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Chapter Text

PART ONE: Despair

Steve sighed in contentment, relaxing into his wobbly chair. Nothing like the moment right after a mission was completed, the adrenaline leaving his body making him feel drowsy and pleased.

He took a look around: the streets were deserted, a result of both the cold November air and the late hour. It was half past three AM, and the Avengers had just wrapped up a mission at the docks–a horrible trafficking case that’d kept them busy for weeks–. They were celebrating now, as was tradition, by having a very late dinner at some hole-in-the-wall restaurant, which in this case was an Indian joint just outside Queens. 

He let the conversation around him wash over him like a tidal wave, the comforting sound of his friends’ voices lulling him to a state of near-sleep. 

“Yeah, so I said to him…” He didn’t know how much time had passed before his eyes fluttered open as Tony’s passionate tone tapered off, his gaze set on something far beyond the restaurant window. “What was that?”, he asked.

Steve sat up, looking behind him. Nothing.

“Where?” he asked, the last dregs of drowsiness leaving his body. He twisted his body, straining his neck, but couldn’t see anything worth noting, beyond the eeriness of a usually-never-empty New York street being deserted.

Actually, that was weird. There was… nothing. No people, or rats, or pigeons, or- life. Something felt off, and the hair on Steve’s arm shot up, a sensation he usually associated with incoming danger, adrenaline pumping through his body. He looked at his friends: Bruce and Nat were both busy, so it was just him, a freshly-on-world Thor, and Tony on this mission. Thor being there had been a pleasant surprise: he was spending most of his time off-world right now, but he’d decided to come back ‘on vacation’ for a bit. Why he thought bringing down organized crime qualified as a vacation was beyond Steve.

Right now, he looked just as on-edge as Steve felt. 

“What did you see?” Thor asked Tony, all previous merriment gone from his face.

Tony pursed his lips, and shook his head. “I could’ve sworn I saw a kid.”

Steve raised an eyebrow in confusion. “A kid?” 

Tony nodded. “Yeah. But then I looked back, and… nothing.” He chuckled humorlessly. “Maybe I hit my head back down at the docks, I don’t know.”

Steve shook his head, and looked at Thor. The man–or, well, god–had gone very still. His eyebrows were furrowed.

“No.” he refuted. “Something’s wrong. I feel… something. I don’t know what it is, but it’s… dark.” He looked uncharacteristically serious. “I think we should check it out.”

Tony looked desperately between them and the unfinished food. The samosas stared back.

He sighed in defeat. “Alright. Let’s go check this non-existent kid out.”

They rose off the table, and made their way to the door, which they opened only to be greeted by a strong burst of wind. ‘I really do hope the kid is non-existent’, Steve thought with a grimace as he hunched his shoulders to face the cold. This was no place for a kid. There was not a soul out there, the streets dark and menacing. The howling wind made even Steve uneasy. 

Tony led them towards an alley, where he thought he’d seen him. 

Garbage bags were piled high on a dumpster, some of them spilling out into the street, and the buildings that encased the alley were run down, marred with graffiti and God knows what else. The feeble light from the lamppost at the street corner bathed half the alley with a sickly glow, and left the other in total darkness. But… for some reason, the shadows made Steve’s body tense with fear as he approached the wall. There was something off about them: the dark was too dark. It seemed to devour whatever light made it down there.

“Something’s definitely wrong.” Tony said, echoing his thoughts.

Thor stepped forward cautiously, a hand behind him telling them not to follow. He walked slowly in a semi-crouched position towards the far end of the alley, his other hand extended towards the wall, and Steve’s breath caught in anticipation. But his hand met no resistance in the shadows, cutting right through the air when he waved it around.

“Oh” Thor frowned as he incorporated and turned back to face them. “There’s nothing there.”

“If there was a kid…” Steve ventured, “Then he’s probably long gone.”

Tony nodded his assent, but his gaze was still fixed on that dark corner, looking at it in the same way he stared at puzzling equations.

“Yeah…” he said unconvincingly, before his eyes snapped back to Steve. “Let's head home, then.”

The three of them started the short walk back to the restaurant, mood still somewhat gloomy. Steve was ready to file this as just a weird end to his day, when a very faint rustling sound behind him caught his attention. He turned around in a heartbeat, Tony and Thor quick to follow.

There, in the same dark corner they’d just been staring at, stood a kid. A small one, definitely no older than ten, less than four feet tall. He looked dirty, his dark hair matted and clothes ragged.

The kid’s eyes were wide with shock, and he was frozen in place, standing on his tiptoes with one hand outstretched into the dumpster. ‘Probably rummaging for food’ , Steve realized with a heavy heart. But something else about the kid made his blood freeze: he looked  familiar . But it couldn’t be…

Steve made to move very, very slowly towards him. But just as fast as Steve was slow, the kid seemed to wake up from his shock, and he brought a hand up to shield his face. Before Steve could even process what was happening, a cloud of black shadows materialized out of thin air. They slithered and twisted themselves around the boy in a whirl, before dissipating and taking him with them with nothing but a hissing sound, the alley once again deserted. 

“What…” the word left Steve’s mouth in a long exhale as he stared ahead in shock. He hadn’t even realized he’d been holding his breath. 

He saw Tony blink once, twice, before sighing. “Well,” he waved a hand fruitlessly, “Kid.” he elaborated.

Steve looked desperately at Thor for answers, but the man met his gaze with a frown. 

“That boy’s… energy.” He said, bringing a hand to his chin. “It feels familiar. Not a lot of beings who can summon shadows like that.”

“Familiar?” Steve’s heart picked up. It wasn’t just him, then. 

“Beings?” Tony echoed.

“Yeah,” Thor continued, ignoring both of them. “But I can’t for the life of me figure out what. It's odd.” 

“Okay, now that we can agree on. What the hell was that!?” Tony piped in with a strained voice. He stared at them with a determined look in his eyes. “I think this calls for research.” 

His eyes were glinting with adrenaline, and he pointed at each in turn. “Yes? Yes?”

Steve nodded, a little bemused, but still shaken from what they’d just seen. Trust Tony to try to dispel a tense atmosphere with his antics. Next to him, Thor nodded too.

“Alright, then” Tony said, looking satisfied. “Let’s get started.” he determined, but at seeing Thor’s murderous gaze, he ammended. “...tomorrow.”

The three of them made their way back to the tower, and Steve stared as his friends joked around, their previous high spirits seemingly back in force.

But he found himself looking at every shadow they passed with unease, and some embarrassment: he knew there was nothing there. Still, for some reason, he dreaded this was maybe something beyond what his supersoldier powers could sense, beyond any man-made artifact.

Something in the way those shadows had ensconced the boy felt a lot more ancient, a lot more primal. And unlike Tony, who seemed to be vibrating with anticipation, Steve wasn’t very keen to find out why.

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Steve Rogers walked into the lab with two steaming cups of coffee in his hands. He toed the glass door open, and grimaced at the mess he saw inside: Tony was passed out on the table, his reading glasses skewed on his nose. He was surrounded by monitors, papers, files, empty coffee mugs and dirty dishes. Steve sighed, and placed the coffees on the table, before shaking the man awake. 

Tony grumbled, and smacked his hand away. 

“Leave him,” Nat’s voice floated into the lab. “Not like we’ve made much progress.”

She made her way towards him with a grin, her boots clicking on the floor, and Steve smiled back. He hadn’t seen her in a couple of days: her mission had apparently gone well, but she’d come back tired enough to grant her a few days off. She looked well-rested now, dressed in comfortable leisure clothes and sporting a soft smile.

“How’ve you been?” Steve asked, squeezing her arm and handing her the coffee that’d been for Tony. You snooze, you lose.

“Good,” she sounded sincere. “But Tones and I have been at this for three hours, and no luck.”

Steve hummed. “No sign of the kid?”

“Nothing,” Nat shook her head. “No missing child report, no security camera footage, no pictures on the internet that match his description–not even some Facebook post by a well-meaning aunt–. Nothing.”

“It’s like the kid’s a ghost” a second voice piped up, startling Steve. Tony had sat up on his chair, and was peering at them through still-crooked glasses. He glanced pointedly at the coffee in Nat’s hands, looking mildly betrayed, and Steve sighed dramatically before handing Tony his own.

The scientist smiled with satisfaction, and took a couple sips before continuing, now looking more awake. “He’s somehow managed to avoid every single camera in the state of New York”. He gestured with his free hand in disbelief. 

“But,” he raised his index. “We’ll get him eventually. No one’s invisible. Not in today’s camera-ridden, internet-having, surveillance state world. It’s just a matter of when.”

Steve caught his drift, and frowned. “So, you’re saying, what? We wait until he messes up to catch him?” he raised an eyebrow, and Tony nodded. 

“He hasn’t made a mistake yet.” he pointed out. “What makes you think he will?”

Beside him, Nat smiled sadly.

“Because you’re forgetting a crucial detail” she said.

“What’s that?” Steve asked.

“He’s just a kid.”

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Chapter Text

The next time Steve saw him, it was a cold November morning three weeks after their bust in Queens. He was downtown, near Times Square. Steve tended to avoid crowds–as did most of the Avengers–, but he’d become tragically fond of a deli a few blocks off 45th, so he was there for lunch quite often.

“Thank you!” he said over his shoulder as he left the deli. “I’ll see you next wednesday.”

The bell over the door dinged as he made his way outside, the chilly winter air a welcome respite from the AC, which’d been cranked too high. It was a perfect winter day, the late morning sun high and warm, and the sky clear. Steve breathed in the crisp air with satisfaction and smiled.

He pulled his winter hat down, and set to make his way through the crowds on the Square. 

He was distracted, thinking about the pastrami sandwich in his bag, when a small dark blur to his right caught his eye. 

The sun in his eyes made him squint, and he brought a hand up to shield his eyes.

It took him a second to realize with a start that the boy determinately making his way through the crowds, was  the boy. There was no doubt about it: he was even wearing the same clothes from that night, which–Steve noticed with a grimace–weren’t weather appropriate then, and certainly weren’t now. He was just wearing a light brown, aviator jacket over a thin t-shirt, and his jeans had a hole in the left knee. His shoes were so tattered the sole was peeling off. His hair was a bit longer, too, thick curls falling over his face, but it looked greasy and unwashed. That adjective applied to the kid in general: Steve watched as passerbys moved away from him with thinly-disguised repulsion, and he felt himself grow angrier by the second at everyone’s detached indifference.

He followed the kid with a new burst of determination, but it was harder for him to make his way through people than it was for the kid. He crawled between people’s legs and ducked underneath their shopping bags with ease. Steve watched desperately as the boy got further and further away, he himself stuck behind a group of Dutch tourists.

The crowd around him seemed to get even tighter as people started to recognize him. Suddenly, cameras were being shoved into his face, people’s hands extending towards him to touch his face, his clothes, his hair, screaming unintelligibly.

Looking hopelessly for a way out of the asphyxiating crowds, he acted on a last-minute impulse.

“Hey!” he shouted. “Wait!”

The kid turned around, and noticed Steve in crowd, his eyes widening with fear. The world around them seemed frozen in time as they just stared desperately at each other for what felt like an eternity. Agonizingly slow, the boy took a few staggering steps back, his eyes still set on Steve. And then all of a sudden, he broke out of his daze: he turned around and booked it, madly dashing into a side street. Steve could do nothing but watch him disappear, powerless. 

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He stormed into the Avenger’s common room, his mind still reeling.

He felt his friends’ eyes on him as he made his way to Tony, pointedly avoiding them.

“Tony.” 

His friend stared at him with wide eyes. 

“What is it?” he said, tone urgent.

“I saw him.” Steve said, his voice tense.

Tony’s eyebrows raised in understanding.

“The kid?” 

“Yeah,” Steve confirmed as he took a seat in front of his friend, only to stand up seconds later, his body too strung up to stay still. He started pacing around the room as he talked.

“In Times Square. I was running some errands, and I just saw him, right there.” He sighed in frustration, raking a hand through his hair. “And I lost him! He was right there, and I lost him!”, he snapped.

“Woah, hey, Cap, easy.” Tony stood up and walked over to him, placing a hand on his shoulder. “That’s ok, I mean, this is actually good,” he emphasized. 

“Good?” Steve huffed in disbelief. “How is this good?”

“Well,” Tony explained. “We haven’t had any luck with the cameras yet. I don’t know how he’s doing it, but it’s like he knows the location of every single cell phone and security camera in the city. But now,” He stared pointedly at Steve. “We know where he was, what? Half an hour ago?”

Steve nodded, still a little sour, and Tony clapped his shoulder. “Then this is a good lead. Really good. It narrows down our search area by a lot. Now we can focus our resources there, and we’ll find him.”

Steve nodded again, trying his best to look placated, but Tony saw right through him.

“What is it?” he asked.

“It’s just…” Steve sighed. “It’s not getting any warmer, you know.” He didn’t have the heart to elaborate. 

Tony looked at him gently.

“We’ll find him, Steve,” he said softly. “Don’t worry.”

“Plus,” Nat interjected kindly, “according to Thor, the kid’s pretty powerful, right? Might not even feel the cold.”

Tony huffed, frustrated. “We barely even know what his powers are.” He looked at them and frowned. “All the more reason to catch him. Who knows what the kid can do?”

“He can… do something, with shadows,” Steve said quietly. “Disappear.”

“That’s just what we know ,” Tony objected. “I dread to think what else he might be able to do or, hell , already be doing.”

“We don’t know if he’s dangerous.” Steve argued, not liking the implications behind Tony’s statement.

“A superpowered child running around the streets of New York don’t sound dangerous to you?” Tony laughed in disbelief. “He could blow the entire city up in a temper tantrum, as far as we know.”

“But he’s just a kid!” Steve snapped. Tony’s failure to see it made Steve’s chest rise with anger. He wondered sourly how his friend could so clinically detach the kid from his powers or, more accurately, what his powers made him. Did Tony just see him as a monster? A danger to be contained? The way he talked about him, like he was a ticking-time bomb waiting to explode, and not a little boy who was alone , and cold, and probably scared…  

Nat looked between them, the rising tension making the room feel a lot smaller. “Maybe we should bring Fury in on this,” she proposed carefully. “Let SHIELD handle it.”

Steve hated the idea, but kept quiet, waiting to see what Tony would say.

To his surprise, the other man stared at her in disbelief. “Are you kidding? We let SHIELD in on this so, what?” he gestured wildly. “They can lock the kid away in a maximum security prison? Turn him into a weapon, or worse ?” He clenched his jaw. “No. No Fury, no SHIELD. We get to him first, and then we reassess.”

Steve raised an eyebrow. “What happened to him being a danger to the entire city?”

Tony huffed and looked down. “Yeah, alright, I still think that! But you make a good point: he’s just a child. And I’m not letting Fury or his men anywhere near a kid. I’m not a monster.”

Steve smiled gratefully, and Tony spluttered. “Wh- yeah, well, don’t get your white, red and blue panties in a twist. And don’t get any ideas! We’re not keeping him.” he said haughtily.

“Why not?” Nat smirked. “I think it’d be kinda cute to keep a kid around.”

Steve caught onto her playful tone and joined in on the ribbing. “Yeah, right?” He nodded his head like he was actually considering it. “Make you swear less, at least.”

Tony looked at them, his face completely serious.

“I hate you.” he deadpanned. “Both.” 

Despite the act, Steve could see right through him, Tony’s eyes twinkling with mirth.

“Alright, boys,” Nat smiled, “Let’s see if we can crack this.”

With that, they headed to their makeshift setup to try and find a particularly elusive kid on the security cameras surrounding Times Square, not knowing that said kid was now far, far away from the area, outside a warehouse by the Hudson, hungry and tired, and looking up at the overcast skies with apprehension.

Surrounded by empty buildings, the small boy shivered and huddled closer to the wall.

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Chapter Text

“Low battery alert.” FRIDAY’S automated voice said with what Tony could swear was contempt. “Battery is at 15%” 

With a sigh, Tony looked down at the sprawling city beneath him, his flight cut short.

Why did he even bother making the thing semi-sentient? The AI just used its machine-learning abilities to learn how to best make fun of him. Tony scoffed, and looked for a place to land.

He was in Hell’s Kitchen, pretty far from his usual haunts, but the day was nice enough to grant him ditching his meetings and going on a joyride-slash-patrol instead. He’d flown around a bit, stopped a pickpocket, and straightened the antenna on a building on 9th street. It was way past noon now, and he was feeling peckish: he’d kinda forgotten about lunch.

Tony landed near a decent looking sandwich place, and retracted his suit.

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He wobbled a little as he landed onto a nearby rooftop to eat his sandwich in peace. Fans were all well and good, but the sandwich lady had been a little too friendly, so. To-go it was.

He had a nice bird’s eye view of the whole block from here, which was, somehow, still pretty industrial: the hipster coffee shop chains hadn’t made their way to this part of the neighborhood yet. He suppressed a smile. It looked a hell of a lot more authentic like this, the quietness of the afternoon a welcome respite from the usual hustle of Manhattan. He looked at the few people who were out: an elderly couple walking hand in hand, some teenagers milling around a skate park, a line cook out on her smoke break, and… oh. The lump-he’d-confused-for-a-person stared back at him. God, he needed a break . And maybe new glasses.

His exhaustion was partly due to the fact that he and the guys had spent the past week scouring the city for the kid, and still, nothing. Not even after Steve’s chance encounter with him: they’d analyzed the footage from every single camera in Times Square and its surroundings–and that was a lot of cameras–, but no sign of the boy. Tony almost questioned whether Steve had hallucinated him, but he knew his friend better than that. 

It was as he entertained these very thoughts that he saw him. It took him an embarrassingly long while to notice who it was, because what were the chances of the kid showing up just as he was thinking of him, right? But it was him, waiting in a queue outside a short building. Tony squinted. A sign on the sidewalk read “Free meals for the homeless every Thursday courtesy of Stark enterprises”

The kid looked… well, dirty. His clothes were a mess, but he was at least wearing a hoodie underneath his jacket now. His hair, dark and long, covered most of his face. Tony was pretty sure he wouldn’t have recognized him if it wasn’t for that unusual aviator jacket he wore.

He stood out like a sore thumb because he was the youngest person there by a mile: the rest of the queue consisted of mostly middle aged men, and some women. ‘That’s because all homeless kids are sent to foster homes through Social Services’ , Tony realized. So why hadn’t he?

Tony bid his time, silently watching as two young women came out and started handing out plastic cutlery and containers, with what appeared to be some sort of stew, to the people waiting in line. One of them did a double take at seeing such a young child waiting in line, but she handed him his food and said nothing.

Once he got his bag, he started walking east, his shoulders hunched protectively over his newly acquired food, and Tony’s heart broke a little. He followed him, moving stealthily from rooftop to rooftop. This went on for several blocks, until the kid made a sharp left on 29th and walked determinately towards a small park ensconced between two apartment buildings. It was at this point that FRIDAY’s voice noticed Tony that his battery was officially out, and his suit powered off.

Tony cursed, and retracted it, leaving him in just his suit. He looked around: the door to the rooftop he was currently on was, thankfully, unlocked. He walked down the five floors of stairs, huffing in annoyance, and walked out the building. He was across the park, hidden from sight by a large truck parked on the street.

The place was barely even a park, more of a grass square with a couple benches and some trees littered around, a rusty iron gate at the front. The kid opened the gate with ease, took a seat in one of the benches and opened the box. Tony watched him eat with a morbid sort of fascination: instead of ravenously diving into his food, like he thought he would, the boy was methodically dipping his spoon into the stew, bringing it to his mouth, and chewing very slowly before swallowing and repeating the process. This went on until about a third of the container was gone, at which point he put the lid back on and pocketed the spoon. Tony suppressed a grimace. ‘Now’s the time’, he told himself. 

“You hungry for dessert?” he said calmly as he walked out from behind the truck, his hands in his suit pockets.

The boy, startled, pretty much jumped two feet into the air, which made Tony feel like an asshole for ambushing him like that. His dark eyes were wide with fear, and Tony watched as he looked beyond him, clearly searching for the best way out.

Tony could actually see what he looked like now, in the light of day. He had skin that looked like it might’ve been olive sometime in the past couple months, but was now pale and sickly, almost translucent. His features were delicate, princely almost, with high cheekbones and a small mouth that was currently pursed into a hard line.

“You don’t need to run,” Tony said softly, like he was calming down a wild animal. He certainly looked wild, his eyes staring at him with mistrust and his body tense, like a coiled spring ready to jump. “It’s just me here.” Tony said, “I’m not gonna hurt you.”

The kid frowned, his expression still wary, like he didn’t quite get what Tony was doing.

“You know, I’ve a Snickers bar in my pocket” Tony mentioned. “You like Snickers?”

He didn’t wait for him to reply.

“Here, you can have it,” he offered, as he looked into his pocket, “I shouldn’t have them anyways.” he said offhandedly, as he retrieved the chocolate bar. He extended his hand forward slowly, silently begging that this would at least make the kid not want to bolt for a minute.

The boy took it with some apprehension and pocketed it in his jacket, all while maintaining skeptical eye contact. Not eating it now, then. Smart. Tony would just have to think of another way to make him stay long enough for his suit to recharge and call backup.

“This place is nice,” he said, swinging a little on his heels  “Real… desolate”

As if to prove his point, a strong gust of wind shook the few, naked trees in the park with an eerie hissing sound.

The kid raised an eyebrow, unimpressed with his quip. Oh, no , Tony liked him.

Silently, he begged his suit to charge faster.

The boy swayed slightly in turn, awkwardly looking between Tony and the gate.

“You come here a lot?” Tony ventured, but the kid remained quiet. Tough crowd. Maybe he was mute?

Oh. Tony signed slowly in ASL: ‘ Are you deaf? ’

The kid hesitated, then shook his head no.

Right. Not deaf, then.

“Well, I for one, am really loving this rapport we got going on here,” Tony dramatized, toying with his shirt cuffs. “It’s a real nail-biter.”

He subtly moved his hand to his watch, where his suit had retracted into, stealthily inputting the code that called for the rest of his team. “But,” he continued, “I think maybe it’d be better if we expanded our cast.”

At that, the kid’s eyebrows rose to his hairline, his gaze slipping to the hand Tony held over his watch. His eyes widened with understandment. Tony squared his shoulders, ready to physically stop him if he tried getting past him and out the gate, but the kid shocked him by running the other way instead, towards the concrete wall where the park ended.

Tony ran after him without thinking, backup be damned. The park wasn’t all that long, and the kid was nearing the end after a few short seconds. Tony wondered what his plan was, but he didn’t have to wonder long: barely an instant before the kid hit the wall, a blur of shadows rose off the floor and surrounded him. And just like that, the kid disappeared inside the whirl and vanished into thin air. Tony was left staring at the wall, panting.

“Shit!” he cursed, kicking a pebble into the wall. He’d lost him.

Two minutes of intense, angry pacing later, a black bike stopped right across the street. Steve and Nat ran towards him.

“Are you ok?” Steve urged, looking him over.

“Yeah, I’m fine!” Tony bit out. “But you couldn’t have come quicker!?”

“Tony, what happened?” Nat demanded.

“Well, I had our favorite little menace just here, very patiently waiting for you two to show up, ‘till he decided you were taking too long and just… vanished his way to who knows where!” he said, frustrated.

“He was here?” Steve asked in disbelief. “How…?”

“Not the cameras,” Tony said sourly, guessing his question. “Just pure dumb luck. I was patrolling and stopped for lunch at this rooftop, cause my suit battery was running out. And then I saw him, queuing outside a food bank giving out free lunches. So I followed him here, and we talked, and-”

“You  talked ?” Steve interrupted. 

Tony made a noncommittal sound “Eeh, sorta. More like I talked and he didn’t leave. Which is the most we’ve gotten yet.” he pointed out.

“Why didn’t you call us sooner?” Nat asked.

Tony sighed, his frustration coming back in full force. “Because I’m an idiot, and my suit ran out of battery. I stalled him long enough for it to charge and call you guys, but he called my bluff. Disappeared like that ,” he snapped his fingers. “If it weren’t so annoying I’d say it was cool.”

It was cool. Seeing it during the day had been a completely different experience, the shadows coiling around him in an intricate dance before seeming to evaporate, a physics puzzle Tony ached to figure out. They hadn’t gotten any closer to figuring out what the source of his powers was: Thor’s previous claims of it seeming familiar had gotten them nowhere, because there was no mention of any form of shadow-related teleporting in Norse mythology, and SHIELD’s database wasn’t any different. Tony’d spent more time trying to get through the firewalls than actually researching.

“Plus,” he said, bringing a guilty hand to his face, “I don’t think he’s gonna be very willing to talk, now. He seemed pretty pissed that I tricked him: I doubt he’s coming here to eat again.” And then, Tony realized what else he might have ruined for him: since Tony’d followed him here, it made sense for the kid to put two and two together and trace it… back to the food bank. Shit.

Tony let out a shaky breath.

“Shit.”

“What is it?” Steve looked at him with worry.

“Oh, nothing,” Tony gulped. “Just that I might’ve taken away what might be a homeless kid’s only sure meal of the day.” He felt sick to his stomach.

Nat’s face fell in realization. “Oh, Tony.”

Steve let out a sigh. “The shelter is burned”, he gathered.

“Yeah,” Tony nodded, still angry at himself for not thinking of the consequences when he cornered the kid. 

Maybe he could set up more food banks, spread out throughout the city. Why wasn’t he doing more for the growing homeless population of the city? A couple food banks here and there and some shelters weren’t enough. He made a mental note to draw up a first draft for the project when he got back to the tower. ' And blankets ’, he thought, ‘ I need to hand out blankets now that winter is here ’.

“...Tones?” Nat’s soft voice snapped him out of his reverie. “You ok?”

He nodded. 

Clouds had almost completely covered the sun, now, and the temperature kept dropping by the second. The park looked barren, like a desolate wasteland, the tall buildings that encased it blocking the sun and casting premature shadows, like a pocket of nighttime in the middle of the afternoon. 

“Maybe we should head back.” he rasped. “This place gives me the creeps.”

“You sure you’re ok?” Steve pressed, his eyebrows furrowed with worry.

“Yeah,” Tony averted his gaze. “I have work to do.”

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Chapter Text

Steve hummed as he eyed a red knit hat with interest. He was walking through a winter market set up in Union Square, eager to soak in some of the holiday spirit that made the city feel like it was vibrating in excitement. The night was chilly but clear, the round moon hanging on the sky like a window; the stars hidden behind the lights of the city that never slept.

He liked how happy people seemed this time of the year, always friendly and in kind spirits. He took one look at the old lady manning the shop, whose face lit up with excitement upon seeing a potential buyer, and grabbed the hat on a whim.

“I’ll take this.”

It was as he got his change from the beaming lady that his phone started ringing.

He excused himself, shoving the phone between his ear and neck as he put his money away.

“Hello?” he answered, walking to a quieter part of the market.

“Steve,” Nat’s voice replied, tone urgent even through the tinny speaker. Steve’s ears perked up, his cheerful mood quickly put aside.

“What’s up?”

“We got a match, a camera in the corner of 11th and Broadway.” she said.

Steve’s mouth fell open in disbelief. “I’m- that’s five blocks from me!” he exclaimed, quickly scouring for a way out of the market.

“I know. Check it out?” 

