn’t respond. I just shifted my bag over my shoulder and followed the boy, dragging my feet across the stone path.

The woman walked a few steps behind us, her presence like a shadow. I could feel her eyes on me, sharp and calculating, like she was trying to take me apart just by looking. Like I was some broken thing she wanted to figure out how to “fix.”

The academy courtyard felt cold, even for autumn. Massive gray stone walls loomed overhead, and the dying plants only made it feel more lifeless. Orange and brown leaves covered the ground, but instead of making it pretty, it just made everything look abandoned, like color had given up here.

I let out a quiet sigh as we stepped into the east wing of the dormitory.

Inside, it was even colder. The air smelled faintly of old books and stone. Our footsteps echoed against the long floors as we walked, the sound bouncing off the walls.

The boy finally spoke. His voice was calm, like he’d given this same speech a hundred times.

“The rules here are simple,” he said. “Don’t be late. No fighting. No vandalism. Basically, don’t break any laws. Your grades must remain above eighty percent to pass. And no technology.”

I audibly groaned at the last part, slouching without thinking.

He glanced over his shoulder at me. “And posture,” he added. “You’ll need to work on that too.”

I didn’t bother answering.

We stopped in front of a tall wooden door. He reached into his pocket and handed me a silver key.

“You have two other roommates,” he said, offering a small but polite smile. “I recommend behaving yourself. They’re very strict here about rules.”

“Yeah,” I muttered, taking the key. “I’ve noticed.”

The woman finally stopped walking, still silently watching me like I was already on thin ice.

I slid the key into the lock and turned it. The door clicked open.

Without looking back, I stepped inside.

And just like that… I was officially trapped in Philips Academy.

---

Tony Stark’s POV

By the time we cleared the academy gates, something heavy settled in my chest, uncomfortable and annoyingly persistent. I rolled the car forward along the narrow road, the massive towers of Philips Academy slowly disappearing into the fog behind us.

And still, my eyes kept drifting to the rearview mirror.

I hated that I was doing it. Hated that I couldn’t stop.

The way Y/N had looked standing there… stiff, stubborn, pretending like none of it mattered. Like it was just another inconvenience. I knew better. I knew that look too well. I recognized it because I’d worn it once, standing in that same place, pretending I didn’t care while the world quietly shifted under my feet.

Happy glanced over at me from the driver’s side.
“You’ve been staring at the mirror for the past twenty minutes,” he said, deadpan.

“I’m just checking,” I replied, pushing my sunglasses higher up my nose, trying to sound casual. “Making sure she’s actually going in and not planning her escape.”

Yeah. That was my excuse.

Happy gave a low grunt, the kind that meant he didn’t buy it for a second.

In truth? I wasn’t just checking that she hadn’t taken off running. I was checking… everything else.

That she was still standing there.
That she hadn’t already disappeared into that place.
That maybe, somehow, she’d still be visible if I looked long enough.

“She’ll be fine,” Happy muttered, his eyes focused on the road as he steered the car toward the main highway.

“I know,” I said automatically. Too fast. Too rehearsed.

But my jaw tensed anyway.

I didn’t like leaving her there. I didn’t like the way that building looked down at you, cold and massive, like it was daring you to break. I remembered what it did to the kids who didn’t belong. What it did to the ones who did.

And Jordan… she was too stubborn, too emotional, too much like me.

Which was the problem.

The road stretched out ahead, the city skyline faint in the distance, the airport turn coming up soon.

Happy tapped the steering wheel once.
“You made the best call you could,” he said, a little quieter.

I didn’t respond. I just leaned back in my seat, staring through the windshield now instead of the mirror.

Outside, the fog closed in behind us, swallowing the academy whole.

But the look on her face?

Yeah… that part didn’t disappear so easily.