“Already on my way.” he declared, looking for a more efficient way out: people were swarming the Square, and he feared they’d lose him again if he didn’t hurry. He found a small side-street that led him away from the crowd of Christmas shoppers, and he quickened his pace.

He was nearing the corner now, so he kept his eyes peeled, and waited.

After five minutes, he was beginning to worry he was too late.

After ten minutes, he was ready to call it quits, but that’s when he saw a small, scurrying shadow turn a corner in his peripheral vision.

He didn’t think twice before jogging after him.

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Steve found the little boy leaning against the back wall of a restaurant. He looked just as he’d done that day in Times Square, but tonight he had his arms wrapped around him to protect his body from the cold.

The kid noticed him instantly, straightening up and turning to face him, his feet spread wide like they were about to fight. Like a punch to the chest, Steve was suddenly reminded of his young years spent fighting losing battles in dark alleys much like this one. His heart broke: the boy could barely keep himself upright, cold and exhaustion making his body shake like a leaf, but he was still gearing up for a fight, like he was used to having to do it to survive.

“I’m not here to hurt you,” Steve started softly, internally wondering why the kid hadn’t disappeared yet. “My name’s Steve. I just want to talk. I know we got off to a bad start, but I never meant to scare you.”

The boy didn’t back down from his stance, but his shoulders slumped minutely. His cheeks were rosy from the cold, and Steve thought offhandedly–and a little stupidly–that he looked like the people in those Dutch paintings of winter landscapes, carefree and angelical. But his sunken eyes betrayed the illusion, narrowed as he looked at Steve with distrust even through his exhaustion.

“Why should I trust you?” he finally said, and Steve’s eyes widened. He was shocked to finally hear him speak, to the point where he wondered if he hadn’t actually imagined it. His voice was, contradictingly, both soft and harsh: he’d spoken in barely a whisper, but his throat seemed rasped, and even though he was clearly attempting a menacing tone, the effect was lessened by the soft dulcets of his still-childish voice. 

“Your friend said the same thing.” he continued, sounding offended.

“You mean Tony?” Steve asked, dumbly.

The kid shrugged. Oh, right. Tony said they hadn’t really talked, so maybe the boy didn’t know his name. But… Everyone in New York knew who Tony Stark was.

Steve faltered. “Well… I’m sorry about that,” he continued. “He is, too. He didn’t mean to scare you.”

The boy huffed, his breath coming out in a white cloud, and looked to the side.

“Just leave me alone.” he snapped. 

Steve bit the inside of his cheek. This was going to be harder than he thought. The boy clearly wanted nothing to do with them, so how could he make him see they only wanted to help?

He started thinking. The first time they saw him, he’d been rummaging inside a dumpster. Between that and the incident at the food bank, Steve was starting to piece together some awful truths about the kid’s life. He looked around: the building the kid had been slumped against was a seedy restaurant, and the door he kept glancing at probably led to the kitchen.

“Are you hungry?” he asked, all of a sudden.

The boy frowned, but he couldn't stop himself from glancing quickly from Steve to the dumpster. Oh, no. Was he waiting for Steve to leave so he could look for food in there?  ‘ Not if I can help it’ , Steve thought.

“I was going to get some dinner, if you’d like to come.” he offered offhandedly, trying to keep his tone light.

The boy faltered.

“No restaurants.” he shook his head, his voice hoarse.

Steve faltered. No restaurants? Bad sign. And none of the explanations that came to mind helped: best case scenario, he was a runway kid that didn’t wanna be found, but what could he be running away  from that was so bad he’d deny himself a real meal? In favor of, what? Staying in a dark alley with a strange man? 

As much as it pained Steve to say it, the kid had the upper hand here: if he wanted to talk, he was gonna have to play by his rules. 

“Okay, no restaurants…” Steve agreed, bringing his hands up in surrender. He resorted to his natural skill for lateral thinking, and smiled as an idea came to him. “How about takeout?”

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And that was how, twenty minutes later, he found himself eating burgers in a dingy alley, a bag of fries spread over a napkin on the floor, intimately aware of the small boy diving into his burger a few feet across from him.

He hadn’t gotten any more words out of him yet, but he didn’t want to risk pushing him too hard and losing his trust. He remembered how the boy’s eyes had narrowed with betrayal at the mention of Tony.

Still in silence, Steve finished his fries and licked his fingers clean, laying against the dirty alley wall without hesitation. If there’s one thing the army had taught him, it was to put aside any notion of cleanliness while out on a mission. The kid, on the other hand, was completely different: he was sitting away from the wall, hunched over his food. Steve noticed with curiosity that he grabbed onto his food with only the very tips of his fingers, the rest of his hand delicately arched, so as to not let it touch the food. It was an unusual, almost aged way of eating that reminded him of nobility, of bygone eras of dukes and barons. The gestures were jarringly out of place in a child, and especially out of place in a homeless one. Steve wondered, for the thousandth time, what his story was.

“How’s the burger?” he suddenly blurted out. The question left his lips before he could stop it, and some of that clumsiness must have shown in his voice, because the kid raised an amused eyebrow.

“Good.” he said softly, looking down.

Steve racked his brain for a way to keep the conversation going.

“Yeah? I like Five Guys’ better, but this one’s not bad,” he ranted. “Have you ever had Five Guys?” 

The boy shook his head.

“No? Oh, man, you’re missing out. I’ll bring you some next time.” He didn’t give the kid time to argue, quickly going on a tirade about burger joints and their overpriced food. “...I mean, it’s not even that great, right? It’s ice-cream. But how come the machine is always broken…”

And just like that, conversation started. The boy mostly listened, but he piped in every couple of minutes, usually with a monosyllabic answer to one of Steve’s endless questions. He had to give it to him: he was extremely good at deflecting personal ones. When he didn’t change the subject, he flat-out ignored the question until Steve moved on. Like a dance, he learnt through trial and error which topics granted him an answer (these were innocuous topics like annoying tourists, and brilliantly, dog breeds. Weird looking dogs had gotten him almost five minutes of uninterrupted speech from the boy and Steve was so happy he could have cried); and which made the kid give him the cold shoulder (most of them), eventually reaching a sort of balance. Hearing him speak served as a reminder of just how young he was: his eyes lit up in childish wonder and excitement, he expressed himself just like any other ten-year old, and Steve listened to him, a little awed. How different this was from those first and second meetings, where fear had been the only emotion present in the kid’s face.

An hour later, Steve’s phone vibrated in his pocket. He took it out slowly, not wanting to disturb the precarious balance they had going on, and checked it quickly. It was a text from Fury, and his stomach dropped, worried they’d been found out, but it just read “Check up with Hill in 20min, op. in Liechtenstein”.

With a disappointed sigh, he put his phone away. He looked down at the boy: his head was resting over his knees, and he was looking at the few passersby on the adjacent street with bored interest.

It was a wildly different picture than the one Steve had first walked into, all bravado and mistrust, and bared teeth like a feral kitten. Only two hours ago, he’d been at the Christmas market, looking at candles and knit-wear, but it felt like an eternity ago.

He was reluctant to leave now that he’d finally made some progress, but mostly because the idea of just leaving him here on the cold streets in the dead of night was insane, even though he knew the kid wouldn’t come with if he asked. Still, he couldn’t stop himself from feeling guilty at the prospect, picturing the kid out here in the cold.

With a start, Steve remembered the Christmas market.

“Here,” he said when he finally rose off the floor, taking something out of his coat pocket. It was the hat he’d bought at the stall, warm and cozy from being with him all evening.

“I gotta go to work now,” he explained, watching with a heavy heart as the kid looked up at him with something resembling apprehension. He didn’t let himself dwell on it, his chest tight.

He extended his hand, the hat clasped between his fingers.

“But I think this’ll keep you warm” 

The boy took it slowly, with a questioning look, but didn’t fight him on it. 

“Thanks,” he said simply.

“You know…” Steve started lightly, deciding he might as well try. “I’m gonna need a name to call you, from now on. I can’t just keep calling you ‘kid’.” 

The kid tensed, and said “Percy”

Steve raised an eyebrow. He’d gone on enough undercover missions to spot a fake name when he heard one.

“Now, how about you give me your  real name?” he challenged.

The boy hesitated, then raised his head, looking defiantly into Steve’s eyes, his gaze hard and fiery. Steve felt the ridiculous urge to take a step back.

“Nico.” he said at last. “My name’s Nico”

Steve felt his face break out into a grin.

“Nico…” He smiled, liking the sound of it. He was relieved: they could stop referring to him as ‘the boy’, or ‘the kid’, now. It was a little silly, but a name felt… It felt like a win. “It’s nice to meet you.”

He walked away, forcing himself not to look back as Nico– Nico , he had a name to go by, now– sat in the alley. The boy watched him go in silence, and experimentally tugged the red hat over his dark curls.

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Chapter Text

And just like that, a pact of sorts was established: whenever Nico wanted to talk–usually at mealtimes–, he’d make himself visible to a camera, and one of them would come running. Nico would always get there after they did, and leave in a different direction than the one he’d come in. Smart bugger.

They’d buy him takeout, and get two words out of him if they were lucky. Tony said they were getting swindled, but his fond tone betrayed his words. Mostly he was just relieved to see the kid eat–even if it was burgers and pizza–

It’d taken some time for the kid to warm up to him: he was still mad over the park ambush. When he finally agreed to see Tony, he spent the whole time acting offended, and solemnly told Tony that if he ever tried that again he was gonna kill him. He was so relieved to see the kid–and hell, hear him speak –that he wasn’t even fazed by the death threat, despite how serious Nico looked.

He didn’t make Tony grovel for too long, though: like most kids, his grudge was short-lived, and after some jokes told over hot chocolate, he seemed to forget all about the incident, even gifting Tony some rare smiles.   

Three weeks passed like that, and mid-December came and brought with it the first snow of the season.

Nat and Tony watched in awe as Nico walked up to them, his dark clothes contrasting with the city that was quickly dressing itself in white. The streets were bursting with Christmas shoppers and families going out for lunch, enjoying the snow that’d luckily come on a Saturday.

He walked determinedly through the crowd, and Tony’s heart sank: he was the only kid not there with his family, and it hurt more because Tony knew there was no one at home waiting for him, not even a home to go back to.

But Nico’d brushed off all their attempts at getting him to go with them, and they couldn’t really bring in Social Services either: he wasn’t just a kid. The fact that he had powers made the situation a hell of a lot more complicated, and Tony was torn between wanting to wait this out and learn a bit about his powers, or call in Social Services now and risk him disappearing forever. They’d quickly realized that, for now, the only thing they could do was make sure he got a couple good meals a week, whenever Nico wanted to see them. It was heart-wrenching. Tony hoped that eventually, he’d trust them enough to let them help. Either that, or…

Tony gulped. This couldn’t go on much longer, was the point.

They hadn’t even gotten any closer to figuring out what his powers were, or even how he’d gotten them: most he’d said was that the thing he did was called ‘shadow-traveling’, but Tony was pretty sure that Nico’d made the name up himself, so it didn’t help much. When he asked him if he knew how it worked, Nico had stared at him strangely and frowned. It made sense: he was so young: of course he’d give his powers a name like that, and talk about them casually like it wasn’t a rarity, like he was normal . Tony’d read somewhere, a long time ago, that kids had an uncanny ability to naturalize everything they were presented with up to a certain age, so it was good to expose them to as many things as possible–languages, food, people, etc–. He was pretty sure Nico’s brain had done such a good job of normalizing his powers as just something else in his life–like his name being Nico, or being homeless–that he wouldn’t even have an answer for them. To him, it was as much a part of him like his hands were.

They were waiting partly hidden behind an empty office building, and Tony was silently grateful Nico’d chosen this place: he wasn’t eager to find out what would happen if people recognized him while he was with Nico. A billionaire seen hanging out with a homeless child? It was yucky regardless of how you spun it, but most importantly, word would get to Fury, and things would go south fast . Tony glanced around and adjusted the sunglasses on his face.

They never met in the same place, which made him wonder in horror what the hell the kid had been through to be so paranoid. The thought that maybe he wasn’t just being paranoid was too scary to entertain.

Nat huffed, watching the boy come over with a cynical look. “He’s not warm enough in that jacket.”

“Yeah, I know,” Tony sighed. “But he doesn’t want to get rid of that awful number of his. Told Steve if he kept trying to get him a new one he was gonna stop calling.”

She snorted. “Can’t believe we’re being bossed around by an elementary school kid.”

Tony barked out a laugh, his eyes glinting with mirth as Nico walked up to them, his red hat bobbing lightly on his head. 

“Hey, kiddo,” Nat said warmly, handing the kid a thermos. “I thought maybe we’d switch the menu today.”

Standing next to him, Nico barely made it to Tony’s waist, and he wondered idly if all kids his age were that small.

Nico eyed the thermos, and pulled a face.

“It’s soup,” Tony explained, teasingly. “You drink it.”

“I know what soup is.” Nico answered snootily, with all the deadpan a ten-year old was capable of. Tony was obsessed with him.

“It’s chicken noodle soup, to help with your cold.” Tony pointed at the boy’s runny nose, and Nico wiped it with his sleeve.

“I don’t have a cold,” he said defensively, but it sounded more like: “ I don't’ hav’ ah cowd ”, which didn’t help his case. Tony shook his head with a smile. 

“Drink up.”  

Tony watched as Nico twisted the lid open and sighed in contentment as steam hit his nose. Despite his sass, he drank almost half of it in one go.

“Careful,” Tony warned him, belatedly, “Isn’t it too hot?”

Nico lowered the thermos, his eyelashes fluttering against his cheeks. Soft snowflakes had already started to land on them, giving his whole face an ethereal, otherworldly look as he exhaled, his breath coming out in white clouds.

“It’s good,” he said earnestly, and then looked at Nat. “Thanks.”

“It’s my special recipe,” Nat smiled, “I’m glad you like it.”

Wait, Nat had made it? Tony’d sort of assumed she’d bought it, after Steve told them Nico was coming down with a cold. But she’d made it from scratch ? Tony smiled. Looked like they were all down pretty bad.

Nico’s soft voice brought him back to reality:

“I saw your face yesterday, painted on the street,” he told Tony, sounding unimpressed. Ah, yeah, there were a couple murals out there, done by fans. What could he say? People loved him. But Nico’s mouth quirked up into a smirk. “You’re uglier in person.” he deadpanned.

Tony barked a laugh. Where the kid got all this bravado was a mystery: Tony could count with one hand the people that’d dare say something like that to him, and he loved it.

“You little rascal,” he shook his head, and plucked Nico’s hat off his head. 

The boy scrunched his nose, and tried to get it back as Tony brushed the snow off it. Tony shoved it back on Nico’s head a little too far down, covering his eyes and nose, and surreptitiously put something in his pocket. He snorted as Nico’s offended face came out from under the hat when his small hands set it back properly.

“I hate you,” he said.

“Oh yeah?” Tony challenged. “If you really hate me, then I guess I’ll eat the KitKat I brought all by myself…” he teased with a sing-song voice.

“No!“ Nico huffed, his hands reaching for the candy.

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Lunch was spent much like that, full of bickering and teasing as Nat and Tony drank soup out of thermos of their own–Nico had been right, it was good–. As the snow began to settle, the boy hurried back to wherever it was he went to when they weren’t with him with rushed goodbyes.

Tony’d tried following him with suits and cameras a bunch of times, but he always managed to lose them: the kid walked the city with an almost uncanny knowledge of its side streets and alleys, always turning at the last minute and losing the cameras tailing him, sometimes seeming to vanish into thin air.

The fact that he was never seen in the same area for too long meant they couldn’t really narrow their search, either. In Nat’s words, the kid was one of the most talented spies she’d seen in the past ten years, and he was ten.

As they rode the elevator back to their headquarters, she looked at Tony with an undecipherable expression. Even after all these years of being friends, it was hard for him to know what she was thinking most of the time, her years of training to hide her feelings not easily forgotten.

“Good job back there,” she stated. “I’m actually impressed.” Her eyes looked calculatingly at Tony, waiting for him to crack.

“Whatever could you mean?” Tony asked innocently, playing dumb.

She looked pointedly at his hand, stuffed in his coat pocket.

The elevator doors opened with a ding. As they walked into the room, Tony raised his hand, a strand of dark hair clasped tightly in it. He looked at it intensely as a million possibilities ran through his head.

“Alright,” he declared with a deep breath. “Let’s run some tests. Figure out what you’re made of.”

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Tony sighed, slumping over his desk. He was about one more computer error pop up away from pulling his hair out–hair that he was very proud of, thank you very much, not a lot of guys made forty with hair that good–. 

The DNA tests had been a bust. Nothing, nada, zero. His scanner had gone crazy, filling his monitor with ‘error - not found’ messages until the entire screen ran white. What little it’d managed to analyze didn’t say much: about 70% of the kid’s genetic file was straight-up unreadable , made up of formulas and structures Tony couldn’t even begin to decipher. He felt like he was drowning. Very few times in his life had he been so lost when it came to science. This was supposed to be his thing.

He heard feet shuffling behind him, hesitating at the lab door.

“Just come in,” he sighed, not bothering to lift his head from the desk.

“Hey,” Steve’s soft tenor said tentatively. “How’s the, uh-” he faltered, “...thing.”

Tony snorted humorlessly. “The thing is bad. Terrible, even”

Steve hummed, and wordlessly handed him a mug. Tony’d stacked the Avengers’ kitchen with funny mugs last summer, tired of always using the same corporate white ones, and he smiled weakly: this one had a drawing of a dog in an Iron Man suit, a speech bubble next to him that read “ Iron Bark ” in Comic Sans, because of course it did.

“Thanks,” Tony said, and finally straightened up. He looked at Steve: he appeared to be just as tired as Tony felt, dark circles under his eyes and his mouth pressed into a thin line.

“Nat go to meet him yet?” Tony asked, knowing the answer but still wanting reassurance.

Steve nodded. “She’s with him right now,” he smiled softly. “Got him some pizza.”

Tony’s heart settled a bit, knowing that–at least for now–, the kid was okay. 

He hadn’t been sleeping well, guilt making him toss and turn the whole night. What on earth had they gotten into? And most importantly, how was leaving the kid on the streets their action plan? Whenever he shuddered slightly from the cold that managed to break into his apartment, he’d remember, like a stab to the heart, the little boy sitting out on the cold streets all day and all night, with nothing but a light jacket and definitely not enough food in his stomach. Tony’d been upping all his help and reach-out programs, looking into Social Services and child protection laws, but it all felt useless when he knew that that one little boy was still there.

How much longer could they let him refuse help? Tony felt on edge, like they were all just waiting for tragedy to strike. Like they could only, inevitably, wait until it was too late.

His voice came out raspy and forced when he next spoke.

“I think I might have to contact Dr. Cho,” he said, sighing as he raked a hand through his hair. “She’s the best geneticist I know.”

“You think she might be able to crack this?” Steve pointed at the computer screen.

“I think she’s the only one who has a chance ,” Tony emphasized. 

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That’s how two days later, Tony found himself in Helen Cho’s office, with a very surprised doctor staring back at him. She’d moved her practice to an expensive private hospital, sponsored by Stark Industries: the place had everything she could ask for, in terms of space and resources, and she’d been working on revolutionary stem-cell treatments for the better part of a year now, with the help of SI’s science grants. She was thriving, and she and Tony had become sort of friends, in the process. Him showing up like this was new, though, and something in the way he anxiously tapped his fingers against his pant leg told her this wasn’t just a social visit.

“I need you to run some tests for me,” Tony said quietly. It was just them in the office, but he still looked around carefully, like there could be people there he wasn’t seeing. “On the down-low,” he emphasized.

“What kind of tests?” she replied, eyeing him warily.

“Genetic. Decoding a sample, to be precise.”

He watched as she processed his words.

“Decoding…” she shook her head lightly. “What is it?” she asked, but one look at Tony’s face told her everything she needed to know.

“Let me guess… you can’t tell me?” she sighed in defeat.

“Please,” Tony’s pleading voice caught her unaware, and her eyes widened. She looked at him again, carefully: he seemed tired, and there was something manic, desperate in his eyes. “Please,” he repeated, his voice but a whisper.

“Okay,” Helen Cho conceded, looking at him with worry, and some fear. She’d never seen him like this. Whatever it was, it had to be important. “I’ll do it”

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Chapter Text

On December 24th, as they sat across each other in the cozy Avengers’ Tower lounge, laughing and drinking around the fireplace, Steve spared a moment to think about the small boy who was probably asleep somewhere in the streets of New York. As the snow fell over a delighted New York, Steve looked into his wine glass and drank all of it in one go, despite knowing it wouldn’t get him drunk anyway.

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On December 26th, the computer alerted them, with a familiar ping, that Nico’d made an appearance on a security camera.

“He’s in Canal Street, over at Chinatown,” Tony told them, grabbing his coat, and dialing Happy. “Hey, yeah, need you to bring the town car over-” he said, his voice drifting away as he walked into the elevator.

Steve grabbed his coat, and hesitated at the threshold. A minute later, he was out the door and into the freezing Manhattan streets, clutching a carefully wrapped package in his hands.

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They found him outside a noodle shop, nervously tapping his foot on the sidewalk. Nico was in his usual pose, arms wrapped tightly around his frame, and chin tucked into his chest. The small child perked up when he saw the by now familiar town car, and watched as they got off.

Tony told Happy to just wait around the corner, and they approached the kid.

“Hey Nico,” Tony said easily, but Steve noticed him taking subtle inventory of the boy, as did he every time they saw him. Was he skinnier, did he look sick, were his clothes in a good state?

“Hi,” Steve greeted him, smiling softly. “Merry Christmas, Nico”

The young boy gave him a smile that didn’t reach his eyes, before clearing his throat. “Yeah, merry Christmas,”  he said, looking to the side.

“How’ve you been?” Steve pressed.

The boy shrugged, “Okay,” he replied.

When Steve looked at Nat, feeling a little lost, she raised an eyebrow. Right. 

He always felt so… out of his depth, when it came to this. She, she got the kid to talk a lot easier, it seemed. But for Steve, it always seemed like getting Nico to talk was like pulling teeth unless he managed to hit one of those rare subjects that got him to open up.

Nat looked pointedly between him and Nico. After years of working together, he could read this expression pretty well. ‘Just go for it.' she meant, ‘Don’t think too much!’

“You seen that new ad in Times Square with Tony’s face in it?” he blurted out.

Thankfully, Nico’s face lit up, and he giggled delightedly. “Yes! He looks pretty lame.” he teased, looking at Tony for a reaction. The boy got a special delight in taunting Tony, getting his hackles up. Steve thought it was because he knew Tony would never actually get mad, and the thought comforted him. That he felt safe, maybe.

Tony sighed, throwing his head back theatrically. “Ugh, I know, right!? They didn’t do me service. I look so much better in real life, don’t I?” he winked at Nico, and the boy scrunched his nose before shaking his head.

Tony gasped dramatically and placed a hand on his chest. “No? Oh, you wound me, Nico. Maybe I need to get you in on this. Make you Head Stylist, or something. That way you can tell me if I look lame.” He pretended to mull this over, and looked at Nico appreciatively. “That would work, you know why? Because you , Nico,” he emphasized, pointing at the boy, “Are the only person ever who tells me the truth.” 

Nico looked questioningly at Steve and Nat.

“Oh, they?” Tony asked, raising an eyebrow before shaking his head. “Goodness, no. Romanov here is a professional spy. You know what that means? She lies for a living. Out of the question.” He turned his gaze on Steve, and winked quickly at him. “And Rogers… well, he’d sell me for a nice pair of reading glasses.”

Steve huffed, playing up his reaction “I don’t even need reading glasses!” he said, offended.

“And still, you would trade me for ‘em," he said lightly. "See, kid?” he looked at Nico. “You’re the only one here who doesn’t have it in for me.”

The boy grinned devilishly. “I wouldn’t be so sure.”

Steve was the first to crack. He barked out a surprised laugh, Tony and Nat quick to follow. Eventually, even Nico laughed a little, pleased with himself.

“Alright,” Nat said, once the moment had passed. “Anyone in the mood for some alleyway noodles?”

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“Before we go,” Steve started a while later, almost shily, “I brought you something.”

They’d just finished their food, but Nat had gotten a call–she had a meeting back at the tower–, so they had to say their goodbyes.  

Tony looked at Steve questioningly, an eyebrow raised. He ignored it, and handed Nico the package, a soft lump covered in inconspicuous brown paper. Nico opened it wordlessly to reveal a thick, white knitted sweater.

He looked at Steve, a confused smile on his face. 

“Merry Christmas,” Steve said in lieu of an explanation.

The boy brushed his fingertips over the wool with a soft, guarded expression. Something like disbelief. 

“Thank you,” he said. His voice was merely a whisper, and when he raised his head, Steve noticed with alarm that his eyes were teary.

Nat must’ve noticed, too, because she tilted her head, and asked softly if he was ok.

But the boy was already halfway down the alley, silently waving goodbye.

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“Pass me that dip, will you?” Steve told Nico a couple days later, sitting across from him at a park picnic table with a big spread of burgers and fries in front of them. 

The day was gray and windy, and as he felt himself grow numb with the cold he regretted agreeing to Nico’s ‘no restaurants’ rule once again, and wondered how the kid managed to look unbothered by the temperature.

It was him and Nat on babysitting duty today– that’s what they’d begun calling their biweekly lunch meetings with Nico–, and she’d been subtly trying to pry information out of him for the past couple of minutes.

“Who do you think would win in a race,” she started, looking at the kid with a playful glint in her eyes, “you shadow-traveling, or Tony in his suit?” 

Nico huffed, his chin raised proudly, and Steve marveled once again at his princely, delicate features. Instead of his usual ratty hoodie, he was wearing the sweater Steve had given him, which added to the illusion. It was spotless despite his owner being on the streets all day, and Steve’s heart burst, realizing Nico must have been taking special care of it. He’d shown symptoms of particular tidiness and cleanliness before, but his clothes had always been somewhat dirty, a fate unavoidable given Nico’s homelessness. But not the sweater, and its cream-colored wool gleamed proudly under the noon sun.

“Obviously I’d win,” he stated, “I’m faster than him. I’m faster than anyone, ” he bragged

Steve smiled, both at how cute the kid was, and at Nat’s successful bait.

“Oh yeah?” she challenged, “Why’s that?”

 Nico shrugged, picking at his fries. “Dunno, just am.”

Steve stayed quiet as Nat hummed noncommittally, not wanting to mess with her strategy. “Does it make you tired, like running makes you tired?” she asked Nico lightly.

Steve held his breath: they hadn’t gotten much on his powers, beyond a name and the knowledge that he did it quite often. They didn’t even know if there was more to it than the shadow-traveling: Steve could swear the boy had the ability to… blend in, with shadows, without going anywhere, making himself invisible in a way. But he had no proof whatsoever. Tony, on the other hand, could swear there was a lot more: one time, they were walking through a park and the boy had caught a stray football from the air without even flinching. According to Tony, it’d come out of nowhere, and at that speed it could’ve knocked over a grown man, let alone a child. But ‘caught a ball in the park’ wasn’t really solid ground for any theories about his powers, regardless of how much it’d impressed Tony.

Point was, this was a chance to figure more stuff out.

Meanwhile, Nico pondered the question and then shook his head. “It’s different,” he said. “Running makes you tired, but just your body. When I shadow-travel I just want to sleep for a loooong time.” 

“Ohh” she drawled in understandment, “I think you’d win in a race, too. How’d you learn to do it?”

But this question must have tipped him off, because suddenly the easy, calm expression on his face turned guarded and suspicious. This had already happened a couple of times before, whenever their questions veered into more personal territory, or sometimes just seemingly out of the blue. The boy would close off, stop speaking, and it’d take a while for him to trust them again. Steve didn’t want to assume anything–mostly because none of the options were good–, but it looked a lot like… trauma. Like there was this big, gaping black hole in Nico’s life, and any subject that came anywhere near it made him upset, sometimes even angry. So far, the only thing they’d gathered was that it probably had to do with his family, and that he hadn’t always been homeless–Steve personally suspected that he’d actually only been homeless for a short while, based on the things he’d observed about him, how he acted and spoke–.

While his new silence was disappointing, it added a small piece to the seemingly never ending puzzle that was the kid’s life: him learning how to shadow-travel was somehow related to this big mystery he guarded, that ‘black hole’. The thought wasn’t very comforting.

Now, he was staring beyond them, his gaze unfocused. When he got like this, none of their attempts at bringing him back from wherever it was his mind had wandered to were successful. Still, they tried.

“You want some more fries?” Steve offered, trying to sound calm.

But the boy merely shook his head, his gaze still fixed somewhere in the distance. Refusing food was a definite sign that he was basically gone already.

And not two minutes later, Nico proved him right: he grabbed his fries and took off, not even saying goodbye, his gaze fixed on the ground.

Steve sighed defeatedly. 

“Well,” Nat stood up, “That was trash.” She looked at him sadly. “I really thought we were gonna get something today, you know?” 

She shook her head, and silently started the walk to their car.

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“Still nothing?” Tony asked, before throwing himself into the nearest chair. 

Nat shook her head.

It’d been over a week since they’d last seen Nico, and they were starting to get antsy. He would usually pop into a camera once or twice a week, at least. Nine days of radio silence? They were tearing their hair out.

Steve sighed in defeat, wondering for the hundredth time if they were doing the right thing. Maybe they’d waited too long, or maybe they’d gone too fast, and the gift had scared him off. Maybe…

“Hey,” Tony’s voice snapped him out of his reverie. “I can hear the cogs in your head turning, Cap. it’s driving me insane.”

Despite the harsh words, Steve knew there was concern underlying them: he hadn’t taken this well–actually, neither of them had–, and his brain hadn’t stopped pestering him with intrusive thoughts and concerns and what-ifs.

He watched the snow fall through the penthouse window.  The night was merciless, and even in the penthouse, the chill made him shudder.

He was well aware of the irony. Of the kid out there, eighty floors down, probably shaking from the cold. The night was merciless, and even in the penthouse, the chill made him shudder.

‘ That is, if he’s still out there,’ a mean voice in his head supplied, and he sighed. 

He couldn’t follow that train of thought. This was bad enough: the uncertaincty, the guilt… Because if something did happen to him, it would be their fault. If something happened while they knew he was out there, alone, it was on them. Why hadn’t they taken him somewhere safe?, people would ask. Why didn’t you help? 

Sudden tears clouded his vision, and he gasped, “Tony-”

But he was interrupted by the one sound he’d been hoping to hear for the past nine days, and as the computer pinged he felt the big weight of his worry fade into a grateful sigh. Nico was ok, at least for now.

Tony raised a finger, clearly curious as to what Steve wanted to say, and walked over to the computer. Steve followed, and breathed a sigh of relief: there he was. 

Tony set to triangulating the signal as Steve looked at the video on repeat.

The footage was short, about two seconds all in all, but there was no doubt it was him. Steve frowned. Instead of looking at the camera like he usually did, Nico’s face was turned to the side. Something felt off. All that worry he thought he’d put away came back with a vengeance, filling his head with terrifying scenarios.

“I’ve got him,” Tony said. “Let’s go”

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This alley seemed dirtier, seedier than the ones they usually met at. Rats scurried along the wall, and trash collected on the floor. But maybe it was bec ause of the late hour, the darkness impregnating everything with a sense of foreboding and dread.

Nico looked like shit. That small glimpse of him on the grainy security camera had done nothing to prepare them for this. The boy’s hair was matted under his hat, his sweater, previously spotless–Nico had been very meticulous about keeping it clean–, was now marred with dirt, and torn in one place. And if it was a little loose on him before, he was basically swimming in it, now. Steve tried and failed not to wonder whether the wool had simply stretched with wear, or if it was something more. His jeans, too, had a new hole in the knee. But the thing that made Steve’s breath catch in his throat was the giant bruise blooming on the left side of his face. It spread, purple-blue and angry, all the way from his forehead to his cheekbone. There were angry, although fading, gashes on his face, like it’d been violently dragged through the floor. 

Nico stared at them with apprehension, and turned his face to the side. All traces of his previous defiant, cocky personality were gone, replaced with something ghostly and forlorn, like he wasn’t really there.

Tony and Nat were speechless beside him.

When he finally tuned his head to face them, Steve noticed with alarm that the bags under his eyes were deeper, darker, and his eyes were glassy, unfocused. Steve was struck with a pang of fear at the sudden reminder of the boy’s mortality.

“Nico…” Tony breathed out.

“What happened?”

The boy stayed quiet, his gaze now fixed on the ground.

After an eternity, he let out a shaky breath, and looked at Steve, his gaze determined despite the unshed tears in his eyes.

“I’m sorry.” he said, his voice rough.

Steve had half a mind to reply. “What?”

“About the sweater.” he rasped, lifting up his arm, where the sweater was torn, “I’m sorry.” His voice shook, like he was on the verge of crying, and he looked at the three of them in turn, shaking his head.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” he cried.

“Nico, what-” Nat started, but the boy kept shaking his head, his eyes unfocused. 

“I have to go,” he mumbled as he started walking backwards, and then repeated, louder, “I have to go”

“No!” Tony blurted out in a panic.

“I’m sorry.” the boy whispered, and ran into the street.

Steve didn’t think twice before following after him, fear and pain clouding his vision, but determined not to let him go this time. He wound’t make the same mistake again, not now, not after their failure to act sooner had gotten the kid hurt.

He could see the back of the boy’s head as he got closer and closer, turning through alleyways and dashing across avenues without looking.

As he ran, Steve thought offhandedly about how weird it was he hadn’t caught up to him faster. Had this been anyone else, his super speed would’ve done it in seconds; but with Nico it was more like… any grown adult chasing a child. Sure, he was catching up to him, faster and faster, but not supernaturally fast. It was almost like…

A sudden loud horn interrupted his train of thought as a massive truck crossed the road in front of him, missing him by an inch. A couple people gasped. Steve breathed hard, his chest rising and falling due to the adrenaline. He realized, too late, that those few instants of delay the truck had caused had been enough for the kid to disappear. He searched frantically through the crowd, panic rising up his throat. 

“No, no, no, no!” he cursed. His breathing got labored as he looked desperately for anything that might lead him to the boy. But there was nothing.

How could they have been so blind? Steve felt his anger rise. They’d become too comfortable, thinking they had time to get him out, time to get him to trust them. Any other kid living on the streets, they would’ve ignored–at worst–, or called Social Services–at best–. But just because this one was different, powerful … They, what? Thought he could actually live on the streets? That he was in any less danger, because he had powers? They’d tested their luck too much, and now…

“Steve!” Tony’s voice said frantically from behind him.

He turned to see both his friends running desperately towards him, panting. ‘They must’ve set out right after me,’ he though. A stab of guilt struck him as he watched them realize Nico wasn’t with him.

“What…” Nat started, but stopped once she saw his expression. “Steve…” she said softly.

That was all it took for Steve to drop his head to her shoulder with a shuddering breath.

He felt rather than saw Tony’s own spiral into panic, as the man’s breathing got labor once he, too, surveilled the whole area to find… nothing.

“This is it,” Tony’s voice surprised him. He sounded rough, his voice filled with emotion despite his attempts at sounding flat. 

Steve knew how he felt. He nodded.

“We can’t let this go on any longer,” he stated, and looked at them for any signs of defiance, but there was nothing. Both his friends were as determined as him, and Steve was overcome with gratefulness.

Nat looked at him. “You mean… next time, he’s coming with whether he wants to or not?”

Steve grimaced a little at the wording, but nodded. “Basically, yeah.”

“We’ve been idiots,” Tony spat. No sugar-coating this, then. “We’ve been respecting his conditions so far, bowing to his every wish like he were our boss–nay, dare I say more that we respect our boss’– but he’s a fucking kid!” he snapped. “He doesn’t know what he needs! What, a kid tells you he doesn’t wanna do school anymore, you’re just gonna say ‘alright, Johnny, it’s your life’? No, you’re gonna force the little fucker to go to school because he’s too fucking young to understand the consequences to his actions!”

He took a stabilizing breath, and lowered his voice: the street was nearly deserted now, it was late, and too cold for any nightlife, but his angry burst had made a few passerbys look at them curiously.

“Look,” he started over, “this? This was us not knowing how to deal with a kid. We wanted to do this ourselves, right?” he looked at them for confirmation, then nodded. “Well, we’ve been shit. We can’t let him do this just because he wants to. This is no longer a reconnaissance mission. This is an extraction.”

Nat bit her lip. “But, Tony… Have you ever stopped to think about why he might not want to come with us?” she asked. When he didn’t reply, she plowed on, “There’s so much we don’t know, and in a case like this, that could…” she left her sentence hanging, but Steve got the gist of it anyway. It wasn’t good.

“In a case like this?” Tony pressed.

“Severe trauma,” Nat said. “In a vulnerable kid. We have no idea what he’s been through, but he might have reasons to distrust adults, and taking him by force…. Tony, I think it’s too risky. The effects this could have, mentally-”

”Well I don’t care about ‘mentally’!” Tony said, and grimaced. “Not while he’s been beat to all hell physically.”

He took a deep breath, and closed his eyes. “We can work on ‘mentally’ once he’s safe, with us,” he gulped, and his next words came as a whisper, “But we can’t help him if he’s dead.”

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Chapter Text

Tony Stark was, by nature, a pessimist. It was a self-preservation strategy: expect the worst, never be disappointed. But just this once, he’d wanted to be wrong.

“He’ll come back around,” he’d told Nat and Steve, wanting so badly to believe it himself.

But a week turned into three, and December turned into January, and still no sign of Nico. 

The biting cold turned freezing, and the streets of New York became an icy desert. Reporters on the weather channel talked about the coldest winter in the past fifty years, and Tony had to stop himself from covering his ears. 

None of them were sleeping. He’d hazarded a look in the mirror a couple days ago, and could guarantee he looked like a zombie, with sickly skin and dark bags under his eyes. Nat and Steve weren’t much better.

They were in the middle of their third emergency meeting. Steve had managed to sort of…illegally infiltrate SHIELD’s extremely guarded file room. A file room, God, why they hadn’t made the full switch to digital was beyond Tony. Actually, that might’ve been because of Tony. He did have a bit of a hacking track record.

“Are you sure you checked everything?” Nat pressed, and Steve sighed.

“Yes, I did!” he argued. “There’s nothing on him. And I checked. Read through some files, too, but they were so deeply coded it was basically another language.”

Nat raised an eyebrow. “That bad, huh?”

He nodded. “Some of them were almost gibberish. One of them just said, ‘Code orange’ and the rest of it was Greek. But not Modern Greek. Ancient.”

Tony stared at him in disbelief, and said “I’m more interested to know how, exactly, you could tell the difference.”

Steve shrugged. “I’ve taken some courses here and there.”

Tony lifted a finger, his interest very much piqued, but thought better of it. “Alright, I’m not going there.” He grimaced. “I actually called because I think there’s one more option we haven’t considered.”

Steve motioned for him to continue, and Tony took a deep breath.

“Maybe we should bring Fury in on this.” 

The reaction was instant, and even though he expected it, he still grimaced.

“What!?” Nat yelled. “Are you insane? This whole time, we-”

“What happened to not handing him over to SHIELD-” Steve argued at the same time. “I just infiltrated it because-”

Tony brought a hand to his face, and tried placating them. “Listen, I-”

“Seriously, Tony?”

“Will you let me explain?” he snapped, and sighed. “They have better resources, more people, who can help us look for him-”

”But once they find him-” Steve started.

“But what if we don’t!” Tony argued, “What if he gets hurt–again– and we don’t find him in time?”

He took a deep breath. “I can’t take it. I can’t.” His voice broke on the last syllable, and he gulped.

Steve shook his head.

“No. We’re not bringing SHIELD in.”

Tony sighed in frustration. “Listen-”

But he was interrupted by a sound coming from his computer. His heart leapt in his throat, and he nearly fell on his face running to the monitor, Steve hot on his heels. Tony’d silenced every single notification that wasn’t Nico-related, but this wasn’t a sighting. It was a notification from StarkHealth–his Hospital app– alerting him of a new message. Huh. He rolled his eyes. The stupid app must’ve skipped his mind when he was muting them. He didn’t even know it had a messaging service. He clicked on the little blue bubble out of curiosity, and his eyes widened minutely.

It was a message from Dr. Cho that read “Please come by my office as soon as possible.”

“Everything ok?” said Nat, who’d also been reading over his shoulder.

Tony jumped. Her habit to sneak around gave him the creeps.

“Jesus, Nat, can you not do that? It’s a violation of privacy.”

She nodded at the computer, unimpressed.

Tony rolled his eyes, but answered. “Yeah, everything’s fine. It’s just a regular check-up,” he said, the lie coming out easily. “But I gotta go.”

Steve looked like he wanted to argue–clearly not done with their conversation–but Tony made a point of grabbing his coat and wallet, looking him in the eyes. Steve sighed and rolled his eyes, raising his hands in defeat, but once Tony's back was turned, he yelled, “We’re not done with this, Tony!”

“Yeah, yeah,” he brushed him off. “I’ll see you in a bit.”

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“It’s about that sample.” Dr. Cho started, looking excitedly at Tony. He’d found her in the office, and had had to awkwardly wait for her to dismiss a patient before coming in. “It’s like nothing I’ve ever seen.”

He nodded, having expected something like this, and waited for her to continue.

“Tony… whose is this?”

Tony sighed, also having expected this particular question. “I wish I could tell you,” he said, shrugging his shoulders, and meant it. Despite their best efforts, they didn’t know who Nico was, what he was. But he barely cared, now. He just wanted the kid to be ok.

Dr. Cho must’ve realized she wasn’t going to get a more satisfying answer, so she moved on. “It’s fascinating.” Her eyes lit up with enthusiasm, and if it weren’t for the dim circumstances, Tony would’ve been right there with her. This was life-changing, and it opened up so many questions about chemistry and physics–especially Nico’s ability to shadow-travel–. Tony wondered idly how that reflected in his DNA. But his worry for the kid overshadowed his scientific curiosity by a mile, and he found himself praying they'd find him soon. “It’s decidedly not human, except… it is.” Dr. Cho continued, unaware of his thoughts, “Part of it, at least. If I had a blood sample, I could do a lot more, really clear some things up. I suppose it’s not possible to get one...?”

Tony grimaced. “God, I hope not,” he emphasized. 

Helen Cho stared at him, worry showing in every line of her face. “Tony… what’s going on?” she asked, sounding almost scared. 

“I can't,” Tony rasped.

“If you were one of my patients–and technically, you are– I’d have to tell you, professionally, that I’m worried about you. But since you’re also a friend, I’ll be more forward: you look like shit, Tony.”

Against himself, Tony snorted. “Yeah, I know,” he sighed, “I know.”

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The clock on the nightstand read 3:07 AM when Tony gave up on trying to sleep.

He’d tossed and turned all night, fretting over the day ahead. After a long, long conversation, Steve and Nat had–sort of– agreed to bring Fury in on this. Sort of.

The plan was to just tell him they were looking for the kid in connection to a criminal organisation they were chasing down, saying the kid was a witness or something. Just a homeless boy who happened to be at the right place at the right time and was being particularly good at staying low, nothing else. Still, Tony’s stomach turned at the thought of giving Fury access to the boy.

He got out of bed and headed to the kitchen. ‘Might as well get started on the coffee’, he told himself as he padded through the hall.

To his surprise, he wasn’t the only one up: Nat was sitting crossed legged on the armchair, scrolling on her tablet.

“Hey,” Tony greeted her, getting the coffee pot started.

Once the coffee was steadily dripping into the pot, he went over and sat on the armrest, trying to look over her shoulder. Nat tilted the screen his way: she had the police radio line open on one tab, and on the other was an algorithm still computing.

He pointed at it, an unspoken question in his lips.

“Trying Social Services again,” she explained, stifling a yawn. “Maybe they got him, and his file is just taking a while to upload.”

Tony kept silence on the improbability of Social Services taking over a month to write a file. He knew the importance of hope. God knew he had ridiculous hopes of his own when it came to finding the kid.

“Nat…” he sighed, “I need you to be honest with me.”

She looked him straight in the eye and nodded.

“Is this on us?” he asked, feeling his throat close up. After a beat he added, “Are we too late?”

She stared quizzically at him, and finally shook her head, looking defeated.

“I don’t know, Tony.” she sighed. “But he didn’t let us help him. And we tried. We are trying,” she corrected herself, “That’s all we can do.”

“What about SHIELD?” he asked quietly.

“If Fury wants to take him, he’ll have to get past me, first,” she determined, but then grimaced. “But he’ll want something out of it. You know how he is.”

“Yeah, bastard won’t leave us or him alone until he figures out what’s going on. But…” he blanched, suddenly unsure. “You don’t think- you don’t think he’ll want to…”

Nat raised an eyebrow.

“Train him? Kill him? Give me something to go off, Tones.”

“Train him, I meant train him. God, now I’m worried. He’s not gonna…”

“He won’t kill him,” she assured him. “Even if he finds out. And as to training him… I don’t think Fury is gonna be big on babysitting. But I do think he’ll want to keep as close an eye to him as possible, if not take him away.”

“Ok, but he’s not taking him.”  Tony stated. “Like you said, over our dead bodies.”

She didn’t look as sure.

“Tony,” she frowned, “aside from the fact that if SHIELD wanted him taken away from you, they could easily do it, do you really think… this is the best place for him?” she said, gesturing at the apartment. “Have you thought about it at all?”

Tony stared. He hadn’t exactly thought about it, but more so taken it for granted. Who else could be better equipped to take in a super-powered child than them, right?

He told her as much, and she raised a disbelieving eyebrow.

“Okay, but what about the parts of him that aren’t superpowered?” she asked. “You think you can raise a ten year old kid?”

He felt his heart race. The full meaning of that hadn’t really sank in until she said it. Jesus, what was he thinking? He couldn’t raise a kid. And what would Pepper think?

“How hard can it be?” he lied, and the coffeepot beeped. He gratefully took the excuse to leave the conversation, and went about filling two mugs with the steaming liquid.

“Tony,” she admonished, as he handed her a cup, “I need you to actually think about this. You can’t adopt him on a whim-” Adopt him? Jesus, she was moving fast. Just the word was making him dizzy.

“…And there’s the matter of you being famous-”

“What’s that have to do with anything?” he asked, dumbly.

She stared at him in disbelief. “Cameras are gonna be on him like lions. They’re gonna make his life impossible. Tony Stark, famous bachelor slash billionaire, adopting a homeless kid? It’ll be the only thing they talk about, and the only thing he’ll be known as. You want that for him? No chance at a normal life?”

“He was never going to have a normal life,” Tony said quietly, “and I’m not talking about his powers. Kid’s homeless, Nat. That’s not just something you get over.”

They let the meaning of that last sentence hang for a couple minutes as they drank their coffee.

Eventually, Nat’s computer let out the disappointing ping Tony’d learn to associate with error messages.

“No luck, huh?” he asked kindly.

She shook her head. “He’s not in the system. It’s insane, I don’t know how he managed to avoid it so much. You’d think someone would’ve called him in.”

“I’m not surprised,” Tony spat. “They don’t care about homeless kids.”

She looked at him in surprise, and some disbelief. “How would you know?”

“I’ve been researching,” he defended, “Social Services underperforms yearly when it comes to removing kids from homelessness.”

“And there’s the fact that this particular kid can make himself invisible,” she offered with a teasing smile.

Tony hummed noncommittally, and downed the last of his coffee. “Yeah, fair point.”

He looked at his watch, and heaved a sigh. “Should we-”

But then a sudden beeping noise from his computer stopped him from finishing his sentence. Tony frowned, and got closer, expecting anything but what he was about to see.

Once he saw the screen, his eyes widened.

“Guys?” he called out, and then louder, his voice strained. “Guys!”

Nat rushed to his side, her eyebrows furrowed in worry. He heard feet pattering down the hall, and Steve came to a halt by his side, rumpled from sleep. He’d spent the night in Tony’s guest room to avoid lugging himself back here in the morning to talk to Fury.

“What is it?” he asked, his voice tense.

Tony showed them the monitor wordlessly.

It was notification after notification of camera sightings. Of Nico. But instead of the singular clip they were used to, it was dozens of them, one after another, filling the screen.

Nat gasped.

With his heart on his throat, Tony clicked on one.

It was less than two seconds long, recorded four minutes ago. It showed a dark empty street, covered in slush, and a sudden fleeting shadow running across the frame before the video cut off. How his algorithm had managed to recognize that as Nico baffled him. He clicked on another one: same thing, only two blocks down. Another one, and another one, all the same. A horrifying picture began to form in Tony’s mind.

“He’s running,” Tony realized.

Looking as terrified as he felt, Nat gulped.

“From what?”

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Chapter Text

They suited up in silence, a dark cloud hanging over their heads. Tony looked past Nat, who was stashing a dagger inside her boot, and out the large East-facing windows: the sky was dark, and the wind whistled through the trees ominously. Like a warning.

“It’s gonna start snowing soon,” Steve mentioned grimly as he laced his boots, “The weather report talked about a blizzard coming from up North.”

Tony gulped and looked away. Nothing they could do about it. 

“You think…” he started, but couldn’t bring himself to finish.

Steve shook his head helplessly. “I don’t know, Tony.”

“We’ll have to hurry,” Nat said as she straightened up, looking at the sky apprehensively. “Visibility is coming down fast.”

Tony nodded, and they headed for the elevator.

“Last shot of him was on 106th and 1st heading East. Think Harlem.” he told them, pressing the button for the lower floor where he kept the cars. He and Nat were taking the towncar, while Steve was taking his bike.

“I think he might’ve been headed to Randall’s Island.” Steve pointed out, as they left the elevator.

“What’s on the coast?” 

“Mostly old power plants and factories,” he said, grabbing his helmet and mounting his bike. “Might be worth a shot.”

“Alright,” Tony nodded, “Me and Nat are checking Harlem out first. You can start on Randall’s. Call us if you see anything.”

Steve nodded, and started his bike with a roar. 

They watched his figure grow smaller and smaller, until he disappeared into the white landscape. Tony shut the car door forcefully, and they were off.

He kept taking mental inventory of each and every camera sighting. 106th and Madison, then 3rd, then 1st. The kid was running straight for the coast. But why?

To no avail, he’d tried to access longer versions of the footage, but every time, the cameras showed up blurry right after Nico ran past them. Whether it was him, or something else causing the glitch, Tony didn’t know.

Nat proposed they drove through 106th, ducking into side-streets to cover more ground, but essentially reenacting his footsteps.

Not long later, the snow was falling in earnest, and any chance of finding him seemed to be slipping through their fingers.

Tony’s phone vibrated in his pocket, and he took it out with a slightly shaking hand.

“Steve,” he answered.

“I found something.” Steve’s voice replied with the carefully constructed monotone Tony’d learnt to associate with trouble. The hair on his arms stood up. He opened his mouth to speak, but thought better of it: he knew he wasn’t going to get any real answers on the phone. His friend proved him right: “Big building by the main dock across the river,” was all he said before hanging up.

Tony relayed the information to Nat, and they were there before Tony could prepare himself for whatever it was Steve had seen.

He was standing before the door of a big industrial building, with his back to them. The door was locked, so Tony ventured a guess that this wasn’t the place they were looking for. So why…?

He looked closer: his friend was hunched over himself, his shoulders slumped in defeat. He was holding something. Tony gulped, and prayed it wasn’t what he thought it’d be. 

It wasn’t Nico. As Tony stumbled out of the car and onto the sidewalk, he saw the thing in Steve’s hand was small, red. Nico’s hat.

It was trampled, dirty with snow and mud. Steve looked up at them, despair in his blue eyes, and Tony prayed for a miracle. The snow was falling violently now, and Tony could barely see.

But for some obscure reason, his wish was granted.

“Guys!” Nat’s voice said, like a beacon of hope, from an alley behind the building.

Tony and Steve ran over to her, Steve catching onto his arm when Tony slipped on some sleet and almost fell on his face.

The alley–which was really more of a tunnel–seemed to connect this building to one of the big factories in the area. Most of them were abandoned now, in disuse, because while the companies had moved, this neighborhood hadn’t been co-opted by some bougie gentrification company yet.

At their feet, nestled in the plush snow, lay a set of footsteps. Close to each other, and mildly wonky: their owner was running. And small. Child-size.

Tony followed Nat and Steve into the abandoned factory, a second prayer on his lips as he ran: 

‘Please, please, please .’

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They found the door unlocked. Inside, the factory was quiet, which would make sense for an abandoned building at three am, except… It was the eerie sort of quiet that made the hair on Tony’s arms stand up, expectation electrifying the air, like waiting for thunder. The floor was covered in dust, and their shoes dragged snow and dirt in. There was some machinery left behind, casting dramatic shadows against the high windows that made upcycled warehouse apartments so coveted these days. Outside, the snow fell quietly, but Tony knew they shouldn’t trust that silence, either: blizzards were dangerous because of their lack of announcement. The snow came in heavy and quiet, like a blanket of death settling over the world. The open downstairs space gave way to a narrow metal staircase that led to a walkway behind a closed door. Steve brought a finger to his lips in a shushing motion: sure enough, there were faint rustling sounds coming from the second floor.

Their shoes clanked against the steps as they walked up the stairs decidedly and stopped in front of the door. The sounds were a little clearer from here, the rustling now a buzzing sound, like an engine or a beehive, and Tony thought he could hear a faint voice talking. But it wasn’t Nico’s. His blood froze: it sounded like a man, and an angry one at that. 

He tried the door: it was locked. 

It was heavy, pure steel, and Tony struggled not to panic.

“Shit,” he cursed, and looked at his friends. He couldn’t just blast it: they didn’t know where in the room Nico was, and he didn’t want to risk hurting him.

Steve squared his shoulders and charged roughly at the door with his side, which shook on its hinges, but didn’t budge. He rammed into it again, to no avail.

The voice became louder, before transforming into a bone chilling, mocking laugh. Tony’s breath caught in his throat.

“Let me try,” Nat said decisively, and took something out of her pocket that looked like a knitting hook. She started fiddling with the lock, and sure enough, after a couple of tries, the door opened with a groan. Tony shot her a thankful look, and they charged into the room.

Inside was chaos. The faint buzzing sound had become a deafening rumble. He couldn’t understand what he was seeing, at first. An intermittent shadow was running circles around the room at neck-breaking speed, giving the effect of a tornado. Every time it dashed across Tony, his vision went fully dark, the wind speed almost making him lose his balance. In the middle of the room, inside the circle, was a man. He was huge . Larger than any grown man ought to be. Not ‘goes to the gym a lot’, huge. Supernaturally huge. ‘Something is very wrong’ huge. 

He stunk, too. Dirt piled up on his skin, cracked in places, from his torn shirt, all the way to his neck. His face was covered in horrifying blisters, and some of them were actively bleeding. But the worst thing was his mouth: his teeth, perpetually stuck into a mocking sneer, were as sharp as arrowheads.

He was throwing things at the moving shadow like a mad man: old machines, sheets of metal, tools; and Tony quickly realized what was going on. His eyes widened. Jesus Christ.

He tried to pin down the shadow– Nico –down, to no avail. Tony didn’t even know he could move that fast.

He shouted to get to his friends through the noise: they needed an action plan.

“I’ll take this side, and you can-”

But clearly his friends had skipped the ‘plan before you act’ lecture, because they both rushed to the man before Tony could finish his sentence. He sighed, and lowered his visor, preparing himself to chase Nico’s wild form around the room.

As he rose to the air, he noticed belatedly that the man had a baseball bat in his hand. A bat that he was aiming straight at Nat’s chest. Luckily, she ducked on time, and swiped at his knees. Tony blasted the bat with his propulsor, and it exploded into splinters. But the man didn’t even buckle. Tony watched in shock as he easily dismissed Nat with one arm, sending her skidding halfway across the room.

Steve lunged at his back. This fight seemed more equal, which was terrifying in and of itself: who was he?

He and Steve parried expertly, Steve quicker on his feet, but the man powerful enough to stop his punches. He grabbed Steve’s arm as he attempted a punch, leaving him defenseless, and the man hit him with a kick to the chest that sent him flying. Tony heard Steve’s body hit the railing with a dull sound, the upper half of his body dangling dangerously over the edge. But he regained his balance, and charged at the man once again. Tony could barely see the fight from outside the circle the shadow made.

“Nico!” Tony tried, flying around him, “Can you hear me? I’m here, we’re here, it’s going to be ok!” he shouted. But Nico just kept running dizzying circles around the man.

Tony was so distracted trying to pin the boy down that he didn’t notice the man had managed to shrug both his friends off of him and was aiming a particularly large piece of machinery at him.

The metal death trap hit him full on the chest, and he wheezed, sent sprawling to the floor. 

A piercing scream tore the air. Tony felt, rather than saw, Nico stop his panicked running: it was like all the oxygen had been drained out of the room. 

The boy looked exhausted: his head was sweaty, matted to his forehead, and his skin was littered with cuts and bruises, his clothes torn and dirty.  

He was breathing hard, staring at the man with more rage than should’ve been possible in a kid that young.

The man’s eyes widened in surprise.

Nico screamed again, a banshee cry that froze Tony’s blood and made the hair on his arms stand up.

The boy brought his hands to his chest, and a big black ball of energy seemed to form in his palms, getting bigger and bigger every second. The man only had time to widen his eyes in shock before Nico threw the thing at him, hitting him flat on the chest.

The force of the impact sent him flying backwards, and his head hit the wall with a thud. The moment he was down, Nico’s knees buckled and the boy fell to his knees, exhausted.

Steve and Nat hurried to his side, but–impossibly–the man grunted, and got up.

“This is between him and me,” he growled, pointing at Nico, before gruesomely ripping a pipe off the wall. Faster than they could react, he threw it at Steve and Nat, pinning them to the opposite wall. Tony, pinned himself, could do nothing but watch as Nico stood up, his legs shaking. He could barely hold himself upright but he still looked willing to fight, grabbing onto his side with a defiant look in his eyes, his hair falling over his eyes. As he looked up, his gaze impossibly intense, Tony shivered. There seemed to be something terrifyingly powerful behind those eyes, something, –Tony thought, remembering Thor’s words–... ancient.

The man said something Tony couldn’t hear before shaking his head in disappointment, and he watched in horror as he marched towards the boy. All the sound seemed to drain from the world: Tony knew his friends were screaming–he could see them–and he could feel himself screaming, too, but couldn’t actually hear anything.

Nico, somehow, somehow , still had some fight left in him, because the kid balled his fists to his side, and widened his shaking legs into a fighting stance. But it was no use. The man brushed him off like he was nothing, grabbing onto his arm and twisting until he elicited a cry of pain. Then, he punched the boy in the face, hard enough to turn his head around. Nico stumbled backwards, and his back hit the railing.

His eyes were unfocused, his legs shaking. The man grabbed onto his shirt, lifting his motionless body off the floor. 

It didn’t take much for him to push him over the railing. 

Tony, distantly, felt his throat burn with his screams.

And it wasn’t just him. The scream Steve let out chilled him to his bones, something raw and animal. He broke free of the bonds with one strenuous push, and staggered towards the man with a look unlike anything Tony had seen on his face before. Steve looked soulless, like he wanted nothing but to see him suffer. 

The man’s face twisted into shock, but he quickly schooled his expression into a mocking smirk, and walked easily towards Steve, geared up for a fight. But he was no match for him: Tony watched as Steve delivered punch after punch, ducking from the man’s every time. His face was hardened with rage. With grief.

The man’s sneer turned into shock as he realized he was losing the fight, unable to stop Steve’s punches.

Tony felt something by his side, and turned his head to see Nat crouching by his side.

“Thought I’d told you to stop sneaking on me like that,” he said weakly.

Nat shook her head softly.

“Let’s get you out of there.”

She managed to lift the thing enough for Tony to propel himself out with a groan.

“You ok?” she asked, looking him over for injuries.

He looked down: his suit had absorbed most of the impact–negatively, it meant he was never flying this one again–. “I’m fine,” he said, and she nodded, before offering him a hand to get up.

They rushed downstairs, their hearts at their throats. Behind them, Steve kept fighting the man furiously, like his only mission in the world was bringing him to his knees.

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The scene they were greeted with almost made Tony puke.

Nico’s body lay inert on the hard metal floor, dark blood pooling besides him. His right arm rested at his side, twisted unnaturally. Some debris had fallen over him.

The boy’s long hair fanned out on the floor like a dark halo, and his eyes were closed.

Tony choked on a sob, and stumbled to his side. His knees gave in when he reached the boy, and he crumbled to the floor.

“No, no, no, no…” he started ranting, brushing his hand over the boy’s hair. It was matted with blood. “Hey, buddy. We’re gonna get you out, ok?” he muttered nonsensically, as he kept obsessively running his hand through his hair. Somewhere, deep in his mind, he knew it was useless, his words a jumbled mess. But he couldn’t stop.

“You’ll be alright, I'm just gonna pick you up really slow and we’re gonna get you out…” 

He looked pleadingly at Nat. Why wasn’t she helping? They had to get him out. His suit was useless, and Steve was still upstairs. Oh, God, Steve was still upstairs. But Tony couldn’t–he couldn’t –worry about them both at the same time, they had to focus on getting Nico out. Oh, the car. They could take the car.

Nat looked at him with a pained expression, her eyes shining with tears. She placed a pitying hand on Tony’s shoulder and shook her head minutely, looking at Nico.

She thought it was too late.

But no, it couldn’t be, Nico couldn’t be-

They had to help him, that’s what they’d said they were going to do, so they had to help him. They still hadn’t helped him. He was just a little boy, of course they were going to help him, like they always did-

The sound of Steve’s combat boots rushing down the stairs broke him off his dream-like state with a start. 

He ran towards them, blood on his knuckles. Tony didn’t even feel happy: he couldn’t feel anything. Any dark satisfaction he would’ve felt at the man’s end was overshadowed by grief, and the biggest sense of guilt he’d felt in his life.

“We gotta get him out of here,” Tony said, hearing his voice like he was underwater. Like it belonged to someone else.

“Steve,” he begged. His friend was looking desperately between them and Nico’s lifeless body, like if he looked enough times the image would change, and he’d see Nico–their Nico– again, clever and quick witted, and not this corrupted version of him, motionless and bleeding on the floor.

“We gotta get him out,” he repeated, his voice cracking.

Steve gulped, and nodded. 

He crouched on the other side of Nico–not Nico’s body, Tony corrected himself, but Nico –and started carefully removing pieces of concrete and shards of glass. 

Tony reached for him, sliding his arms underneath the boy and lifting him delicately. Nat was still standing, frozen in place, like she wouldn’t dare get any closer.

Tony kneeled back on the floor holding Nico’s small, small body in his arms. He was so light, why was he so light? 

His clothes were dirty and still wet with blood, making Tony tremble. He looked desperately at Nat, feeling lost, small. Useless. 

She’d been right that night, when she’d asked if he really thought he could take care of Nico. What had he been thinking? He couldn’t even save him. Tears started sliding down his face, but he didn’t wipe them. He didn’t move. Maybe, if he stayed here long enough, if he wanted it enough, the kid would wake up, like he’d been taking a nap, and do that thing he did where he rolled his eyes in annoyance, because Tony ‘worried too much’. Oh, god , he missed him so much. He was holding the kid and he missed him.

Steve crouched beside him, placing a hand on his shoulders. 

“Tony…”

Tony gulped. “I can’t,” was all he managed to say. Oh, how they’d failed him.

Steve was crying, too. He lifted Nico’s arm from where it had fallen, hanging limp at his side. But as he was placing it back on his chest, grabbing softly onto his delicate wrist, Steve breathed in sharply.

“Tony,” he urged, “Tony, there’s a pulse.”

Tony couldn’t process the words at first, grief clouding his senses, so he muttered, “What?”

“There’s a pulse,” Steve repeated louder, looking at Nico with wide eyes.

Finally, the meaning sunk in, and Tony gasped. He brought his hand to Nico’s neck, and sure enough, there it was: it was faint, and distressingly slow, but it was there. 

His heart was beating. Impossibly, his heart was beating.

He huffed in disbelief, choking on his tears.

Their strong boy. Their witty, all too smart kiddo who was somehow, somehow , alive. 

“FRIDAY,” he gasped. His suit glowed weakly. “Bring the car over and set coordinates for the nearest hospital. And… call Dr. Cho,” he added, before lifting off the floor with shaking knees.  

He staggered to the car carrying the bloody boy like he was holding a fallen angel, and he took a moment to look up at the starry sky with devotion. Tony Stark was not a religious man, yet he still thanked whatever or whomever had answered his prayers and given them back their kid.

‘That’s the thing about love’ , he thought, ' It makes believers out of all of us’ .

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(END OF PART ONE)

Chapter Text

PART TWO: The Fall

September

“I’m sorry, Nico”

Percy’s words rang through his ears as Nico ran desperately through the woods. The crack he’d opened on the floor had spat him out on the outskirts of camp, and he’d been running through Long Island since. Large stretches of open coast and big, dark houses surrounded the boy as he panted, tears streaming down his face. The stars above him were hidden by clouds, giving him all the more feeling of being in a nightmare. Everything felt slightly off-center, like he was standing on the edge of a cliff, and someone behind him was about to shove him off.

He looked around the desolate landscape, and did the only thing he could think of: he started walking towards New York. 

He walked, and walked, for he didn’t know how long: the sun had set long ago, so it was just inescrutable darkness around him. He liked it better like this, he decided, trying to convince himself. He was too old to be scared of the dark anyways.

His feet hurt, and he was tired, but the physical pain didn’t manage to distract him from the emotional one. As he walked, he cried, thinking of Bianca.

His sister, who’d always looked after him, and had eventually turned away from him, was gone. 

He couldn’t grapple with the fact that he’d been mad at her when she died. Did that make him a bad person? He thought it did. ‘ I didn’t know what was going to happen’ , he argued weakly with himself, ‘ If I’d known, I would’ve been better’ .

But the dark voice inside his head insisted that it didn’t matter, that he was bad, anyway. Because Bianca was gone and it was his fault. Because he’d helped Percy take her on a mission, because he’d believed him: because Percy was blindingly brave, and cool, and he was older, and Nico’d been excited to help him. He’d wanted Percy to like him, and it’d gotten his sister killed.

He sniffled and wiped the snot with the back of his hand, dragging his feet. He’d made it to the outskirts of Brooklyn now, to a dodgy neighborhood with low houses and dead lawns. The street lights flickered on and off, and Nico had to watch his steps: there were broken bottles and shards of glass lying on the sidewalk. 

A dog barked furiously at him from behind a wired fence, and Nico flinched. When a light went on inside the house, he ran across the street until he was safely hidden behind a dumpster, where he panted, placing a hand on his chest to try and soothe his rapidly beating heart. 

After counting to fifty, he moved on.

He crossed the Brooklyn bridge by himself. The night’d gone chilly, and even though he was wearing his jacket, the wind as he passed through the bridge made him cross his arms over his body protectively. 

Sometime– minutes, maybe hours– later, a man called out to him from a street corner.

“Hey, kid!”

Nico flinched, and stopped dead in his tracks, like a deer caught in headlights

“Are ya’ lost?” the man asked, and got a little closer, coming into view. He looked tired, but kind, and he was wearing a jumpsuit that read “NYC Department of Sanitation”. A garbage man, maybe. 

“Son, are you ok?” the man insisted. “Come here, I won’t hurt you.” he said softly. Nico didn’t know why he hadn’t run yet.

“I can take you back to your mom and dad, yeah?”

For some reason, the mention of his parents made Nico feel an irrational urge to back up and run; the illusion of hope shattered like frail glass. He couldn’t help: no one could. The man’s kind face now seemed to him full of cruelty and bad intentions; and, half hidden in shadow under the faint streetlight, Nico was sure he was hiding sharp teeth and claws. That it was a trap. 

The man got closer, and Nico gasped, all his senses going into panic. So he turned around and booked it, ignoring the man’s calls after him.

He ran, and ran, until the man’s dark silloutte was engulfed in the shadows behind him, feeling like his feet were on fire, like he was flying through the streets of the city, a being made of night and shadow and grief. 

He left the suburbs behind, and only stopped running when he was surrounded by skyscrapers. He skidded to a sudden halt, panting and gasping, feeling like his heart was leaping out of his throat. A digital clock behind the window of a tech store told him it was half past four am. It’d been barely past seven when he left camp, and everything he knew, behind, which meant he’d been on the run for over nine hours.

Nico bent over painfully and threw up all the contents in his stomach, his body finally catching up to the hours and hours of physical exertion. 

He looked up, and his eyes widened: the city was alive . Thrumming. He was in the heart of Manhattan, and people around him were laughing, running, shouting, all of them carefree and all of them ignoring the little boy standing by himself on the street. The lights were blinding, mesmerizing.

With a start, Nico realized he had no plan. He’d just decided to go to the city on a whim because, well, he didn’t know how to get anywhere else. But… he knew no one, here.

His head spun with the realization that, no, actually, he knew no one anywhere . The very thought made him feel very, very small. For the first time in his life, he was fully, utterly alone. He’d been isolated before, sure, but he’d always had Bianca’s reassuring presence by his side, telling him what to do and where to go. And now…a fresh wave of tears rolled down his face as he thought about his sister.

With the sadness and the grief came the fear, as the gravity of the situation set it: he had nowhere to go, knew no one. Nico became suddenly aware of how easy it was for a boy to dissappear. He was alone. He didn’t have any food; and homelessness, which up until now had been something he thought about only on occasion, and only as one of those things that happened to other people but very, very far away from Nico and his life, something that would never affect him directly, became a real possibility. The unreliability of life hit him like a truck, and he stood, frozen, in the middle of the street: the city seemed to him now a big, terrifying landscape filled with dangers he didn’t yet know, and the twinkling lights reminded him of thousands of beastly eyes, waiting to eat him.

Nico patted his side: when the crack had spat him out, in Long Island, it’d left a long black sword on the ground where it’d disappeared, like a gift. Or a warning. Nico’d taken it with surprise: a present from his father, maybe? It was perfect for him, and lighter than the swords he’d used at camp: this wasn’t celestial bronze. And none of the weapons at the forge were black like this one. Obsidian? No, something different. Stygian iron , his brain corrected easily, and his eyes had widened. How had he known that? It’d been instinctive, like breathing, or jumping. Maybe it was one of those demigod things Chiron had mentioned, like being able to read Ancient Greek. And Latin , he thought, I can read Latin, too. But Chiron didn’t say anything about that . So he’d tucked the sword into his jacket, and moved on.

Now, after reassuring himself the sword was still safely tucked by his side, he started to walk again, mechanically: he let his feet carry him while his mind spun.

Camp Halfblood started to feel more and more like a dream as he immersed himself in the city. He felt like a shell: like he’d been emptied out and all that was left was a gaping hole where his heart should be. He felt like a ghost, a walking ghost haunting the city–a city that paid him no mind–. For the first time in his life, he was glad to be invisible, to be ignored.

He wandered around for hours with the city loomind over him like a metal forest, and then didn’t so much fall asleep as pass out, nestled between two office buildings.

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Nico woke up the next day confused as to why everything was so loud. He brought a hand up to rub his eyes, and grimaced when he opened them. Everything was so bright , too. How long had he slept? Why had Bianca opened the blinds? She knew he-

The previous night’s events came crashing back. Bianca was dead. He was alone, and he wasn’t at the Lotus Casino Hotel. He wasn’t even at camp. Nico opened his eyes carefully. He couldn’t remember having fallen asleep, but obviously he had: he was lying next to a big office building, right on the sidewalk. Busy commuters hurried past him without sparing him a glance. The floor underneath him was hard and he winced as he got up, his neck aching.

Nico looked around him as consciousness returned to his body: he was alone, in New York. Scared tears threatened to spill from his eyes, but he forced them back: he didn’t have time for crying. This was his life now. He had to think, and he had to survive.

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Chapter Text

Nico’s first days out on the street were chaos. He didn’t know what to do, yet. How to move unnoticed, or get food.

He tried begging for scraps at restaurants–the pride he’d inherited with his birthright wouldn’t let him beg for money–, to no avail. Most cooks just turned their noses up at him and threatened to call the cops if he bothered the customers again. 

So he resorted to rummaging in trash cans, feeling a shame unlike anything he’d felt before when people would look at him pityingly. Screw them , he’d think bitterly as he looked for anything remotely edible. To morrow this might be them, and I’ll look at them the same .

His eating habits took a drastic change: he went from three certain, balanced meals a day, to maybe two if he was lucky. Half eaten sandwiches and pizza crusts made up the majority of his diet, and he started losing weight, fast: he was eating a quarter of what he used to and walking over ten miles a day, because people started looking at him funny if he spent too long in one place. He just walked around like a lost soul all over the city. Nico got to know New York like the palm of his hand, better than most natives. He went where no one else dared, to the places only other displaced people could claim: underneath bridges, into dirty alleys, inside dark parks at midnight. Nico learnt more about the world than he knew existed: he realized how sheltered his childhood had been when he got his first glimpses at the dwellers of the New York night, the underground monsters and rejects of society whose spaces he’d been suddenly thrust into. Prostitutes waiting on the street grasping a cigarette in their fingers, who’d launch themselves at passing cars to offer their services, and either walk away in disappointment or stomp the cigarette under their heels and get inside. After seeing Nico wandering around the first time, they cooed and asked if his mommy was working there. He’d kept quiet and walked away, ignoring their offended calls after him. They left him alone after that.

But when he first saw the addicts waiting for a fix around a park in Hell’s Kitchen, he was scared. Their eyes, dead and sunken in their sockets, made him think of monsters, the monsters of his nightmares: terrifyingly real. They were skinny in the way only heroin could make them, and to Nico, they were a little too close to death for comfort, like walking corpses. Waiting corpses. They toed the line between life and death, and Nico could feel it: it was unsettling.

Everything about those people, those places, was like that: a liminal space, a waiting room, for either hell or salvation. 

Hunger did things to people, Nico realized. It made them closer to animals. And he realized no one could escape this fate: even the most righteous of men would do anything to eat, like addicts did anything for a fix, things they would have never thought themselves capable of doing. He’d been lucky, so far: kind people often offered him scraps, so he hadn’t gone longer than a day without food. Yet. But not everyone was that lucky. 

He’d had to run from these night spirits, these hunger-struck ghouls, a couple times. From the ones who thought he might have something worth stealing or, terrifyingly, the ones who thought he might fetch a pretty penny. Some of them had been completely lost to their delusions, and they thought he was a spirit, or an old friend, but these insane ones were safer: it was the cold, calculating ones he had to worry about: the ones who knew they’d end up like the crazys if they didn’t do something soon. Desperate.

So Nico learnt to meld with the shadows, became invisible even to those invisible to society. It didn’t always work: sometimes their eyes found him, like sharks smelling blood in saltwater, and that’s when Nico would run, run away from these spaces of which he was really just a voyeur, but feared becoming irrevocably part of. He ran faster than the wind, like he was the wind, until he reached his limit, or a safer area, whichever came first. 

It was through one of these encounters with the dark dwellers of the New York night that he found out he could do it. 

A junkie with blood-shot eyes and a freckled face had walked towards him like a hound, and Nico’d turned around, ready to run, when another man grabbed him roughly by the arm. 

“You’re not going anywhere,” he growled, baring yellow teeth at Nico.

He felt his entire body go taut with panic, and he didn’t know how he’d done it, but a second later he was standing safely by himself, six feet away. The man gaped and looked perplexedly between the hand that’d been holding Nico and the boy, his eyes wide like saucers. This had happened to Nico a couple times before: moments where time seemed to collapse onto itself and then spit him out ten minutes later, even though it felt like seconds. Time blindness, the introduction video they made him watch at camp had called it. An ADHD symptom or–in the demigod world– a fighting reflex, too quick for even his mind to comprehend.

Nico didn’t stay to ponder his luck and he started running, but the man was fast behind him, faster than should’ve been possible for a man so sick. 

He was so focused on running away he didn’t realize he’d made his way back to the park, where the man’s freckled friend was waiting, like a beast ready to pounce.

Nico gasped and felt his stomach swoop, like he imagined a roller coaster must feel like, and then a very odd sensation enveloped him as space folded onto itself and everything went dark. He tried to take a step and stumbled, nauseous and exhausted, into the Upper East Side, over fifty blocks away from where he’d been.

He bent over and threw up his lunch, before sinking to his knees, coughing and gasping. I’m getting real tired of all this puking , he thought with a grimace.

He tried to stand up on trembling legs, and had to grab onto a lamp post when he felt his eyes roll dangerously to the back of his head. 

Nico took a couple careful breaths: he didn’t want to pass out here, so far from his usual area. After a while, he started the slow walk back, feeling giddy even through the exhaustion: he had powers! Real, actual powers! He smiled a little manically, feeling like a superhero, and like he had regained some control over his life.

Despite his curiosity, and wanting to figure out how they worked, Nico tried to use his newlyfound powers only when it was really necessary: they left him feeling weak and dizzy, and it took him a long time to recover afterwards. Plus, it was bound to catch people’s attention: he hadn’t gone back to that park, just in case, but he’d overheard two prostitutes uptown talking about a junkie who’d gone mental in Hell’s, who walked around yelling something about the devil inside a boy who could summon the spirit of the damned. No one thought anything of it, just a man finally losing what was left of his sanity, but still. Better be safe than sorry. 

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It was as he was recovering from one of these episodes that it all went to hell.

Nico was passed out in one of usual spots, in the business district, when the sound of voices brought him out of his sleep. It always took him a while to come back to consciousness after shadow traveling, his mind muddled and his body exhausted, and this time was worse because he’d done it on an empty stomach: he’d been sleeping the feeling off for two days. Plus, his nightmares had gotten infinitely worse: he woke up soaked in sweat and hyperventilating, his mind filled with monsters and golden weapons; which meant his sleep had taken a hit, too.

Nico opened his eyes carefully, and looked for the voices’ owners: there were two people, a man and a woman, talking to the janitor from the building he was sleeping in front of. He grimaced and looked down: his clothes had stuck to his body with sweat as he slept, and his hair felt greasy: he should probably visit a cafe bathroom and clean himself up a little.

Nico noticed them looking his way, but he didn’t really realize what was going on until they started walking towards him, his brain still fuzzy from shadow traveling and dehydration. 

It was too late to run, and he wouldn’t have been able to, anyways: his legs felt numb, and he could feel the threat of another fainting episode looming over him.

The man and the woman reached him and started showing badges and talking about Social Services, but between the panic and him still being half-asleep, starving, and confused, none of the words really made sense to him. That was, until the lady grabbed him by the arm and started dragging him towards a car. The phsycal sensation brought him back to earth with a crash, the panic clearing away all the fuzziness in his brain in a second.

“No!” he resisted, adrenaline quickly fueling his body as she pulled him away from his spot. He grunted and desperately twisted away from the woman, who just tightened her deathly grip on his skinny arm. He squirmed and struggled to get away, but she sighed, like she was used to it.

“No!” he screamed, panic causing tears to flow down his face.

The man stepped in and lifted Nico off the floor, carrying him sidways and taking long strides towards the car, paying no mind to his struggles. The boy kicked and screamed, trying to get away, and he attracted the attention of passersby. He felt a flicker of hope: maybe they’d help.

But the man yelled “Don’t worry, we’re with Social Services!” as an explanation, and it killed any hope Nico had left, because people nodded in understandment, their expressions switching from worry to pity, and then from pity to disappointment when his screams didn’t wane, like he was acting irrationally, like he didn’t know what was good for him. The man shoved him roughly on the back seat of the car, closing the door behind him and getting in the driver’s seat.  

Nico shook the door handle desperately, but it was locked.

“Where are you taking me!?” he yelled, and whined in frustration as he rattled the door handle. They both ignored him. The woman turned the radio on: the sounds of a local station filled the car, and when he repeated his question, she just turned up the volume. The car got in motion and Nico watched desperately out the window as his spot got further and further away. His sword, which had been lying unnoticed on the ground, disappeared into the earth with a faint noise he somehow heard.

Nico felt his head spin with panic and his throat burn with anger. A scream tore its way out his throat: not words, just feral screaming. It was like his brain had decided that if they were gonna treat him like an animal, he might as well act like one. He screamed and kicked the seat in front of him until his throat rasped and his feet ached.

After what seemed like hours, but couldn’t have been more than forty minutes, they reached a neighborhood on the outskirts of New York, similar to the ones Nico’d seen when he first made his way into the city: one story bungalows with small, neglected yards at the front.

The door came to a stop in front of one of these houses, with faded white wood siding and cracked paint. The yard was surrounded by a wire fence.

The man got out, slamming his door shut, and walked over to Nico’s side of the car. 

He opened the door and Nico launched himself out of the car in a last desperate attempt to escape, but the man catched him by the back of his shirt. 

“Uh-uh, none of that,” he said mockingly, and led him roughly into the house by the shoulder. 

He twisted the doorknob with the hand that wasn’t grabbing Nico, and pushed inside, dragging the boy behind him. He heard the woman shuffling in, too.

What little of the house Nico could see behind the towering figure of the man was as much of a mess as the outside. Stuff was thrown everywhere, from picture books to tool boxes and remotes, and the yelling was so loud Nico had to bring his hands up to his ears as best he could while being dragged. The floor, covered in moldy blue carpet, was stained everywhere and littered with crumbs.

The man pushed him towards a room just off the entrance, so he saw nothing but a glimpse of a small living room and an ugly, messy kitchen to the side, and a hallway stretched out before him that led to further rooms.

The room he was forced into was clearly an office. There was a severe looking lady sitting at a desk and looking at a computer in front of her. She was older than the one that’d brought Nico to the house, probably in her fifties: there were dark bags under her eyes, and her graying hair was tied in a tight bun behind her head. She was wearing unflattering turquoise glasses that made Nico unconsciously grimace.

She stared right at him, unimpressed.

“Well?” she asked the man–who was standing behind Nico with his hand still firmly and painfully clasped onto his shoulder– with her eyebrows raised.

“Kid from Park avenue,” he said, in lieu of an explanation.

The lady nodded, and dismissed the man with a wave of a ring-clad hand. 

The man forced Nico down on the chair opposite her, and made to leave, but turned his head at the threshold.

“Oh, by the way,” he added, “I think he might be retarded. Kept screaming like an animal in the car.”

Nico’s ears burned red with embarrasment and fury.

The lady nodded in understandment, and waited until the man had left to look at Nico. He tensed.

“Well,” she addressed him, “are you?”

“Am I what?” he asked, his voice raspy.

“Retarded,” she sighed in frustration. “are you?”

Nico shrugged his shoulders. Maybe he was. He had acted like a nutjob.

The lady rolled her eyes. “Alright,” she wrote something down on a notepad, “name?”

Nico looked to the side. 

“Name!” she enunciated impatiently, like he was deaf. “What’s your name?”

Nico kept quiet. He shouldn’t tell anyone his name, he knew that much. Names were powerful: that was one of the first things he’d learnt in his life. So he looked at his hands on his lap, stubbornly.

“Ok, well, if you don’t tell me your name, you’re not having dinner,” she raised her hands defensively.

Nico’s mouth fell open, and his stomach rumbled: he hadn’t eaten since yesterday’s lunch, and the hunger was already making him feel groggy. 

So he stammered the first name that came to mind.

“P-percy.”

He cursed himself internally: if there was one thing he didn’t want, it was a reminder of him , and everything that’d happened. But it was too late, now. He’d wonder, afterwards, why the hell his brain had decided to say that name, instead of any other. Why that reminder of a life he was so desperately trying to put behind him?

“Percy…” the lady mumbled in satisfaction as she wrote it down. “And your last name?” she inquired, her pen posed above the notepad.

Nico shrugged helplessly. Maybe if he kept acting dumb, they’d actually leave him alone. Surprisingly, it worked.

“God, maybe you are retarded, what do I care?” she muttered. She looked at him appraisingly. “Alright, ‘Percy Smith’ it is.”

He couldn’t believe his luck. The woman rummaged inside a drawer, and Nico peered over the desk: it contained keys, rubber bands, and a small instant camera, which she grabbed before closing it sharply. Nico sat back down hurriedly.

She directed the camera at him, and snapped a picture before Nico had time to react. 

“What’s that for?” he asked, expecting to be ignored like he’d been in the car.

But she replied, distractedly: “For the file. Now go,” she waved her hand in dismissal, and directed her gaze back at her computer.

Nico stood up slowly, not really knowing what to do, and walked out of the room in a daze. 

He stood gingerly in the hallway, scared to go any further: about a dozen boys were running around the small house, shouting and throwing stuff at each other. They all looked older than him, and Nico was still at that age where teenagers seemed to him impossible to talk to. There didn’t seem to be anyone really in charge: the man who’d brought him in was nowhere to be seen, and the woman was laying on the couch, flipping through a magazine.

Nico flattened himself against a wall as a boy flew past him on a skateboard, the wheels catching on the carpet. He yelled something at another boy, who opened a patio door for him to pass through. The door led to a small square backyard, where some other kids were kicking a ball around. 

He wondered distractedly why they weren’t in school–the term had surely started already–, and then remembered the date he’d seen on the car display: it was Sunday, September 19th. No school on Sundays. He felt dizzy at the realization that he’d completely lost track of the date: it’d stopped mattering whether it was Monday or Thursday, mid September or early October. The only thing that’d mattered to him these past three weeks had been getting food and not dying. Anything but the bare necessities for survival had been relegated to the back of his mind. He lifted his armpit to his face and winced: he smelt like something that’d died .

He was busy contemplating whether or not he could ask to get a shower when he felt a small hand tugging on his sleeve. He looked down: it was a boy, younger than Nico–maybe seven or eight–, with big eyes and short cropped hair, who was staring intensely at him.

“Are you new?” he asked. His two front teeth were missing, and it made Nico smile.

He nodded, slowly.

“My name’s Evan,” he said, “c’mon!” He grabbed Nico’s hand and led him across the hallway into one of the rooms. Inside, there was a twin bed and a set of bunk beds, pushed against the wall. There was a desk opposite the beds and a small window looking out into the dead front yard. The walls, which were painted a dull, faded gray, were devoid of decorations. 

“This’ll be your room,” the boy–Evan– said, “The only empty bed in the house is this one.” he pointed at one of the bottom bunks. “I have the one on top, but we can switch, if you want.”

Nico shook his head, and rejected the offer “It’s ok,” he rasped, his throat still sore from all the screaming.

Evan nodded. “You can put your stuff on the bed, that way the other boys will know it’s yours.”

Nico felt his cheeks redden. “I don’t have anything.”

The boy nodded gravely again, like this was normal. “That might be better. They would’ve taken anything good you had, anyways. What’s your name?”

Nico refrained from asking who ‘ they’ were, and repeated the lie he’d told the lady at the desk. “Percy”

Evan stared intensely at Nico. “It’s nice to meet you, Percy. Us young kids have to stick together, you know?” he told him, “This place sucks.”

And with that, he left the room, leaving Nico standing in the middle of the room, feeling even more disconcerted than he had before–and it had been a confusing day–. Here he was, standing in a strange room in a strange house, expected to live here for who knew how long, and without a penny or even a bag of belongings to his name. It was such a stark difference from his previous life that he had to wonder, for what had to be the thousandth time in the past few weeks, how the hell it’d come to this.

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Not long after, a loud call for dinner made him walk out into the hallway: all the boys–seven, he quickly counted, including him– headed to the kitching-dining room. The room was cramped: the boys were split between two small tables and the kitchen island, but it was a tight fit. Nico jammed himself into the only empty seat, between two teenagers, and he had to throw himself backwards a couple of times to avoid getting hit in the face by stray elbows.

He was shocked by the difference between this and his first night at camp, where everyone had been happy to introduce themselves and make him comfortable. Here, it was like he was invisible. He scoured the room for Evan: the boy was sitting at a different table, next to two boys who looked like they were sixteen or so. So it was true: they were the youngest two boys in the house. Nico grimaced. He looked towards the kitchen: the lady who’d taken his picture was preparing the plates, her back to him. His stomach rumbled, and he waited anxiously for her to serve him.

When she finally did– loudly dropping the plate in front of him without sparing him a glance– he grabbed his fork in excitement, but his smile faded when he saw what was in front of him: dinner was just a slice a wheat bread, a sad-looking leaf of iceberg lettuce, and half a boiled egg. He looked around him in surprise: maybe they’d forgotten something? But no, they all had the same thing. Some of the kids complained, and the lady cleared her throat.

“Everyone!” She proclaimed, “I know tonight’s portions are a little smaller-” all the boys booed loudly, and she raised a finger to ask for silence, her mouth twisting into a mean-spirited smile, “but that’s because we have a new arrival, and we won’t receive that extra income until tomorrow.” She shot Nico a dirty look. “So you know who to blame.”

Nico felt everyone’s eyes throwing daggers at him and he shrunk into his seat. Great. Not only was he the new kid, and one of the youngest, but now he was being antagonized, too. Some of the older boys’ fierce looks actually made his heartrate speed up. 

He was saved from harm by all the boys' desperation to eat. They dug in surprisingly fast given how… unappetising it looked. Still, food was food: Nico had learnt very recently that beggars couldn’t be choosers.

He made sure to chew slowly, taking really small bites to make his meal last more, but this was a mistake: the egg, which he’d been saving for last, was quickly snatched by the boy next to him, who’d finished his own food several minutes ago. Nico could do nothing but gape as the boy popped it into his mouth and chewed contentedly. He looked at Nico with raised eyebrows, challenging him to say something, but the boy looked down at his seat: he knew better than to try and fight a kid twice his size on his first day. 

He went to bed with his stomach still rumbling, hearing Evan’s rhythmic snores from the bunk above his, desperately trying to understand where everything in his life’d gone so wrong.

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Chapter Text

Nico woke up the next morning to rowdy screaming and the sound of feet stomping around the house. He panicked for all of the two seconds it took him to open his eyes and remember where he was: he could see the mattress of the top bunk above him, and the sun was weakly making its way up the small window of his room at the boys’ home. 

He took a deep breath, and a round face popped into his field of vision: Evan was leaning over his bunk, grinning a toothless grin.

“Hi, Percy.”

Nico’s face fell minutely–he wasn’t used to hearing that name, yet– but he tried his best to hide it.

“Hey, Evan,” he greeted him. “What’s with all that noise?” He gestured at the open door, through which he could see the hallway milling with boys.

“School,” the boy replied, like it was obvious. “Mine starts later. You should probably find out where you ’re going, though.”

Nico’s stomach dropped: he hadn’t factored school in. How could he had been so stupid? Of course they’d send him in, right? This was a government facility… or at least, he was pretty sure it was, what with the badges and everything. He’d never actually been to school. He bit his lip. Sure, he liked learning, but he’d heard all sorts of stories at camp about how terrible it was and how awful teachers were, and with him being a demigod…

He realized Evan was still staring curiously at him, his face tilting upside down, so he stood up and tried to act relaxed as he walked into the hallway. Don’t let them see your weaknesses, he thought.

He took a deep breath as he reached the office door, and knocked twice. 

“Come in,” said a voice from inside.

Nico opened the door and hesitated. The lady who ran the home was sitting at her desk, much like she had been the previous day, looking at her computer.

“Uh, hi, uh…” Nico faltered, realizing he didn’t actually know her name: the only person to introduce himself to him all day yesterday had been Evan. Before he could work himself fully into a panic, she took pity on him.

“Mrs. Hick,” the woman completed, peering at him from behind her spectacles.

“Right…” Nico nodded, standing awkwardly by the door. He bit the inside of his cheek. “I was just wondering if I… If I had to go to school?”

After a beat, the lady barked out a laugh. 

“Well, aren’t you full of surprises?” She asked. “Look, buddie, I don’t know what kind of royalty you come from, but you can’t expect us to have already found you a vacancy somewhere. The school year just started, and we can’t place you just yet, so your majesty will have to wait.” She sneered, and then looked at him with disdain, “and since you didn’t bother to bring any papers with you, it’s gonna take even longer for the State to make new ones.”

New ones? Nico’s heart sped up. Were they just going to use the name she’d made up for him? Surely not. Surely, the State would go about finding out who he really was. What if he had parents looking for him? What if he was lost? He’d been expecting them to bring a cop, a detective who’d ask him all sorts of questions about where he came from, not… not this. 

Meanwhile, the lady droned on. “So you’ll stay here with our other…” she looked for the word with a mocking smirk, “...problem children, until we can find you a vacancy.” Nico gaped.

“Is that it?” She pressed.

He nodded quietly and walked out, feeling empty. Here he was, ‘saved’ from the streets, and completely at a loss for what to do. He walked back to his room and waited until all the other kids had left for school before taking a shower and scrubbing all the grime and sweat he’d accumulated living on the street. He only stepped out when the water that dripped down his hair was clear, feeling a lot better. 

He rummaged in a closet for some clothes, and found clean underwear and socks, as well as a shirt that hung over him like a dress, but no pants. He tugged his dirty jeans back on and tucked the shirt in best he could.

Then he set about finding something to do. The house, now mostly empty, seemed devoid of anything remotely interesting: there was a TV, but the remote was kept in a locked room until six PM, for their ‘designated TV hour’, as the disgruntled carer told him when he asked. It was the man from the car, whom Nico learnt was called Andy. The only people in the house seemed to be him, Nico, Mrs. Hick, and the other two ‘problem children’: two teenagers, Pauly and Dylan, who’d been expelled from their high school and were waiting to be relocated. 

They were holed up in the bedroom opposite Nico’s, though, and he hadn’t seen them all morning. Probably for the better. Given that his TV idea had been a bust, he decided to at least explore the house. The kitchen became of very ittle interest to him once he figured out the fridge and pantry were also locked. The study door was closed: Mrs. Hick was in there. That left the living room: Andy was laying on the couch, scrolling through his phone, and he barely looked up when Nico wandered in. He looked around: it was sparsely decorated, just the TV stand, and the two couches, and a small bookshelf to the side with… books! Bingo. 

Nico smiled to himself and crossed the room, relieved: while he, like most demigods, had dyslexia, it was relatively mild: he could read fairly well, even though sometimes the words got jumbled in his brain. It was actually more of a problem when he spoke: it made him stutter or trip over his words; but reading… reading was fine. 

It quickly became a solace: those long hours when the house was quiet, he read. Nico would just take a book out of the shelf and take it with him to his room– a lesson he learnt after he tried sitting on the couch for the fist time and Andy hit him over the head with a pillow telling him to ‘fuck off somewhere else’–. When the other boys came back from school, they were usually all roped into ‘group-bonding’ exercises, or told to socialize in the living room, but the rest of the day, Nico read.

It worked most of the time: sometimes the older boys got bored and went out looking for someone to bully. The first time, he’d been walking down the hallway when Dylan–who at fifteen had already been to juvie twice– had walked past him and punched him in the face, for no apparent reason. Nico had tumbled to the floor, caught off guard, surprised tears springing to his eyes. Dylan had just walked away with a sneer.

When she’d seen his bleeding nose, Mrs. Hick had punished him with two nights without dinner, for causing trouble. All his attempts at explaining what had actually happened just got him a threat to add another night for being ‘violent and argumentative’. 

The feeling of injustice had been bad, but the hunger was worse: those two nights he laid in bed, clutching his stomach and crying quietly, and he came out of it taciturn, but complacent. He learnt not to ask for help ever again. At least Evan was gracious enough not to mention the crying, afterwards.

He never figured out why, but all the boys in the house seemed to have it in for him. They’d find him in the hallway or in the yard and shove him around, punch him, steal his food when the carers weren’t looking–which was most of the time–. He was thankful he didn’t have anything else for them to steal, at least. But the bruises piled up. He felt like a human punching bag, and it made a sickening feeling trickle down his body like dirty water he couldn’t seem to rinse.

Given that the adults were useless, he tried being as inconspicuous as possible to avoid them, spending most of his time in his room, but a closed door was no match for the other boys: he came back from the bathroom once to find two of them standing crossed-arm at the threshold, and they proceeded to push him to the floor, kicking him and laughing for what seemed like forever, until a shout for ‘Quiet!’ rang through the house. They left him alone with one last kick each, betting each other they could probably get him to pee his pants next time. 

Nico was strong: he could tolerate the physical pain, but the names they’d call him, and the shame he felt at not fighting back left a dark, ugly feeling in Nico’s chest that no number of steaming showers were able to rid him of. He didn’t know why he couldn’t fight back, but he couldn’t. He just froze. 

Days passed, then weeks. Things didn’t really get better, but Nico learned: he learned to eat his food fast and not complain about portion sizes: they’d gotten just the lettuce once, and he made the mistake of asking where the rest was. Andy, the one who enjoyed punishing them the most out of all the carers, had hit him with a backhand so hard his head had spun.

He learned to be invisible and stay out of the way of the older boys and the carers. Weirdly, it started to work: if he tried hard enough, there were times when Dylan would walk past him like he didn’t even see him. But it tired him, and there were too many people in the house for it to work. Someone was always there to put him in his place.

Aside from Dylan and Pauly, there were four other boys all living in the house. Sam, a quiet seventeen year old who was just biding his time until he aged out of the system and whom Nico barely saw at all– he was in his high school’s football team, aiming for a college scholarship–. Albie and Mac, twin fifteen year olds, tall and lanky, who laughed loudly and made fun of Nico louder: they liked pushing him around and calling him things like “wimp” and “gaylord”. But at least they weren’t as violent as Mac and Pauly when they got bored, just annoying. Still, Nico had to bite his lip to keep from bursting into frustrated tears. Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry, he repeated like a mantra, staring intently at the wall behind their heads, It’ll just make things worse. Don’t be a wimp .

With the taunting and the beatings, the dark feeling in his chest grew and grew. He started doing things like pinching himself until he bled or repeatedly hitting his head against the bathroom tiles, to make it stop. The pain seemed to be the only thing that stopped his mind from spitting every bad thing that’d happened back at him like poison. He felt himself grow angrier, too. He was so angry, all the time, he could barely handle it. He felt like a ticking time bomb, like a porcelain vase full of cracks, about to break.  

And then there was Evan. How he managed to survive in this place was a mystery to Nico, and cause of admiration: he was only eight, and somehow the older kids didn’t mess with him nearly as much as they did Nico. Maybe something about the kid’s calm demeanor and intense eyes made them rethink their choices, because they’d just walk away in search of something else to do, or someone else to bully. He was the only positive thing in Nico’s life at the home.

Him and Nico struck a friendship, an alliance of sorts. They looked out for each other, when they could. At night, from their bunk beds, they’d talk about inconsequential things, like which one of the carers was meanest, or the foods they missed the most. Nico learnt Evan’s mom was in rehab right now, and no one in his family had wanted to take him in, so he’d ended up at the home. Temporarily, he insisted, just until he could be with her again. Nico just told him he was an orphan which, in a way, was true, even if it wasn’t the whole story. 

“How come you haven’t been adopted, then?” Evan asked during one of these nights. “You’re white and everything, people would go crazy over you!”

For some reason, Nico found this really funny, and he snorted.

“I don’t know,” he laughed, “I don’t even know why I’m here. ” He was giggling uncontrollably now, and a little hysterically, because it was true : he couldn’t understand how his life had come to this, to this random boys’ home just outside Brooklyn, without one person in the world who knew about him or even cared he existed; where the days dragged on and the beatings were routine, and Nico felt like he was constantly waiting for the second shoe to drop. It was such a stark difference from his past life, a turn of events so weird and horrific not even he could understand, that he had to laugh in disbelief.

Evan joined in on his laughter, and Nico was overcome with an urge to cry so sudden he had to breathe in sharply to stop himself from bursting into tears.

That conversation with Evan made him realize a very simple thing, a solution so obvious he hadn’t even thought about it: he could leave. Go to the streets again. It’s not like he was better off here. He didn’t have to tolerate the names and the beatings and the starving just because he’d been brought here. He had a choice . Plus, he wasn’t like Evan, who had a life, and went to school, and had a mother waiting for him on the other side. Nico was virtually no one, and he had nothing: he didn’t even have a name .

He could leave, and more than that: he could disappear. He could make sure no one found him ever again.

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That night marked the beginning of his escape. Nico started monitoring the carers routines, who checked what and when, when the shifts changed, when the other boys were busiest. He learnt there was only one camera, which was pointing at the fridge, a fact so sickening it made bile rise up his throat.

Now that the weather had grown colder, his bedroom window was opened by the routine carer at nine, for ventilation–after the boys had all left for school– and routinely closed an hour later. They kept it locked, like they did the main door, but he knew Mrs. Hick kept all the keys in one of her desk drawers. All he had to do was wait for her to leave the house, sneak in unnoticed, and take the key after the window had been closed. 

It was all too easy: Nico waited for Friday’s afternoon shift change, which coincided with Mrs. Hick going on her weekly grocery run. Andy was leaving, with his replacement being Mary. Nico couldn’t believe his luck: Mary was an older woman who’d been working for the system her entire life and was just waiting for retirement. She spent her shifts sitting in front of the TV and occasionally yelling at the boys to shut up. 

At five past two, when he heard the door clicking shut behind Mrs. Hick, Nico left the kitchen, walking past the couch where Mary was sitting with feign indifference.

“What are you doing?” she enquired, and he freezed.

“I’m just going to my bedroom,” he lied, and pointed towards the hallway. 

She looked at him suspiciously, and Nico felt the world stop.

“Alright,” she relented, “but bring me a glass of water, first.”

Nico complied, breathing a sigh of relief. He filled a glass with tap water–at least that they didn’t lock–, and brought it to her. Mary nodded dismissively and turned the TV on Desperate Housewives of New Jersey .

He walked out of the living room and tiptoed to the office, twisting the knob carefully when the show’s theme song reached its crescendo. With one last look behind him to make sure Mary was still engrossed in the TV, Nico entered, leaving the door slightly ajar.

He found the keys right where he knew they’d be, in the drawer with the camera.

He pocketed them quickly and, on a hunch, grabbed the camera as well. Nico flipped through the recent photos, and it wasn’t long until he stumbled upon his own face, staring back at him with distrust. His eyes widened: in the picture, he looked dirty and feral , staring at the lens like a wild animal. No wonder Andy had said he was one. He pressed the ‘delete’ button and set the camera down. Then he set about finding his file. The computer was password protected, but he knew Mrs. Hick still filled in all their files manually. Nico rummaged through the filing cabinet by the desk. He was surprised to see they were in alphabetical order: everything at the home seemed so haphazardly put together that this semblance of cleanliness and respectability almost made him laugh in disbelief. 

He found the ‘S’ quickly, and grabbed the file titled ‘Percy Smith’, grimacing at the name. 

It was mostly empty. ‘Name’ and ‘Last name’ were pretty much the only categories filled in, and the information wasn’t even true. The other categories read like this: ‘Age: unknown’. ‘Parents: unknown’. ‘Legal guardian: unknown’. ‘Place of origin: unknown’ (next to this, in small handwriting, said ‘homeless’). Then, ‘Hair: dark’, ‘Eyes: dark’, ‘Blood type: unknown’, ‘Race: Caucasian’ (another addendum: ‘but maybe Hispanic’).

And then the category that made Nico shudder, titled ‘further notes’. Unlike the other ones, there was a full paragraph here, written in Mrs. Hick’s neat hadnwriting:

‘Boy is slow and skittish–might have some form of cognitive disability.’ It read, ‘Violent and argumentative. Ungrateful and unresponsive to the team’s attempts at creating a bond. Came in dirty–some of his clothes had to be disposed of, but he was allowed to keep a jacket–. State is working on getting his information. Request for medical and psychiatric examination has been placed.’

He felt his chest burn with rage. The words bounced around his brain and made his vision blurry: violent, argumentative, ungrateful. Slow. Were these really the adjectives people used to describe him? How they saw him? Nothing else but a file full of unknowns and a bad attitude. 

Maybe he was ungrateful–he was running away, for starters– but he didn’t think he was as violent as some of the other boys. Or slow… was he? Maybe all the files read like this: they were the bad kids, the junior rejects of society, with histories filled to the brim with suspensions and foster homes. One of the carers–Julia– had said something to Mrs. Hick when she thought all the boys were in school. Nico had a natural talent for flying under the radar, and she must’ve forgotten he was there, only ten feet away. “I don’t see the point in making an effort with the bastards,” she’d claimed, flipping through a magazine, “they’ll be criminals by the time they reach eighteen, anyway. It’s in their nature.”

But maybe… Nico was worse. Stupid. There had to be a reason for all of them to hate him so much. Otherwise, it just didn’t make sense. He swallowed a lump in his throat.

‘Unresponsive to the team’s attempts at creating a bond’. At least this he knew to be false. He laughed bitterly: what attempts? Hitting him over the head when he asked questions? Starving him when he tried to get help? Watching as the other boys made his life hell ? And the insults…

But what was that about an examination? He’d been here for over three weeks, and not once had he seen a doctor. Maybe that’s why Mrs. Hick refrained from touching him–hitting him–, and punished him by taking away his food instead. She still grimaced unconsciously when she saw him, even though he was probably the cleanest of all the boys: she probably thought he was riddled with fleas.

Nico sighed, having read enough, and he made to leave holding the file in his hands, but something made him pause. ‘ One more thing’ , he thought. Nico browsed the other boys’ files, until he found what he was looking for. Evan Huntersfield . The only person who’d show him a morsel of kindness. Of companionship. 

He didn’t open it–Evan deserved his privacy–, but he committed the name to memory before putting it back and closing the cabinet. 

He left the office, clicking the door shut softly behind him.

The rest of the afternoon was spent waiting. He considered stealing some food for the way, but it wasn’t worth the risk: nothing in it was good anyways.

So he locked himself in his room with a book for the last time. Nico was halfway through Treasure Island , and he wanted to finish it before he left. Although, maybe… maybe they wouldn’t miss it. None of the other kids showed much interest in reading, and after seeing what Mrs. Hick had put on his file, he didn’t feel bad stealing from her. He actually wanted to. 

That decided, he read until Evan got back from school, and they talked the day away. Evan was ecstatic: they’d just told him that, starting next week, he could have bimonthly meetings with his mom, who was finally out of rehab and staying at a half-way house. Nico was sincerely happy for him. He deserved to go back to his family.

After one last ghastly dinner– half-cooked chicken and mashed potatoes that were so watery Nico didn’t eat them as much as drink them–, Nico waited for Mrs. Hick to check on them for her nightly head-count. She showed no sign of noticing any disturbances in her office as she entered their room, quickly verifying Evan, Nico, and Sam–the twin bed occupant– were all there, before nodding and leaving the room. A couple nights ago, Evan had confessed to him he missed his mom kissing goodnight. Nico’d said he did, too. 

Now, he heard the key turning as she locked the room from the outside, same she did every night; but this time he smiled to himself, feeling the key in his pocket.

He counted to sixty, over and over and over again, counting the hours. Like he knew how important this night was, Evan didn’t try to talk to him.

When his count reached midnight, Nico stood up. He grabbed the file from underneath his bed, his book from underneath his pillow, and his jacket from the desk chair, being as quiet as he could. 

He reached the window, and even though he knew the key was right, he still breathed a sigh of relief when the latch unlocked with a satisfying click.

Nico climbed onto the desk and crouched on the windowsill: the street was empty, the night silent and still. The last dregs of a long summer were finally edging away, and a light breeze floated in through the open window. 

But before he could jump, he felt a presence behind him and turned his head. Evan was standing by the desk in his pajamas, his eyes wide open but showing no signs of surprise, like he’d expected this. 

“I’m leaving,” Nico whispered anyway.

Evan nodded. “Goodbye, Percy. I hope you find what you’re looking for.”

Nico frowned, a little thrown off guard by the remark, but he didn’t ask him to elaborate: he felt like he was tethering on the edge of something he didn’t want the answer to. However, something did make him pause.  He looked at Evan, and quietly, but firmly, said “Actually, my name’s Nico.”

He didn’t know what it was that compelled him to spill this secret he’d been guarding so carefully. Maybe it was so Evan could look for him, sometime. Maybe he just wanted to thank him for his kindness, thinking he at the very least owed him his real name. Or maybe, he needed to make sure he was still real, that he hadn’t just stopped existing after leaving camp. That there was one person out there who knew who he was.

The little boy smiled. “It’s nice to meet you, Nico.”

Nico felt tears spring to his eyes.

“Good luck with your mom, Evan,” he rasped out. 

“Good luck, Nico.”

With that final blessing, Nico jumped out of the window and disappeared into the night, not looking back.

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Chapter Text

Halfway into Manhattan, the floor under his feet shook, and his sword appeared back in front of him with a ‘pop’. Nico grinned. 

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That night, he just sort of fell asleep the moment he found a safe-ish spot, but he vowed to find someplace more permanent this time: he’d learnt from his mistake. 

It took him a couple days, but eventually he stumbled upon a local homeless camp set up underneath a bridge. Some of them had tents, some of them just had cardboard mats or sleeping bags or old mattresses, but they were all there. A couple men were huddled around a fire, passing a bottle.

Nico sat down hesitantly on a far corner, watching safely from the sidelines. The rusty, dirty underbelly of the bridge loomed over him, but the floor was dry and the wind didn’t get him here like it did on the streets. This would work.

If the other men thought anything of him settling down there, they didn’t say. They left him alone, for the most part, which is what Nico’d been hoping for. But a couple of days after settling there, one of the men made his way towards him. Nico flinched, readying himself to fight for his place, and was thoroughly confused when the man handed him one of his old cardboard mats for him to sleep on, instead. When he thanked him, surprised, the man brushed him off gruffly and made his way back to the fire.

A while later, a different man–Jobb, he’d heard them call him– summoned him to the fire. Nico walked slowly, eyeing him suspiciously. Five men were sat around the fire, all of them clad in threadbare clothes and scruffy beards.

They had him sit down next to the fire, and offered him some food. While he was wary of accepting it at first, once he saw them eat it, he shrugged and took the can with a minute bow of his head. It was canned soup, cooked over the fire, and it made warmth spread over his body–he hadn’t had a hot meal since leaving the boy’s home–. None of them asked him about his past, or why he was alone, and Nico was so thankful for this small gesture he could’ve cried.

It was fine until Jobb offered him a sip from his flask: Nico wasn’t expecting the foul taste of alcohol, and when he spit its contents out in disgust, all of the men laughed cruelly, patting him harshly on the back. After that, the boy wolfed down his soup and left the men alone. He wasn’t here for friends.

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He knew better, this time. It took him a couple tries, but he figured that if he could actually disappear–sort of– then there had to be a way of making himself invisible to cameras: he knew that was how Social Services had originally found him. So he started by learning where they were, first, and then avoiding them. It was at times like these that he was grateful for his almost perfect memory: he started building a mental map of New York, its cameras, shortcuts and alleyways; the places he could frequent safely and the ones he should avoid, police officers’ usual spots and junkies’ parks. Very quickly, Nico developed an almost uncanny knowledge of the city and its dwellers.

And for the cameras he couldn’t avoid, like the one in the corner of his favorite food drive, he just stared very intently at, until he saw the little red dot go out. It wasn’t like he knew how he did it, or how he’d known he could: he just felt a… tingle, a hunch, and it simply happened.

Somehow, it worked. After a couple of days, he stopped looking over his shoulder for Social Services agents. They weren’t coming. And eventually, things settled into a routine, as fall settled over Manhattan in a breathtaking array of reds and oranges. 

Nico would wake up every morning as the sun reflected onto the metal beams of the bridge, shake himself off, and go out in search of food. He didn’t talk to the other homeless men anymore, sticking to his corner. He learnt what the best places to get a meal were: the food kitchen in Queens for dinner, the Synagogue in East Village Tuesday and Thursday for lunch. 

A couple of times, he was chased out of a restaurant or tailed by cops who had nothing better to do, but his days were usually quiet. Quiet, and lonely.

That particular Wednesday night, Nico was walking back to the bridge after grabbing a quick dinner at the food kitchen. He felt sated: this had been a good one, pasta and meatballs made of actual meat, and they’d even offered fruit afterwards. He felt like he was floating, dazed and sleepy from the feel of a full stomach after so long. Maybe that’s why he didn’t notice the man creeping up on him until he jumped him.

A surprised scream tore its way out of his throat as Nico struggled out of the man’s hold.

“What-” a surprised yelp left his throat as the force of the attack threw him to the ground.

“Hold–fucking–still,” the man grunted as Nico tried to get his feet up from under him. 

The man was pinning him down with all his weight though.

“Let go of me!” Nico yelled. He knew being loud was his best bet right now, brain going into overdrive.

“Now why would I do that?” The man sneered, panting slightly as he held onto the boy. “It’s been decades since I’ve had a demigod for dinner,” he said with a sickening grin.

Nico’s heart stopped as the word– that word– made its way back into his life after months of trying to erase it. Fear froze his body until there was nothing left in his mind but the need to run, run, run. 

The man… was it a man? Nico craned his neck backwards, trying to get a glimpse at his face, but it was dark under the bridge and the man’s hold on his neck was steel-hard. As the gravity of the situation hit, a bolt of adrenaline hit him so hard and so fast that his hair rose with static, eliciting a surprised noise from the man above him. With a quick move, Nico pivoted his body with enough force to make the man falter momentarily, long enough for the boy to sink his teeth into the meat of his arm, hard. Blood burst into his mouth, and above him, he heard a scream of pain. Nico stumbled from underneath him while the man grabbed onto his own arm and cursed. 

Nico booked it, running faster than he’d ever had before, pausing only to spit out the man’s blood onto the sidewalk.

He ran until he felt like the world was nothing but the moving shadows of passing buildings, until he himself was but a shadow, a filament of night, a stranger to pain and fear.

He must have ran for hours until, by a miracle, he made it to the warehouse.

Nico didn’t realize at the time just what he’d found. He saw a big old building, locked, yes, but gloriously empty, and thought it might do for the night. 

Picking the lock proved unsuccessful–he thought, offhandedly, that that was a skill he should learn–, but a quick glance showed him there was a small window on the first floor, too small for any grown man to go through. Good thing he wasn’t one.

He walked around the building for a while, looking for the best way up. Eventually, he found a space between two bricks, off to the side and barely big enough for the tip of his shoe, to use as a ledge. Taking a deep breath to stabilize himself, he tried to remember the things he’d learnt climbing the lava wall at camp. He put his left foot on the wall, bent his other knee, and pushed. He felt the tip of his index finger touch the window ledge, and he scrambled desperately until his hand could grab onto it fully. With a heave, he pushed upwards, his shoulders shaking with effort, until his torso was halfway to the window. He pushed at the windowpane, hesitantly at first, and then desperately when he felt his other hand slipping, and the window opened with a groan.

He pushed himself in and landed on a desk just underneath the window, his chest heaving with exertion. After a few seconds, Nico raised his head and looked around. He found himself in a small office that’d clearly been out of use for some time now, the floor and the desk’s wooden surface covered in a thin layer of dust. The door leading to the office from the inside had been bolted shut. The room was barren, but wonderfully dry and safe from chilling winds and rain. 

He felt himself breathe the first sigh of relief since his encounter with the man, which seemed very far away in the safety of the warehouse. All the adrenaline that’d fueled his escape left his body with it, and he sagged to the floor. Feeling safer than he had in weeks, Nico crawled underneath the desk and slept.

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Weeks passed, and he settled on a routine. Every afternoon he picked up the free lunches given by different charities, a trick he’d overheard during his time at the bridge, and by night he checked out the dumpster behind a Chinese restaurant, fishing out half-eaten containers of fried rice or noodles. 

The season settled like a blanket. Between the cold and the lack of food, Nico was always sick, always cold, always mildly dizzy. The look of his snot stained face and his dirty clothes was enough for people to walk away from him in disgust, and when he took off his only shirt to clean himself in a dingy bathroom, he noticed that his ribs had stopped hinting underneath his skin, protruding uglily instead. But he was surviving: he hardened, and so did his reflexes. He could stop curious onlookers and potential attackers with a glance, noting with satisfaction how they flinched away from him like they’d been burned. When he caught a glimpse of his reflection in a convenience store mirror, he didn’t recognize himself, his hair long and greasy and his eyes too hard, out of place in his face.

October came and went without a hitch. Every day he went out with his worn aviator jacket held tightly against his body, got lunch, wandered around, and went back to his warehouse for a nap before heading to the Chinese restaurant. 

Everything was fine. He was fine. Until that night happened.

He’d gone to the alley behind the restauran to rummage for some food inside the container. It was the coldest night yet, with winds so strong they nearly tumbled him over when he left his warehouse. 

He had to suppress a grimace at the sight of the dumpster: clearly the garbage men hadn’t been here in some time. But food was food, and he’d probably find something edible in the top bags. He opened one in a quick move and got to work. No luck: there seemed to be only empty boxes and used napkins.

He felt his skin prickle, and he looked over his shoulder: everything was normal, except… the Indian restaurant from across the street wasn’t empty: he could see three men there, eating and laughing. His body tensed, and he forced himself to relax a bit. Sure, it was unusual for two AM, but then again, New York never slept.

His hand bumped into a takeout box and he grinned, getting up on his tiptoes to grab it, when he felt a chill run through his body, the shivers he’d learn to associate with being watched.

He whipped his head and sure enough, one of the men across the street was staring at him. Nico’s reflexes kicked in, and he felt himself go invisible. Or, sort of invisible. He didn’t really know what it looked like to other people, but the few times it’d happened–once when a woman started asking him too many questions, once in an alley much like this one, late at night, when a junkie got too close–the people around him had frozen in fear, their eyes unseeing. He didn’t know how to make it last, though: once the adrenaline wore off, he went back to normal; so he was quick to flatten himself against the alley wall beside the dumpster, hoping the man would brush him off as a weird mirage.

He should’ve known he wouldn’t: Nico wasn’t that lucky.

He heard them before he saw them, booming manly voices resonating like foghorns on the empty late night streets.

They were huge, the two blond men in particular. Nico’s heart sped up, already doing mental math: him, overtired and underfed and ten years old, against them. Even with his powers… 

They marched into the alley like they owned it, and hell, maybe they did because the shorter man- Nico’d seen him on billboards and giant screens all throughout the city, advertising this or that technological device or self-driving car. He felt something akin to recognition when another of the men stepped underneath the lamplight, but couldn’t place it.

“Something’s definitely wrong,” he heard the short man say, and he felt bile rise up his throat as the other man nodded. So, even strangers who couldn’t even see him noticed he was broken. Cool, good to know.

The man with long hair he didn’t recognize, but he looked strong, maybe stronger than the blond, a snap of static in the air around him that reminded Nico of nights at camp and-

A gasp found its way to his throat, and he clamped a hand over his mouth. No, it couldn’t be…

His chest rose and fell in harried panic as that same man reached out with his hand towards him. He turned his head, willing himself not to let his breathing get too hard, as that big hand closed in a mere inch away from his face, and grabbed violently at the air, missing him by a hair.

Nico held his breath as they argued amongst them, only leting himself exhale when they left. He was back to normal sooner than he would’ve liked, his body too tired to keep up with the strain of making himself invisible, and it was that same exhaustion that made him trip on the can discarded on the floor, his body feeling heavy and clumsy, and the sound resonated off the alley like a gunshot. Nico froze, knowing they would have heard it, because that was just his luck, and all of this was his fault because he was a stupid baby who couldn’t do anything right-

The panic he’d just rid himself off came back with such force Nico could feel the blood rushing in his veins as the men looked back at the sound. Only this time, his body was too panicked to make him invisible. He locked eyes with one of them, the short haired blond, whose eyes widened. The man opened his mouth as if to speak, taking a small step forward, and all the adrenaline rushing through Nico’s body exploded. A swirl of shadows surged from the floor and the alley walls, rapidly settling him around him in a way Nico’d learn to associate with safety. The last thing he saw before the dark clouded his vision were the terrified expressions of all three men left standing in the alley. 

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He came to about fifty blocks from the alley, and even further from his warehouse. With a sigh, Nico started the slow walk back, his arms crossed over his chest to shield him from the cold and his knees buckling from exhaustion. About half-way there, he realised numbly he needed to find a new spot for dinner, but the panic over losing his only sure meal only hit him hours later, when he woke up underneath his desk with a start, cold sweat soaking through his threadbare blanket and images of a brand new nightmare, filled with sinister hands and dark alleys plaguing his mind.

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Chapter Text

Running from the blond man three weeks later was easy enough, but calming himself afterwards wasn’t. Nico was being tailed. He started avoiding cameras more seriously now, making himself disappear before them or avoiding them outright: he couldn’t get caught again. He grabbed a free New York map off a tourist stand and marked down all the cameras he knew about, at least in the areas he frequented. He took to carrying it with him, marking down new ones, and then studying it late at night in his warehouse.

He made a small fire in a dumpster near the docks and dropped his Social Services’ file in. Nico didn’t really know why he’d kept it this long: seeing it only made him burn in anger. So he watched the flames consume the flimsy paper, and with it the last traces of his existance, and he felt nothing.

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The incident at the park was his fault. Nico’d been too distracted by the food, which actually looked good for once: he’d remember this food drive from now on. Walking through Hell’s Kitchen with a pep in his step, he didn’t notice the man following after him until it was too late.

After his escape, Nico stormed into his warehouse feeling exhausted and–embarrasingly– betrayed. Who was this man to- to pretend to have a claim over what Nico did or- or how much he talked or-

It was stupid!, he thought as he paced angrily, just stupid adults stucking their stupid noses where they didn’t belong, and asking him questions- 

He grunted in frustration and kicked the desk, only to wince afterwards and rub his foot. 

Nico sat down on the floor with a huff. He’d just have to be more careful. It was when he made a move to shrug his jacket off that he noticed the hard lump on his pocket. It was the Snickers bar the man had given him at the park. Nico stared at it, and frowned.

He’d forgotten about it in his rage, and looking at it, his stomach rumbled. But for some reason, he couldn’t bring himself to eat it. It wasn’t for lack of hunger, nor due to his negative feelings for the man–food was food, after all–.

Nico’d like to, of course, but weirdly enough, just knowing that he had it made him feel calmer than he had in weeks, his heart slowing its usual frenetic beat, so he shrugged and placed it neatly on the floor beside the bed.

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November

Letting them into his life was easier than it should’ve been, the boy falling into routine like the leaves fell from the trees lining 5th avenue: meeting for lunch, meeting for breakfast, meeting for dinner. Talking, and later, laughing. 

Over and over again, he vowed to stop seeing them, end things before it got too hard, before he got too attached. Like the ebbing flow of the tide, Nico would find himself giving in and pulling away in equal measures. Because they were kind and he was weak, and every time they met it seemed like they could almost make him forget about everything: his past, his hunger, his life on the streets. Almost . Because at some point, they’d say something, or the hole in his chest would growl a reminder, and he’d find himself fleeing, vowing never to meet them again, not to drag them into his messy half-life.

Of course, that didn’t work. Before he knew it, he was meeting them twice a week, and it wasn’t just the sure meal that got him to come back: it was that they cared . Nico hadn’t had anyone to talk to for months , and now that he had, the idea of going back to the way it was…

He’d spent so much time alone he seemed to have forgotten he actually existed. People on the street were always looking through him, his homelessness so adept at making him invisible he had no need for his powers most of the time. But Nat, Tony and Steve, they saw him, and they cared . Nico learned that human connection was a very powerful drug.

Why they cared was still a mystery. Or, sort of a mystery: he knew they were curious about his powers, but just how curious? Simple curiosity didn’t explain the countless hours spent feeding him, or asking him about his opinion on things. They could’ve just taken him, like Social Services had…

So, at best, it was pity making them hang out with him, and boy did that thought make his stomach twist. Shamefully, he thought that even if it was pity, it was a thousand times better than what the rest of the world did.

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One morning at Central Park, Tony dropped to one knee in front of a very confused Nico, who frowned for all of the two seconds it took him to realize the man was tying his shoelaces for him. Nico was reminded so harshly of his mom he had to suck in a breath: no one had done that sort of thing–taken care of him like that–in months, years , and the reminder of what he didn’t have made his knees buckle. T he thought of Tony's hands–millionaire, has a driver and a building– Tony, doing up his dirty, ratty shoelaces filled him with shame and satisfaction in equal measures.

He was quick to school his expression, but something must have slipped through–it was happening more and more often with them, now–because Tony lifted his gaze and frowned.

“You ok, bud?” he asked.

He did that a lot, too, gave Nico nicknames like ‘pal’, or ‘champ’, like it was normal , like it was fine, and Nico was just a normal kid. He would usually have responded with an eyeroll, or a dramatic huff, but now, still choking down the lump in his throat, he could only nod.

Tony stared at him, unconvinced, but thankfully dropped the subject. 

“Alright,” he stood up with a groan, “What’re you in the mood for? Hot chocolate, bagels?”

Nico shrugged, still not feeling like he could speak.

“Well,” Tony continued, adjusting his cap, “I think-”

If Tony finished his sentence, Nico didn’t hear it, because the hair on his arms stood up, the sound of an object rapidly flying towards him making the rest of the world fade into the background. His body shifted on autopilot, bracing his knees and lifting an arm, and before he knew it, in his hand was a stray football that someone’d kicked across the pond behind them. 

He shifted again and turned the ball in his hands casually, turning to tell Tony he was fine with anything, but his face fell when he saw the look in his face. The man’s eyes were wide like saucers, his jaw slack. Nico grimaced: he’d been doing his best to hide his powers: they only really knew about the shadow travel and they were pretty freaked out by that alone , based on the amount of questions they asked him.

“What?” he spat, defensively.

“Nico…” Tony huffed, and started laughing incredously. “How did you do that?!”

The boy shrugged helplessly: it’s not like he knew ! He just felt it. And explaining all that seemed too difficult.

“Did…” the man started over, “How did you know it was coming?”

Nico bit his lip. “I just… I just felt it.”

“Felt it where?”

Nico blanked. He’d never actually thought about that before. He lifted a hand to point at his head, then thought better of it and pointed at his stomach. “Here,” he said determinedly.

Tony stared at him thoughtfully, and Nico’s skin prickled. He braced himself for another bout of questions he couldn’t answer, but Tony shocked him for the second time that day: 

“Well,” the man clapped his hands, “all the more reason to get some food in there. What do you say?”

Nico smiled, grateful for the change in topic, and pointed at a hotdog stand.

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Later, as they cleaned leftover mustard and ketchup from their fingers, Tony said the words that made Nico’s world stop spinning.

“Come live with us,” Tony blurted out. Nico’s mouth fell open, and his hands stilled. His shocked silence didn’t stop him.

“I’m serious,” he insisted. “Come live with us”

Nico stayed quiet, knowing he couldn’t actually tell Tony that, oh, it’s just that everyone he’s ever loved has either left him, died a tragic death, or both, and also, he’s a demigod and monsters will follow him wherever he goes for the rest of his life .

Instead, the only thing that came out of his mouth was a disbelieving “ Why ?”

“Why?” Tony asked, incredulous. “Why?” he repeated, his eyes wide, “Because, how I see it, this-” he gesticulated wildly, “doesn’t really make sense. You’re out here, in the cold, when you could be staying with us!”

“I can’t do that,” Nico finally admitted, doing his best to squash the stubborn hope fluttering in his chest.

“Well, why the hell not?” Tony asked with wide eyes. “You’re already meeting us all the time.”

Nico gaped, and when he failed to find a good reply, shrugged. “Just… because.”

He saw disbelief turn into anger in Tony’s eyes in real time as the man scoffed, then looked around in exasperation. “This isn’t a game , Nico! We might look stupid, but we sure as hell aren’t: we know you’re homeless, and you need help. We can’t let you live like this…” 

Nico swallowed down a lump in his throat as those words killed the hope in his chest better than anything else could’ve. What Tony had just said proved what he’d suspected this whole time: they didn’t actually want him, they just felt like they had to look out for him. The reveal left a bitter taste in his mouth, and anger started boiling up inside him. 

Meanwhile, Tony’s righteous speech kept rising in volume, listing Nico’s shames for the world to hear:

“...and you’re always cold, and your clothes are a mess , and I know you’re hungry-”

Nico’s body went stiff. 

“You can’t seriously be second-guessing this-” he went on.

“Stop!” Nico yelled, bringing his hands to his ears as Tony’s words rattled inside his brain like marbles falling down a flight of stairs. “Just- stop!”

“No!” Tony argued back, startling him into silence. Nico’d never seen him like this, wide eyed with anger. “I have run out of patience, Nico.” Tony started over, taking a deep breath. “Up until now, I have bowed to your every wish, all your little conditions and rules, and I did that, no questions asked. The least you could do is give me a reason for this… this temper tantrum!”

Nico felt the anger bubbling inside him finally boil over. “You don’t get it!” he exploded. “You never get it. I can’t go .”

“Why not?” Tony pressed.

Because I can’t, because I’ll put you in danger , Nico thought.

“Because I don’t WANT TO” he screamed defiantly, finally giving in to his rage.

People turned their heads. Distantly, Nico’s brain registered the hurt look on Tony’s face. Good , he thought. 

“I’m leaving,” he spat, turning his back on Tony.

“Nico…” the man started, but the boy stormed out, heading back into the New York streets. The void in his stomach preened with a distinct feeling of satisfaction, like it’d been proved right. Maybe after this, they’d finally leave him alone.

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It didn’t end up being that big of a deal: Nat showed up a week later, dragging a very guilty-looking Tony behind her, and Nico had to watch the man stumble his way through an awkward apology before eventually shrugging and saying it was fine. 

Tony didn’t bring up him living with them again, and Nico didn’t bring up the things he’d said at the park. It was fine. They fell back into their routine, hair-ruffling and teasing included.

And if Tony’s words stuck with him and made their appearance every night while Nico was trying to sleep, feeding the mean voice inside his head, well, that was his own business.

It was fine.

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Chapter Text

December

Nico’s shoes squelched with molten snow as he trudged into the warehouse. He dragged his feet, too tired to remember to take his shoes off before they soaked the floor. He’d deal with that later. 

He dropped the chocolate bar Tony’d brought him carelessly onto the slowly-growing pile of snacks next to his makeshift bed, and slumped face-first into the blanket.

He’d been weird about food since making it to the streets, but it’d gotten worse after the boys’ home. Those two nights Mrs Hick had left him without food seemed to have changed him, somehow. Now, every time he got something like a cereal bar or a chocolate, the idea of eating it and going back to being out of food, not knowing whether he’d find something for dinner or not… It made him sick.

So he’d just tell himself he’d eat it once he got something else to replace it, and that’d be it. 

It became a problem: he started stealing small chocolate bars and energy drinks from convenience stores, nothing bigger, and bringing them back to his warehouse. But every time, when he had one in his hands, ready to eat, he’d look at the growing pile of food on the floor, and the idea of it dwindling filled him with such dread, the hole in his chest stretching down to his stomach and making him feel so sick he thought he would puke, he just had to put it back, because he was too nauseous to eat. He just needed one more chocolate bar to be safe, and then the cycle would repeat.

Even when his friendship with them settled and food became less of a problem, the voice inside his head told him to hoard, because he couldn’t depend on them, had to have a backup plan. That way if they left, at least he’d have his stash. So now, wet and miserable in his warehouse, he couldn’t eat, even though he was hungry–he’d taken a detour after lunch to avoid a cop, and the longer walk had cost him enough time and energy that his stomach was rumbling–. Nico turned his back on the stash, staring stubbornly at the wall.  

A cold draft made its way past the window and into the office, making him shiver.

It was at times like these that he found himself thinking of Tony’s proposal that day at the park; because time passed, and the weather got colder, and with each passing day it was getting harder for Nico to remember why he’d said no in the first place. 

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It happened during the day, which felt like betrayal. Bad things were supposed to happen at night. Not like this, not with the sun shining down on him, warming his face and making him feel lighter.

Nico was staking out one of his restaurants, a little earlier than usual. He was hungry, thinking about dinner, and just wanted to check on the fullness of the dumpster. It’d been a good day: the weather was kind enough for him to go out in just the sweater Steve had gotten him, his jacket left neatly folded under the warehouse office desk. 

He kicked a pebble mindlessly as he approached the alley, thinking of his friends. 

Thinking about Tony’s proposal, that day at the park. Things were better: it’d been weeks since he’d had trouble with the cops, or junkies, or… Maybe, it wouldn’t be such a leap going from this to… that. He was already seeing them a lot. 

Maybe he could forgo dumpster dinner tonight, show his face in the camera near Islington and ask them to get pizza. Just the thought of it brought a pep to his step. He’d seen them just yesterday, and he didn’t want to be annoying–even though Steve had said countless times it didn’t annoy them when he called– but maybe, this could be a trial. So going from this to… more wouldn’t seem so crazy. He nodded to himself, deciding he’d call them tonight, if the dumpster wasn’t full enough (it never was, these days).

But just as he rounded the restaurant, the kitchen door slammed open, and a burly man in a cook’s apron burst into the alley, snapping him out of his musings and into a state of alert.

Whatever it was he expected, it surely wasn’t this:

The man turned to him and saw him, despite Nico knowing he was doing his invisibility thing. But he was definitely not invisible to him.

“We’ve been waiting for you,” the man growled. "Little prince"

“What?” Nico spluttered, panic rising in his chest. “What did you just call me?” A distant part of his brain was screaming, telling him to run, but all rational thinking had left his body after hearing that nickname. Prince… prince?

The man huffed. “You think we don’t know who you are? What you are? We’ve been keeping an eye on you.”

Nico’s skin prickled with fear, but he straightened up and lifted his chin, hiding his fear. “Who’s we?” he demanded.

His question made the cook’s face contort into a snarl, and he let out an angry growl, marching towards the boy. 

To Nico’s shock, his usually fast reflexes were no match against the man, who grabbed him in one quick movement, pulling him towards him only to send him sprawling to the ground with a painful kick to the sternum. How-

Nico’s head hit the concrete with a thud, his brain rattling inside his skull. The world seemed to spin, and before he could regain his barings, the man was on him like a lion, kicking him while he was down. “It was about damn time someone showed you your place,” he sneered, aiming a particularly hard kick to his side.

Burning pain in his flank joined his chest and the back of his head, and he could distantly make out the rest of the words the man was spitting out: 

“...and don’t think we don’t know about your friends. The streets talk, little prince. We’ll come for them, too… and then you’ll have no one .” He emphasized the words with a kick to his ribs that made a sob tear its way out of Nico’s throat, while sickening fear for his friends’ safety began to claw at his chest.

The man’s next words cut him like knives, and the pain felt so real he had to gasp for breath.

“No mom, no sister…” The man clicked his tongue, “poor little ghost boy, all alone. Like you’re meant to be. The cursed child of death... It’s no wonder your own father couldn’t even love you,” he spat, aiming a kick to the left side of Nico’s face. The pain burst through his temple, and he felt his eyes roll dangerously to the back of his head. His attacker must’ve sensed it, because his next words came out as a snarl. “You can’t even fight,” he shook his head with finality. “I knew you were weak, but this is something else. What a disgrace.” 

With one last half-hearted kick to the kid’s side, he turned his back on the boy and made his way back through the door. As unconsciousness overtook him, Nico stared at the high sun above him, tears prickling in his eyes.

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He didn’t know how long he was out, only that when he finally came to, beat up, bloody and dizzy, the sun had long gone down, and an unforgiving winter chill had settled around him.

Still half in a trance, Nico stood up on shaking legs, dusted himself off and started the slow walk back to the warehouse stumbling. He felt abnormally calm. The cold didn’t bother him, but his side hurt so much that it made him retch. There were no stars above him. 

He didn’t come out of it until what seemed like an eternity later, when he heaved himself up the warehouse wall and through the office window with excruciating pain, landing heavily on the desk and consequently falling to the floor with a thud. His head spun dangerously: his body hurt in so many places at once he wasn’t sure he even knew what pain was anymore. After a couple deep breaths that tugged uncomfortably at his side, Nico heaved himself up so he was half sitting, propped up against the desk, and only then did the events of the day really hit him, bringing with them a wave of pain and fear so strong his breathing got labored. Terrified tears fell silently down his cheeks as he clutched onto his aching side. He sobbed like he hadn’t in years, feeling defenseless for the first time since realizing he had powers.

A couple minutes later, he mindlessly lifted a hand to wipe the tears off his face, and it was then that he noticed the rip on his sleeve. There was a hole the size of his closed fist where the yarn had become undone. It must have snagged on something while he was getting beaten.

The white yarn–which he’d fought so hard, against snow, rain and soot, to keep white– was now a dirty brown. 

Fresh tears filled his eyes again, and he gulped, unable to tear his eyes away from the sweater. Maybe the man had been right: he was cursed. He ruined everything he touched, and everyone who ever got near him. 

The pit in his stomach grew larger, like a greedy monster inside him was gnawing at his insides. The voice in his head whispered to him, with newlyfound confidence: “See? See? You should’ve been the one to die instead of her. Bianca was good, she was strong. You? You’re nothing but an ungrateful, stupid boy. Nothing but a crybaby who’ll get his friends killed.”

The boy sniffled, and felt another wave of sobs incoming as he thought of his friends. He had to leave, keep them safe. Could he at least say goodbye? “Idiot,"  the voice spat, “You’re so weak. Stupid, you think they care enough about you to miss you? You’d do them a favor if you just disappeared.”

How could he have been so stupid? Of course he couldn’t go with them. He wasn’t made for families. He was just a stupid, stupid kid who ruined everything.

In a fit of rage, Nico struggled to take the sweater off, get rid of the remainder of the life he could’ve had, of the kindness he didn’t deserve; but the agonizing pain on his side made the task impossible; so he dropped to the floor instead, frustrated tears joining the ones already spilling down his face. 

His head spun with the change in position, and he remembered numbly that he hadn’t actually had dinner. He didn’t care. His eyelids felt heavy, and he noted with relief that he was probably going to pass out again. The less time he spent awake, the better: it meant less time being hungry, and angry, and sad. Too bad about the cold, though. He shivered, and folded into himself, his subsiding sobs a poor excuse for a lullaby.

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A cold morning two weeks later, Nico stood in an alleyway tapping his foot. He mindlessly scratched at one of the cuts on his cheek. He’d decided to say goodbye, thought he owed them at least that, even though the nagging voice in his head told him he was actually just too weak to walk away. It’d grown louder, these days. Nico’d waited a while before calling, both because he thought keeping low for a couple days would be wise and because the pain from the beating had been so bad he hadn’t been able to move for three days. At least his bruises had faded a bit now. His ribs were killing him, though. Nico wondered idly if he could get away with stealing some Tylenol from a nearby pharmacy, but decided against it. Too risky. Best to just sleep it off when he got to the warehouse.

He’d shown himself to a camera a couple minutes ago, and knew they would be making their appearance soon. Would they be mad? He’d been ignoring them for the better part of two weeks, now. He chewed on the inside of his cheek with worry. This had been a bad idea. Nico knew the best thing, the safe thing was to leave, cut all ties, make sure no one knew about him and them, but he needed… Just a quick goodbye. He snorted humorlessly. He was such a baby , so weak , couldn’t even do this one thing right to protect them-

His thoughts were interrupted by Steve’s steps echoing through the alley, Nat and Tony on his heels. The three adults were walking with long, purpuseful strides, but they looked tired, stretched thin.

One look at their matching expressions of worry was enough to make Nico’s eyes drop to the floor in guilt, his practiced goodbye speech forgotten.

‘C’mon you idiot, just say it and leave!’ he told himself, taking a steadying breath and wincing at the way it pulled at a bruise on his chest.

But raising his head caused Steve to notice his black eye, and the way his face fell was enough to make Nico want to bolt right then and there. His face burnt with shame. He’d put them through so much: they’d slaved over him, buying him food, meeting him in dirty alleys, and how was he repaying them? Making them worry–and why they worried about him he still failed to understand–and ruining… ruining their gifts…

Tears sprung to his eyes, and before he knew it, he was apologizing.

“I’m sorry” he said, an embarrasing shake in his voice. “About the sweater”

It wasn’t at all what he meant to say: he was supposed to be cool and detached, explain that this had been great but he couldn’t see them anymore, and really, they’d be much better off without him, and then say something witty and leave , but his brain seemed hung up on the stupid sweater that he’d liked so much and had ruined, the same way he ruined everything and now he was just repeating his apology like a lunatic and he didn’t even know what they thought of him because he was staring right at them but couldn’t see them and he couldn’t stop because sure, this time it was a sweater, but next time it could be Nat, or Steve, or Tony, they way it’d been his mom and Bianca, and he was so scared , except he couldn’t tell them that, because then they could die too. His breath caught in his throat, and terrified tears ran freely down his face as he shook his head. He had to leave, he had to keep them safe, had to run.

“I have to go,” he’d wanted to shout, but his voice seemed unable to rise above a whisper, so he repeated it. “I have to go.”

He couldn’t bear to look at them as he turned on his heels and ran desperately into the street, leaving the last dregs of his hope in the alley behind him.

No one was going to rescue him.

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Chapter Text

December turned into January, and Nico holed himself up in his warehouse: now that he knew people were after him, who knew how many of his spots were burned?

Between the incident at the restaurant, and the fact that he could no longer rely on the three or four certain meals a week his friends had provided for him, his means of getting food quickly dwindled.

To his chagrin, that meant he had to start eating from his stash. Never too much: half a Snickers bar in the morning and a cereal bar at night. If he didn’t have to go out, he skipped dinner and went straight to sleep.

Not that he was sleeping much: nightmares seemed to be the only constant in his life, and they’d grown worse. The voice too, had become so venomous it made Nico flinch sometimes. He had stopped trying to argue with it.

He entered a weird state of half-consciousness. He felt like a zombie: most days he stayed inside, hours and days blending into each other as he floated in and out of consciousness. 

Nico stared at his shrinking pile of food every night, a pit of dread growing in his stomach. His math kept getting bleaker: from two items a day, to one, to half if he wasn’t that hungry, and that was just to get him through the winter. The idea of thinking past the season, of still living like this months into the future, was too much to bear. Even without a mirror, he could tell his body was struggling to keep up, struggling to keep him alive. His constant tiredness was just one of the symptoms: with it came ribs that protruded so much he could no longer sleep on his side, trembling hands, and a constant feeling like being submerged underwater.  

He couldn’t help but feel oddly grateful for the last one: feeling numb was miles better than the alternative, which was feeling terrified, mad, or just heartbroken. 

Despite the man’s threats that day at the restaurant, his days went on without a hitch: no run-ins with monsters, no weirdos following him, nothing. The mythical world was quieter than it’d ever been. A small part of him wondered if it wasn’t all a ploy to lull him into a false sense of security, or just to mess with him.; but he had no way of knowing that, so the only real thing it did was highlight how alone he was–’as if it needed highlighting’, he thought bitingly–.

Still, just to err on the safer side, Nico settled on a new routine, only leaving his warehouse to rummage in trash cans once or twice a week: a thick layer of frost made most food there inedible, and there seemed to be less food than ever anyway. He’d had to limit his spots to the ones nearest the warehouse: the cold had gotten so extreme even leaving the place was a death sentence most days. Walking more than ten blocks was practically suicidal. The streets were deserted, and Nico couldn’t help but feel immensely grateful for his home once again: sure, it wasn’t heated, or well-isolated, but it had a roof and four walls, and it was dry, so it was a hell of a lot warmer than the streets. 

Still, spending most of his time indoors also meant a lot of time spent alone, tortously arguing with himself. Three days into January, a blizzard kept him holed up for a week. The silence of the room and the vision of his shrinking stash made for a deadly combo: the mean voice in his head jabbing him with such venom that most nights ended with him screaming in agony or banging his head against the wall just to drown it out.

He came out of it a shell of his previous self, and the heavy bags under his eyes that week garnered him a couple scared looks from strangers. His reflection on shining glass buildings showed him back a ghost.

A cold day in January, Nico approached the docks again afer

some–unsuccesful–early morning rummaging. Sunrise painted the buildings around him a quiet pink, giving everything a dreamy air of softness. Not that he was in much of a state to appreciate the lighting: he was frustrated, and irritable: he’d gotten virtually no sleep the night before, courtesy of the nightmares, and he was cold . He always was, lately. 

The shore was bustling despite the early hour, loud voices filling the air as ships were loaded and unloaded. A couple workers stood by, sipping coffee out of warm thermoses and talking. Nico slipped into the shadows and casually listened in as he walked towards his building:

“Yeah, that one over there,” one worker was telling another, looking to his left. “Someone spotted a homeless kid sneaking in, so they’ll be coming over any time now to check it out…”

Nico’s world whirled to a stop. 

“...Matched the description of a kid who fled a shelter not that long ago…” 

Distantly, he could hear his breathing had gone ragged, his chest rising and falling with fear. His head was spinning. Nico brought both hands to his head, desperately pulling at his hair as he tried to breathe through the panic.

He’d just lost his only safe spot. He was homeless again. He knew this would happen eventually: he was bound to be spotted sometime, and the warehouse was never meant to be his home forever anyway, but he thought he’d get more time . He thought he would’ve gotten to make the choice to leave himself.

He had no plan B. There was a snowstorm predicted for that night, he’d seen it on a TV displayed on a shop window at 8th street, and all his stuff was in there– all his stuff was in there –. His stash…

He gulped, trying and failing to calm down. Out of the corner of his eyes, Nico saw five cops and a lady in a gray suit walking in from the East: they marched decisively towards his warehouse, presumably looking for him. He ducked under a worker’s arm and into one of the passageways surrounding the docks.

Safely away, he took a couple shuddering breaths, holding his arms to his chest: he’d just have to build himself a new stash, and find someplace to spend the night, at least until the storm passed. He might’ve gotten away with sleeping out on the streets when it was still early Fall, but attempting that now…

Nico made a mental inventory: he had his sweater, the sweater: while he’d vowed not to wear it again, it was the warmest thing he had, and with the temperatures New York was experiencing, he couldn’t really get rid of it. Seeing the coppery brown bloodstains staining the white wool still made him shiver, nausea climbing up his throat.

He also had his jacket, his sword, and his hat. That was about it: he’d left what little money he had at home with his map, not to mention the stash.

A rustling sound to his left pulled him out of his head, and he tensed. But it was just a homeless guy, probably in his late twenties, skinny in the way only heroin could make you. Nico eyed him warily, but he didn’t seem high, so he carefully resumed his walking.

He should’ve known it wouldn’t be that easy: Nico hadn’t walked further than a step when the man’s eyes widened, turning to look at him.

“You!” he pointed a shaking finger at Nico, “give- give me all you have.”

The boy raised his eyebrows, unimpressed. Far as mugging attempts went, this one wasn’t very impressive. The guy was shaking like a leaf.

Nico’d been through this a couple times before: he kept his voice firm as he answered, acting unbothered, while his left hand found his sword under his jacket.

“Look man, I don’t really have anything,” he replied, looking down at his ratty clothes, “...in case that wasn’t obvious.”

Still, the man moved forward, and sirens started going off in Nico’s head. He looked around for escape routes, but he was pretty much screwed: forward was the only way out, unless he wanted to hand himself to the cops who were actively looking for him just a couple feet behind them. He couldn’t use his sword against a mortal, either, so his best chance was the guy leaving him alone.

This close, he could see the yellowy tint of his skin, the twitchy expression, his eyes red and wild from withdrawal. Nico cursed silently: this was not going well. He put his hands up.

“I really don’t-” he started, but the man cut in:

“Empty your pockets!” he yelled in a shrill, nervous voice. “Fast!”

Nico gulped, and looked quickly to the side. He either refused and risked being attacked, or he took out his sword, and hoped it scared him away–that is, if he even saw it–. Maybe he could stall long enough for the guy to-

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the man make a sudden, aborted move, and felt a distant pain in his stomach. What…?

He looked down at himself: the hilt of a pocket knife was sticking out of his sweater. Blood blossomed around the knife, painting over the old maroon stains with shining new red ones. Nico looked back up, his mouth open in disbelief: the man’s eyes were wide with adrenaline and fear, looking between Nico and his hand, still holding on to the knife.

“I-” the man spluttered, then shook his head. Nico’s mind swam with fear, and he opened his mouth to speak, to say… to say something , at least ask him not to take the blade out.

But with one shaky movement, the man pulled his hand back, the knife tearing skin and muscle on its way out.

Nico watched the man stumble backwards shakingly before turning his back on him, and disappearing behind a building.

His knees shook and he went down like a collapsed block tower. He could hear his own blood dripping onto the floor, but it didn’t register as such: Nico felt very far away, like all this was happening to someone else.

He curled in on himself, shivering, mindless of the world around him. The only thing making it through the numb pain was a litany of ‘why’s. A sob tore its way out of his throat, and he racked his brain for an answer. He just wished he understood . All this time, since Bianca, since running away, the most prevalent feeling in his life had been confusion. How had things gone so wrong? How had he ended up here, bleeding on the floor, cold and homeless and alone ? Who had let this happen? 

Running like an undercurrent through his new life and routine was a fast growing list of unanswered questions, like math problems he ached to solve: why he got beat up at the home, why he always got yelled at by cops, why the man at the restaurant had almost…

Nico whimpered. How come other kids got a family, and a warm bed, and people who cared about them? How come Nico’d lost everyone he’d ever cared about?

And then, of course, the voice had come into his life to tell him why. The reason had to be  him . If no one wanted him, then that had to mean he was bad , right? So if bad things happened to him, then he had to deserve them, too. He had to: otherwise, it meant that bad things happened just because, and all that he’d been through was just… bad luck. 

Once, when he was very little, he’d asked his mom why some people were good and others were bad. He’d been thinking about the war. His mom had just smiled sadly, petting his hair. “No one’s good or bad,” she’d said, “we’re all just trying our best.”

God, his mom. Another sob wracked his body. He missed her so much . What would she think if she saw him now, lying bleeding on the floor? Would she think he deserved it, too? His lip quivered. He had tried his best, he really had.

Eventually, his eyes started drooping: maybe it was the blood loss, maybe just adrenaline finally depleting his body, but he could feel himself falling asleep.

He didn’t fight it: why not stay here? It was surprisingly comfortable on the floor. Nico sighed, feeling lightheaded: not a bad idea to take a little nap. Calm spread through  his body. The cold didn’t bother him anymore.

But he hadn’t yet closed his eyes when a low growl echoed through the walls of the tunnel.

‘No,’ he thought, ‘whatever it is, I’m not doing it.’ He laid his head stubbornly back down, but then came another growl, this one closer. Curiosity got the best of him, and he strained his neck to at least see who, or what, was finally gonna get him. He’d been hoping for a quiet death in this alley, blood loss eventually making him fall asleep, but he should’ve known he wouldn’t be that lucky.

Approaching him was a man, except it…wasn’t. He was huge , with hands balled up in fists the size of melons. He growled again, walking closer, baring teeth sharp like a shark’s. Nico’s demigod instincts flared up: a monster.

The boy sat up against the wall, his heart racing in his chest.

“What-” he started, clutching his side, “what are you?”

The man huffed out a laugh. “I’m Antiphates.”

The name sounded mildly familiar, and Nico racked his brain for an answer. Antiphates… Antiphates…

“A Laestrygonian,” the man added helpfully, before looking at the gash on Nico’s side and pointedly licking his lips, taking another step forward.

Nico gulped, remembering the mythomagic stats for Laestrygonians: strength: 100, aggression: 100. Canibalism… 100.

“And I’m working for someone who has big plans for you, boy.”

Through the fear, Nico thought back to his last encounter with the mythological world. At the restaurant, the cook had said we .

“You see,” the Laestrygonian continued, “There’s a lot more people–or well, monsters –” he spat, “like me. Sick and tired of being ignored. And we’re not alone, oh no . You must remember Cliff. I heard he sent you a lovely little message a couple weeks ago.”

‘Well, that must be the cook’, Nico thought with a grimace. But…

“He was no monster,” he argued.

The man smirked, like Nico’d finally caught up to the conversation.

“You’re right… he wasn’t. He was one of yours .”

Nico’s eyes widened. A demigod? Why would a demigod work with monsters? 

“That can’t be true,” he said, shaking his head, “why would a demigod work with you?”

“Because he got tired of being ignored, too. Mainly, of being ignored by his godly parent, whoever that may be.”

Oh. An unclaimed demigod. Nico’d seen them, in the Hermes cabin. Kids who’d been there for years, and kids who’d only just gone there, wearing equally dejected faces. Some of them were still holding onto hope, but most of them had resigned themselves to never being recognized by their mom or dad. He could understand why that would make them bitter, angry. But… angry enough to work with monsters? That was a lot. His head spun, quickly realizing what this could mean for everyone at camp.

“What do you want from me?” he asked warily.

The Laestrygonian bared his pointed teeth in a terrifying smile. 

“I want you to come with us. A powerful demigod like you, who went to camp, and then left . It’s good propaganda. And I’m sure we could find some use for you, yes… Certainly, our leader is eager to meet you.”

Just the mention of this ‘leader’ made Nico’s heart skip a beat, awakening instincts he wasn’t aware he’d had; a primal fear taking root in his body that felt like being suddenly thrown into a cold lake. He felt the whispers of something ancient rumbling in the earth beneath his feet.

It sent his body whirring into motion, fear clearing his mind. As Antiphates stalked closer, Nico counted silently to three, forcing himself to stay still and exaggerating his sluggish state. 

When Antiphates was only a couple feet away, he scrambled to his feet and bolted, shoes skidding on the icy street. Behind him, he heard Antiphates curse and rush after him.

Nico moved like a man possessed, ignoring the searing pain in his side and falling forwards more than running. Despite the fear and the man following behind him, Nico made a point of turning off the cameras in his path: he knew this area like the back of his hand, muscle memory working like a clock and sending him where he needed to go. He was in control.

A plan began to form in his mind, and he directed his steps towards a derelict building in the neighborhood. It’d been closed off, soon to be demolished, and through the adrenaline, and the pain, Nico grinned: he knew what to do. 

He burst through the door, quickly regaining his breath as he looked at his surroundings: debris filled the room, a set of construction pillars holding the building together.

Nico planted his feet and waited for the man to burst in. He knew that his chances were slim: he was small, and weak. He had to outsmart him.

“Hi, Antiphates,” he greeted coolly when the Laestygonian barged in, feigning nonchalance. Nico’d never really thought himself as much of an actor, but he put all his skills to use now. 

The man huffed. 

“You have two choices,” he barked, “you either come with me, or we fight, and I kill you.”

“We fight,” Nico answered easily, ignoring the burning pain on his side and standing tall. 

Antiphates snarled and balled his fists. Nico pulled out his sword, walking towards him, but took off running at the last second. He drew circles around the room, raising dust around them.

“What is this?” the man yelled, affronted. “You’re still not done running?”

The Laestrygonian growled and picked up a piece of debris. Nico ran teasing circles around him, before skidding to a stop in front of a support beam. He had one chance to make this work.

Antiphates threw the rock. When the hurling object was three feet from his face, Nico took off again, smiling when he heard the beam topple over with a loud crash.

“What happened, Antiphates?” he taunted, “did you miss?”

Antiphates growled, and moved towards him, but Nico took off again, positioning himself by another pillar. 

He stood still, biding his time as he waited for the man to come closer. The Laestrygonian moved heavily towards him, his mouth stuck in a snarl. Finally, right when Antiphates raised his fists to deliver the killing blow, Nico ducked underneath him, hearing the man’s hand make contact with the beam with a sickening crack.

“Argh!” he cried in pain, “Stop this!”

“Stop me yourself,” Nico challenged, running circles around him.

He stopped again, and waited for the man to hurl something at him–a rock this time–. He timed it carefully: Nico counted to three in his head before stepping to the side. The beam creaked.

Antiphates roared in frustration. “Why don’t you fight like a normal demigod? Come at me with your sword instead of running away like a coward.”

Tired of chasing him, the Laestrygonian started picking debris off the floor like mad, throwing it carelessly at the boy in his rage. Nico dodged the rocks expertly, eventually coming to a stop a few feet away from Antiphates. 

He panted, bending over his knees, and smiled. “Because I’m not a normal demigod.”

The Laestrygonian frowned in confusion, and Nico lifted his head: the last of the support beams surrounding Antiphates was tilting dangerously. 

He placed a hand on it, and it creaked. Antiphates’ eyes widened in understanding.

“No…” he stumbled forwards, but he was too slow.

“Goodbye, Antiphates,” Nico said, and pushed. The section of the ceiling over the man fell in a clean square, trampling him underneath it. 

Nico breathed, exhaustion catching up to him. 

But then he heard a sickening sound coming from his right: one of the fallen support beams had hit a load bearing wall, and before he knew it, the whole place was crashing down, the building collapsing onto itself.

Nico let out a muffled scream as the falling debris buried him. He felt his own ribs break sickeningly under the weight of the rubble, and a sharp pain shot through his left leg when a piece of rebar pierced him.

He gasped desperately for air. Around him, everything was dark. The collapsed ceiling blocked out all the light, and the dust around him made him cough. He couldn’t see a way out. Nico tried moving, but the rubble crushing him was too heavy. He couldn’t slither under it, either, both his hands trapped firmly under a concrete wall.

Claustrophobia made his breathing get labored, and he weeped. 

Somewhere among the debris, Nico heard the Laestrygonian grunt in pain, and he felt his heart sink with defeat. 

He was so tired. He’d done all that, and he hadn’t even managed to take the monster down with him. Something shifted above him, and scared tears welled in his eyes. He didn’t want to die like this, didn’t want to die at all. His injuries hurt and he missed his mom. The tears flowed freely down his face now, and when he let out a shaky exhale, the debris crushing his chest moved, trapping him more tightly.

He closed his eyes, ready to give up. 

He wasn’t sure how long he spent just lying there, thinking about nothing and everything all at once. There wasn’t much of a life to pass before his eyes at all, just pain and one loss after the other. His mom, Percy, Tony, Steve, Nat, Bianca… 

Thoughts of his sister flooded his mind. He could almost hear her now, her tone always fond and mildly infuriated when he refused to get out of bed, just five more minutes, c’mon Bianca.

Bianca…?

“Nico,” her voice whispered in his ear, just like it did those early mornings at the Lotus Hotel, when she’d shake him awake before breakfast, a little exasperated. “Nico, c’mon”

He groaned and opened his eyes again. Bianca’s eyes looked into his own, shining with compassion. 

“Bianca?” he whispered, blinking away dust and tears. Here she was, after he’d spent countless hours trying to summon her ghost, only to be ignored. He was half convinced his pain-addled brain was making her up.

She smiled kindly. “Nico, you have to get up.”

He cocked his head, still trying to figure out if she was really there. “Why… Why haven’t you answered my calls?”

Something like regret clouded her expression. “I couldn’t, Nico.”

“But- how are you here?”

“That’s not important, now. You have to get up,” she said determinedly.

“I- I can’t,” he breathed. 

“Yes, you can,” she said.

“No,” he sobbed, struggling against the debris, “I can’t”

What he really meant was I don’t want to . He was so tired of fighting. But he couldn’t say that to Bianca. Bianca, who’d always stood up for him, who was always ready to fight the good fight, who had died fighting the good fight. Died to keep Nico safe, and now Nico was throwing it in her face by wanting to die, instead.

“You’ve done so well, Nico,” Bianca said, unshed tears in her eyes, like she knew . “It’s just this one more thing you’ve got to do. Now get up. Do it for me,” she finished kindly.

Nico whimpered, and pushed at the debris on his chest with both hands. His body cried in protest, aching everywhere. It didn’t move. 

He sobbed and pushed again, because he had to, drawing strength from somewhere deep in his body until he felt the cement stir weakly under his hands. He screamed in pain and pushed harder, feeling a blast of power shoot through his body like lightning, finally lifting the heavy concrete off his chest. The movement brought a fresh wave of pain to his ribs, but the relief at no longer being crushed was so strong he barely felt it. 

He sat up with a whimper, looking around. Fallen walls and rubble made up a desolate landscape, with no exit in view. He knew the door had to be only a couple dozen feet away, but the path was completely blocked. Dust floated around the room, giving everything a hazy glow.

Nico hazarded a look at his leg: a dirty piece of rebar stuck angrily from his calf, blood and dust congealing in his pant leg. Well, he couldn’t really move with that there, which only meant…

He winced and took a deep breath, stilling himself before pulling his leg up . Pain like he’d never felt before shot up his spine and he gasped, but kept going stubbornly and agonizingly slow until his leg came free with a sickening sound.

He sobbed in relief, and looked to his side. His face fell: Bianca’s ghost was gone. A fresh bout of grief clouded his vision and he felt himself go dizzy with pain as the adrenaline wore out: he was pretty sure most of his ribs were broken, his side still throbbed, and the wound on his leg was bleeding profusely. But he still staggered to his feet: something about seeing Bianca had filled him with an incongruous, irrational, and frankly ridiculous will to live. To hell, right? She’d just saved him, again, and Nico was going to try his damnest not to let her gift go to waste.

He failed the first step forward, and had to hang onto a fallen wall for balance; but he just gritted his teeth stubbornly and waited for his legs to stop shaking before taking another step, this one surer. Step after step, he made it towards the last of the fallen walls. Beyond that, lay the rest of the room and–ideally–the exit, if it wasn’t being blocked by something. No way but up, Nico braced his good leg onto a ledge and pushed himself over the wall. It wasn’t too high, and after he dropped gingerly to the ground, Nico found himself in a clear portion of the room, the door in view and miraculously free of debris.

Movement out of the corner of his eye stopped him from running for the door: surely enough, the mound under which Antiphates lay was shifting, as the man methodically lifted the pieces of debris that’d fallen over him.

Burning panic rising in his throat, Nico limped forward until he reached the door, hearing the man’s angry cries behind him. The first gulp of dust-free air felt like a rebirth. A chance. Night had fallen all around, and New York looked like a ghost town. Obstinate stars shone above him despite the towering skyscrapers and light pollution, and with them as his only witnesses, Nico started his walk towards freedom.

But he moved tortourously slow, his injuries getting the better of him; and he hadn’t walked further than twenty feet when a victorious cry froze his blood. He turned around: Antiphates had broken free of the debris and was now stumbling behind him, injured and covered in dust, a manic glint in his eyes.

Nico gulped and sped up, running into a side street. He tried to remember his map: where were the cameras here? He looked between the buildings frantically, like they would give him an answer; but the map was in his warehouse with the rest of his things, and he’d never ventured this far out. Nico swallowed down the fear and headed East, letting go of everything that wasn’t putting one foot after the other in a steady rythm. Panic fueled his run, and once he got going, not even his wounds could stop him. He ran across the icy streets of New York like a winter breeze for what seemed like a lifetime. As it always did, Nico’s mind quieted as he ran: right now, it was just him and the wind, and he was free , and he was fast , fast enough that not even his past could catch up to him. 

He heard the Laestrygonian struggling to catch up to him as he crossed into Randall’s Island.

Nico came to a stop between two blocks of buildings, old factories by the look of them.

Antiphates was bent over, panting from his run, a heavy sheen of sweat drawing lines in the dust that covered his face. Nico probably didn’t look much better: in fact, he knew he didn’t: he was caked in dust, and he could feel a slow trickle of blood making its way down his face. Even now that he was still, the exhaustion was overshadowed by that wild-eyed feeling he’d learn to associate with over-exertion, manic and jittering with adrenaline.

“Gods!” the giant cursed, “Why can’t you die already!?”

Nico’s mouth fell open in shock. “Well, I could ask you the same thing!” he retorted. 

He didn’t stop to cringe at the immaturity of what he’d just said and ducked quickly into a tunnel that connected two buildings, feet tripping over each other in the snow. It was an old factory after all, littered with old machinery and collected dust. Gods, after this, Nico’d gladly let himself be shepherded into a lab if it meant he wouldn’t have to deal with dust ever again.

He ran up some industrial stairs, grimacing when it pulled at his bad leg, but made it all the way up to a walkway that overlooked the ground floor.

Antiphates’ heavy footsteps followed soon. Nico drew his sword. 

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The Laestygonian fought like an animal, baring his teeth and twisting his body away from Nico’s lunges as they circled around each other in the empty room: there were no traces of the diplomatic messenger Nico’d met in the alley. Despite his exhaustion, the boy managed to get a few quick lashes in, hurting Antiphates in the arm and the side of his leg. Antiphtaes groaned, and Nico saw an opening, but just as he lunged for his stomach, the giant anticipated his move and knocked the sword off his hands.

Nico gulped as the Laestrygonian walked victoriously towards him, knowing he had to think of something, fast . And then it came to him. Nico remembered, with startling clarity, the first time he met Tony, at that small park he used to frequent: he’d summoned shadows around him in a swirling shape, and had–accidentally– made a vortex. Maybe, if he ran fast enough while he did it, he could create a vacuum, potent enough to at least knock the man off his feet... Thoughts and probabilities flashed through his mind at staggering speed: it was risky, but worth a shot: he just wondered if his body could keep up: he felt past-tired, stretched thin. Still…

‘Only one way to find out,’ he thought.

For what felt like the thousandth time that day, that month, that year, Nico started running.

He heard Antiphates’ answering growl and bit back a smile.

This was him: Nico di Angelo, son of Hades, seer of ghosts. Fighter, loser, runner.

Dust rose around him, randomly strewn papers went flying, and a deafening sound filled the room as he ran, faster and faster, around Antiphates.

He saw the Laestrygonian stumble in the eye of the hurricane, lifting his arms for balance.

The room spun before Nico’s eyes, the old factory transforming into a breathtaking kaleidoscope of dirty browns and metal. Like so many times before, Nico turned one thing into another, an expert of crafting his own destiny in the space of a few tragedies: now young, now old; now a brother, now not; now a son, now orphaned, now homeless; now… not human, not demigod, but something else. His own version of Nico. Just spin the kaleidoscope and watch the colors dance like a butterfly or an actor on a stage. 

Nico bowed his head and pushed against the burning pain in his legs, feeling the world around him fade away.

A sudden thud against the door made his eyes snap open. Antiphates’ eyes, previously clouded with uncertainty, took on a mean shine. 

The Laestrygonian laughed coldly.

“Oh, poor little demigod,” he tutted, visibly relaxing, “I told you my friends were eager to meet you.” His smile turned menacing, sharp teeth poking out from behind dry lips. “You should’ve just let me kill you… They’ll be a lot less nice about it.”

Nico set his jaw and kept moving: if he was going down, then he was at least taking Antiphates down with him.

More noises coming from behind the door seemed to give the Laestrygonian energy, because to Nico’s horror, he started snatching things from the vortex around him, throwing them back in with renewed vigor, trying to hit Nico. 

The boy dodged them expertly, but it was harder to keep his speed up like this.

Nico heard but didn’t see the door finally come open with a groan. He turned his face and kept on running, unwilling to see who had come to finish him off. 

There was nothing but the sounds of chaos around him, and the tracks his feet had traced into the floor. He stopped thinking. 

For a while–minutes, hours?– he just focused on running and avoiding the things Antiphates kept throwing at him with rapidly improving accuracy.

But then a sound shocked him out of his halfgone state:

“Nico!” came a yell from outside the tornado, and recognition shot through Nico’s body like lighting. Tony Stark’s voice was loud and clear despite the deafening rumble. “Can you hear me? I’m here, we’re here, it’s going to be ok!”

He… what? He was there, they were there: he could see Nat and Steve, now, both of them expertly fighting Antiphates, and getting him to direct his missiles away from Nico.

They’d found him, despite him running away, and the disappearing. Despite NIco not letting himself be found. They’d still found him. For the first time in all the months Nico’d been running, he’d been caught. A relieved sob tore its way out of his throat. 

His body was screaming at him to stop, let the adults take care of things for once. Just let himself rest. ‘But I can’t,’ he reminded himself dutifully: they were just mortals, and Antiphates was strong, and it was Nico he was after. This was his fight. So he pushed on, lowering his gaze and running faster. If only Antiphates would stop throwing things at him, so he could make his circles tighter…

A yelp to his left made his eyes widen. Natasha. Nico choked down tears, not daring to look back at  her: everything he’d done–walking away from the only good thing in his small life, giving up meals and warmth and companionship–had been to keep them safe, keep them away from his world. And yet, they’d come to help, putting themselves at risk for… for him. Despite everything he’d done to them. Why? 

“Nico!” Tony tried again, flying closer with his suit. “We-”

He never got to finish his sentence: a flying piece of machinery sent him crashing down with a yelp, and trapped him underneath it. Nico saw red. 

He skidded to a stop, his worn sneakers squeaking against the floor and raising clouds of dust around him. He felt his ears pop with the sudden drop in atmospheric pressure and he was distantly aware that he was screaming. 

Nico glowered at Antiphates: the Laestrygonian breathed heavily where he stood, still standing in what had been the center of Nico’s track. The boy’s eyes hardened with rage: how dared he hurt his friends? Nico screamed again, finally releasing all his pain and grief and pent-up anger . Moving somewhat unconsciously, he drew his hands together, coaxing the room’s shadows to meld together in his hands. Later, he’d wonder how he’d known, the action coming to him as natural as breathing. He expertly twisted the shadows into a ball of power, and hurled it at Antiphates, hitting him right on the chest

The force of the impact sent the Laestrygonian flying backwards, and his head hit the wall with a thud. The moment Antiphates was down, Nico’s knees buckled and he fell to the floor, exhausted. He didn’t think he’d be able to get up ever again. He was shivering violently, his sweat rapidly cooling on his skin. A beat of silence. Nico didn’t let himself hope. 

Just a few seconds later, Antiphates proved him right. The Laestrygonian got up with a grunt, dirty and bloody but otherwise seemingly fine, and wasily shoved Steve and Nat off him like they were flies on his shoulder. “This is between him,” he pointed at Nico, “and me.”

Nico’s throat burnt with rage. He stood up, legs still shaking, ready for things to end, in whatever way they had to. 

Antiphates walked over to him. Nico knew it was over: he could tell his body had finally shut down. He could feel the toll of hours of running and fighting, and months of hunger maybe even more than he felt the injuries. But he raised his chin proudly and straightened up: if what the Laestrygonian had said was true, then he was a prince. And a prince would never go down without a fight, so Nico stared straight at his killer and raised his fists.

A punch to the face sent him stumbling to the ground, and the metallic taste of blood filled his mouth. His neck fell limply backwards when the man grabbed him by the shirt and raised him off the floor, Nico’s shoes squeaking against the floor as his feet dangled helplessly in the air. The stab wound on his side was pulsing, and his ribs hurt with every inhale. Despite everything, he tried to lift his arms to fight back, but all he could muster was a weak twitch. 

He was so tired. Tired of fighting, of a short life spent in mourning. Tired of pain, and of loneliness. 

He swallowed down tears, and spared one last look at his friends. 

The man lifted him over the railing.

Nico closed his eyes and let unconsciousness take him as he fell.

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END OF PART TWO

Chapter Text

PART THREE: GRACE

The waiting room clock ticked, and Tony paced with it. As soon as they’d reached the hospital, Dr. Cho and a team of pediatric surgeons had wheeled Nico away, and they’d heard nothing since. That’d been five hours ago. Tony’s stomach churned when he remembered the look on a doctor’s face when he’d seen Nico, sprawled out in the backseat over Steve and Nat’s laps.

He looked at his friends: they looked stretched thin, grim looks on their faces. And grimy, too. He probably didn’t look much better. The only other people in the waiting room –an old man and a frazzled looking mom with a toddler– kept throwing them strange looks. He’d seen recognition in their faces, too, but neither one had snapped a picture or dialed the paps, for which he was grateful. They had their own stuff to deal with, he guessed. 

The sun was rising weakly over the horizon, and everyone in New York was waking up to a normal, not-life-changing day.

Just as Tony was arguing against himself on whether or not an awful, watered down vending machine coffee was worth the trek down to the first floor, Dr. Cho rounded the hall and walked out to the waiting room.

Beside him, Nat and Steve sprung up. 

She looked exhausted: there were dark, heavy bags under her eyes, and her lips were pressed together in a worried grimace. Every single, terrible possibility passed through Tony’s head as her heels clicked against the linoleum floor in what seemed like an eternity.

“He’s still in surgery,” she finally spoke, her voice raspy. “But we think he’s going to make it.”

Tony’s world whirled to a stop, his relie f so heavy he almost fell to his knees. 

But it was short-lived: her next words cut him like a knife.

“Tony…” she swallowed. “Who is this kid?” Seeing the set line of his jaw, she pressed. “I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t think I really had to. This is… the most severe case of childhood neglect I’ve ever seen. And I did my residency at a rural hospital in Bangladesh in the nineties.”

“He’s so malnourished I… I don’t know how he’s alive. I really, really don’t.”

Tony did: the kid had superhealing abilities, insane strength, and quite possibly the most stubborn brain in all of New York. But then he thought back to the ribs poking him through Nico’s thin jacket as they rushed him to the hospital, ambulance lights dancing behind him, and the world frozen. He really was skinnier than ought to be possible. A couple of times, Tony had flinched in surprise seeing him appear next to him, confusing him for a ghost, an apparition. The eeriness of that thought acquired a new meaning now. 

“...Not to mention the abuse.” Helen’s voice broke in the last syllable. “We made quick work of his broken bones, as well as the deep gash in his leg, but when we went in to fix his ribs up, we noticed something else. An open wound in his abdominal area, most likely from being stabbed sometime in the past twelve hours…”

Tony’s heart stopped. He could see her mouth moving, but her words weren’t registering. Stabbed. Stabbed . Bile climbed up his throat, and his chest filled with a wild fear, because who the fuck had stabbed the ten year old ? But he knew, always had, that Nico wasn’t just running away. He was running away from something . That ugly truth had always lurked behind every interaction. It was easy enough to see in the looks the kid threw over his shoulder every five minutes, in his hunched shoulders and his aversion to cameras, in his avoidance tactics and the easy way lies rolled off his tongue. But tonight’s fight had confirmed every suspicion, every fear. The man – was it a man?– had barely spared them a look. He’d said it himself: it was Nico he was after. Who was chasing him, and why ? Dozens of theories flooded his mind, from Nico being a crime witness to a crime lord’s child, but then again… That’d be too much of a fucking coincidence, and Tony’d stopped believing in those. The reason had to do with his powers, he knew it. 

He was brought back to reality by Helen’s chilling next words: 

“And finally,” she breathed –God, there was more?– “There are hairline fractures all throughout his spine, an injury usually associated with crushing victims.” Tony’s blood froze. Crushing victims…? What the hell had happened to Nico?

“Except…” she continued, “it’s like a whole building came down on top of him.”

“No one can survive that.” Tony argued weakly, finally finding his voice again.

 “Except he did-” she pointed out, taking a deep breath. “And that’s not it: there are dozens of older injuries that should not had healed that fast, especially not without the right amount of food and care. Blunt force trauma to the head and ribs, lacerations all over his body, it’s…” She breathed in. “Tony… does this have anything to do with that sample you gave me a couple months ago?”

“Helen…”

“Yes,” Nat answered for him. “It was his.”

Fire danced behind the doctor’s eyes. “I didn’t want to believe it, but had this been a normal kid, he-” she inhaled sharply. “He would have died months before reaching my operating table.”

She glared at Tony, no traces of sympathy left. “And you gave me that sample weeks ago, which means… you knew. And you let him live like this for months? And did nothing? ”

“It’s more complicated than that-” Steve argued.

“Then un-complicate it!” Her raised voice gathered the attention of the few other people in the waiting room, so she took a deep breath, waiting for them to explain.

“We-” Steve argued. 

“She’s right,” Tony cut in defeatedly. He looked at her: she was frazzled, and exhausted, but still willing to fight for a kid she didn’t even know. She’d saved him. The least they owed her was an explanation. 

So he told her everything: seeing him that night in November, chasing him through the streets of New York, luring him closer with snacks and warm meals, but never managing to let him stay. Thinking someone had to be after him. Noticing his powers and hiding him from SHIELD. How much that decision had cost them. Watching him grow tired, grow hungrier, but forced to watch from afar because he just wouldn’t let them help. The bruises, the tears. Then, the silence. The hours spent looking at camera footage.

And tonight. Dr. Cho nodded in understanding, tears clouding her eyes when Tony neared the end of the story. 

“His body has been keeping him alive somehow ,” she said, glancing at all three of them. “Clearly, his healing and endurance abilities are above supernatural. But, Tony,” she addressed him, “the psychological consequences of living through trauma like this…”

She let the sentence hang over them like a dark cloud. She looked at Tony’s guilt-riddled and her eyes softened.

“Kids are very resilient. They can jump back from things adults could never recover from. But he’ll carry this with him for the rest of his life. And it’ll be hard.”

She looked at the near-empty waiting room. “Especially if no one’s there to help him through it…” she brought a hand to her mouth. “He’s so young…” 

Steve shuddered and lowered his gaze. They’d all known it was bad, but they hadn’t really known. They hadn’t let themselves see. Now, Tony guessed his friend was–like him– going over all the clues they’d missed.

The constant tripping and the bruises the kid chalked up to ‘clumsiness’ even though they all knew he had insane reflexes. Who –or what– had put them there? 

All that skittishness, all those times Nico had flinched and Tony’d called him a scaredy cat , oh God-

What else hadn’t they noticed? Nico’s life beyond their meetings had never been a pleasant thing for them to picture, but what if- what if last night had simply been a regular, normal night for Nico? 

Dr. Cho’s phone interrupted Tony’s grim thoughts. She stared at the screen with a pensive frown.

“I have to go,” she pocketed her phone. “Once he’s stable you can go see him. We need an adult to sign over his stay…” she faltered. “I’m guessing you don’t want social services to-”

“No!” Tony interjected. “Definitely not, no. He’s coming to the tower. With us, ” he clarified. 

Her eyebrows raised minutely. “Right. I guess you’ll have to talk to your lawyers about that. He’ll be in room 108.”

A thought occurred to him, and Tony stopped her before she could leave. “Oh, actually.”

“Yes?”

“How long until we can move him, do you think?”

Her mouth opened in shock. “Are you insane ?” she snapped, “I want him in observation for at least two weeks with IV fluids and bed rest and doctors monitoring his fifty seven fucking stitches and-”

“I get that, I really do,” Tony interrupted, raising his hands in a placating manner, “and his safety is priority number one… which is the exact reason I want to move him. We have the medical equipment to care for him at the tower and I'd like to save him from any more stressful situations…” She still looked unconvinced. “How many surgeons were in there?” he asked.

She frowned, not seeing his point. “Eight people total, counting nurses.”

“And how many of those eight noticed he shouldn’t possibly be alive?”

Realization dawned on her face. “All eight”, she replied.

“Right,” he continued calmly, “Now imagine what happens when one of them mentions the kid’s ‘miraculous’ recovery to the wrong person. News outlets, researchers, churches, FBI, CIA, SHIELD… you name it, they’ll be here. Oh they’ll be here, poking him with microphones and needles, ‘till the kid won’t know his left from his right. And when they figure out just what he can do… he’ll have wished he-”

“Tony!” Steve snapped. Tony blinked out of his rage-caused stupor guiltily: he’d gone too far: Helen looked positively sick.

“I get it, ok? I get it” she whispered.

Despite the grim ambience, a spark of curiousity filled her eyes. “What can he do, exactly? Aside from the healing and endurance.”

“He does this thing called shadow travel ,” Nat started, looking to her left –a spy reflex that died hard–. “That’s what he calls it. We’re not sure if it’s a form of teleportation or what, but he… he goes up in this swirl of shadows, just disappears. It takes him somewhere , but we don’t really know where or how far.”

“We don’t really know much at all,” Steve added. “Above average strength, above average reflexes…”

“Above average and supernatural speed,” Tony pointed out, “He outran Steve every time.” 

Dr. Cho’s eyebrows reached her hairline. Faster than a supersoldier…?

“He did two things tonight we’d never seen him do before,” Nat added. “It’s like he combined his speed and his shadow-travel to create a vortex.”

“Speaks of how smart he is, too” Tony remarked, pride shining through his voice.

“And then there’s the dark ball…thing” Steve noted lamely.

“We’re still working on names,” Tony quipped.

Dr. Cho’s pager pinged once again, and she frowned. “I really have to go. I’ll see you later with a briefing regarding his recovery plan.” And then, looking sternly at Tony:

“Call your lawyers.”

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Morning had broken over the city, pale pink and wintry cool. All over town, people were getting to work, to school, running errands and getting married. Tony rather felt like a man walking to the gallows as he stood over the door of room 108.

“You go on ahead,” he lingered, “I have to make a call.”

While Steve and Nat made their way in, Tony dialed his lawyer. As he waited for her to pick up, he nodded amicably at a middle aged woman who was staring at him across the hall. Her eyes widened in recognition and he winked.

He didn’t have to wait long before the ringing gave way to a frantically relieved voice.

“Oh! Tony,” his lawyer exclaimed, “We’ve been trying to reach you for an hour. Why aren’t you at the board meeting? We really need you here to sort out some stuff.”

“Well, what a coincidence!” he replied, in the same tone. “I happen to need you to sort out some stuff.” Despite the lightness of his tone, he had to take a deep breath before speaking. “See, I'm not at the meeting because I’m not actually going to go to any meetings for at least a month-”

An indignant screech could be heard through the line.

“Uh-uh, let me finish,” he scolded her. “I need you to draft me some temporary guardianship papers for a homeless ten year old. Yeah, that’s what I said. I’m at the hospital with him right now and I need those papers done by… let’s say two PM today at the latest, because he’s coming home with me. I’ll send you his information. What we have, anyway.” At the other end, only horrified silence. Just out of spite, and because he was a tiny bit of a chaos agent, Tony tacked on the last bit: 

“Oh, one more thing,” he started lightly. “You’re going to update my will. Make sure he gets 51 percent of company shares.”

His lawyer stammered through a weak rebuttal. “But, Tony-”

“That’ll be all for now, Chrissy, thank you,” he sent her off.

He looked to the side: the woman was gone. He breathed in deeply, and entered the room. 

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They’d placed him in an individual room, overlooking the courtyard. Nico’s small body seemed even smaller in the standard sized bed, and he looked otherworldly, alien, with dozens of IV cables slithering across the blankets towards machines and IV stands like translucent snakes. The steady beating of the heart monitor filled the room.

Over the blankets, his left arm was in a cast, and Tony knew his right leg was, too. Cuts and bruises littered his face and neck, disappearing under the hospital gown. A cut near his forehead had gotten stitches.

Nico’s black hair fanned around his face like a halo, and he was frowning in his sleep. 

All three adults stood over him.

“So… what now?” Steve worried a hand over his chin.

“I suppose we wait for him to wake up,” Tony replied. “And then… we’ll see.” He looked at the sleeping boy and shook his head. “One thing’s for certain, though: he’s not going back out there.”

“And if he doesn’t want to come?”

A beat. Nat had voiced all of their worries. They’d all heard Nico’s refusals dozens of times, so why would it be different this time?

“We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it.” Steve said decisively. Tony had never been more grateful for the no-nonsense, ‘one step at a time’ attitude of his partner.

Tony didn’t know how long they stood there, just watching his chest rise and fall, before a knock on the door brought them all to attention.

Tense silence. Nat walked away from the bed with quiet steps, while Steve and Tony crowded closer to it in a defensive stance.

She brought a finger to her lips and looked through the peephole. Without a word, she thrust the door open.

A panting, dishevelled-looking Thor stood on the doorway, a manic glint in his eyes.

“I figured it out,” he gasped, looking wildly between them and the boy lying on the hospital bed. “I figured out who he is.”

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Chapter Text

They all stared at him in shock. Thor looked frazzled, manic. Tony’s mind whizzed with possibilities, all of them… insane, unlikely, ranging from an unknown application of supersoldier serum to alien life.

“Start from the beginning,” Nat demanded. “And where the hell have you been?”

“Off-world,” Thor replied, finally coming in. He was dressed in civilian clothes, at least, but his tall frame was garnering curious looks from the people out in the hallway. “There were some things I had to settle in Asgard.” He closed the door and leaned against it, not taking his eyes away from the boy. “Ever since that night at the restaurant, I’ve been racking my brain, trying to figure out why his energy felt so… familiar.”

“Ancient,” Steve piped in quietly. Tony raised his brows in surprise. What was that about?

Thor nodded gravely. “Ancient. Those shadows… I’d never seen something like that before, except I had… hundreds of years ago. That’s when it hit me.”

Tony’s heartbeat sped up. Was Nico ancient? Maybe he was thousands of years old, like Thor was. Except… that didn’t feel right, did it? He didn’t just look like a kid, he acted like one. But then…?

“He’s a demigod” 

Thor looked at them slowly, gauging their reactions. 

Nat looked shaken, which for her meant the usual walls she put up were gone: her eyes were wide and her mouth agape. But Steve… Steve looked like he’d been expecting something like that. Or, rather, thought Tony, like that answer was the missing piece of some puzzle that only now revealed its full picture.

“A demigod?” Tony repeated in disbelief, his jaw slack. He stared at Thor like it was the first time he was seeing him. “...yours?” he asked, unconvinced.

Thor spluttered indingantly. “No! Not mine.” 

Steve eyed Nico’s dark hair with apprehension. “Loki’s? Really?” He raised an eyebrow. “I always thought he was…” he waved his wrist around in lieu of finishing the sentence.

“Not his, either.” Thor shook his head. “Greek”

The implications of that statement alone made Tony feel a little like he was drowning. So it wasn’t just Norse gods then, but Greek too; and they were out there, real and alive and… having kids . 

“Jesus,” he exhaled. 

“Wrong tradition, actually,” Thor said, without a trace of humor.

Steve sat down on a chair near the head of the bed. Behind him, the heart monitor kept its steady beating. “Do you… know whose?”

“I have my theories,” Thor admitted. “But if what I think is right, we’re in for a world of trouble”

Tony was about to ask him what he meant by that , when the door was pushed softly open.

Dr. Cho walked in, a clipboard in her hands and looking a little better rested.

“Hi!”, she greeted them lightly, unaware of the charged conversation that’d been taking place, and started talking about meal plans and recovery:

“So the idea is to get him back to a healthy weight slowly,” she said, bending down to rearrange some of the IV cords. “We don’t want to rush things-”

All of a sudden, the heart monitor’s steady beeping shot up. Tony moved his head to the bed so fast he almost got whiplash: Nico was lying very still –as he had been– but his eyes were wide open, his chest rising and falling at an alarming speed.

“This can’t be possible,” Dr. Cho was frozen where she stood. “I… I gave him enough sedatives to knock him out for at least two days, I…”

Seeing all the people in the room, Nico went ballistic. He started thrashing about on the bed, paying no mind to his wounds and pulling out one IV cable after another. 

With no time to think anything but ‘he’s going to hurt himself’, Tony lunged on the bed, winding his arms around the boy’s lean frame.

“Nico! Nico, it’s ok!”

The boy’s harsh, panicked breathing hit his face in warm puffs; and he could feel him straining against his hold, whimpering like a wild animal. Tony could feel all the chords and gauges poking out through his thin gown.

“You’re at the hospital,” he started, swallowing down the lump on his throat. “We brought you here last night, you were… you were really hurt.”

The boy stopped fighting, but Tony held on, trying for comfort now. 

Nico finally looked away from Helen, still shocked where she stood, and directed his eyes towards Thor. If he’d gone ‘ballistic’ before, it was nothing compared to this: his face contorted in fear and rage, and he squirmed under Tony’s hold, trying to break free. If looks could kill… and Nico’s possibly did.

‘What the hell?’ Tony thought, staring at Thor, who looked equally as confused, ‘What did he do?’

“Nico, calm down,” Nat begged, sitting on the bed and petting his hair. “He’s with us, it’s ok.”

The boy shook his head, and his voice was raspy when he spoke. “He has to leave or they’ll find you.”

Tony felt himself gasp. Not just because Nico had just spoken, and that itself felt like the confirmation of his being alive, but rather because the eeriness of that statement had chilled him to the bone. He looked at Helen and begged her to leave with his eyes. She nodded, like she knew this wasn’t a conversation for her to hear. Once the door was firmly shut behind her, Tony directed his eyes back to the boy.

“Who will find us, Nico?” Steve asked softly.

Again, Nico shook his head. 

“The man at the warehouse?” he tried.

“Not… the man,” Nico said, averting his eyes. 

Tony saw Steve deflate, and he felt a pang of disappointment too: figured the kid would have stopped lying to them, after everything.

“You know what I am,” Thor said, more of a statement than a question. Nico nodded gravely.

“Then I must tell you I know what you are too.” Nico looked wary, but not scared, and he’d stopped fighting against Tony’s hold. “I’d been trying to figure it out for a while, and then I heard rumors about an Underworld spawn who’d run away… and it all made sense.”

“Don’t call me that,” Nico growled.

“Then why don’t you tell them what you are yourself?” Thor countered, dead serious.

Nico shook Tony’s arms off of him. He stared at each of them in turn, and straightened his back proudly. He looked just like he had those first times they’d seen him: princely, aloof, outworldly.

“I am Nico Di Angelo, son of Hades, Prince of the Underworld.”

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“I was born in Italy in 1932,” he started. Tony’s eyebrows shot up in surprise, but he said nothing. “When World War Two broke out,” he looked pointedly at Steve, “my father Hades relocated us to the US… me, my mother and my older sister, Bianca.”

‘So Nico did have a family’, Tony thought.

“But Zeus and Hades were fighting, and Zeus threw an attack on us… my mother died in the explosion,” he said darkly. “After that, it’s a bit of a blur: we were frozen in time at- I mean, somewhere,” he stammered. “After the war, the three main gods, Zeus, Poseidon and Hades, made a deal to stop having children because we were…”

“Too dangerous to exist,” Thor concluded. “Children of the Big Three are always out there causing trouble.”

“Are?” Nat caught on quickly, an eyebrow raised. Thor nodded grimly.

“This little one isn’t alone, although he sure is exceptional.”

“Earlier this year, we were released…” Nico continued, ignoring Thor’s comment. Interesting. “I’m still not sure why. They sent us to a special place for kids like us. A camp. Bianca went on a mission. She didn’t make it… she was fourteen.”

Tony gulped, looking at Nat for help. She was staring right at Nico, compassion in her face. The task of taking care of him after everything he’d been through seemed harder than ever, now. How could they treat him like a normal kid when he’d witnessed and experienced more than most hardened adults ever would?

He filed those questions away for later and simply put his hand on Nico’s shoulder. The action felt huge, somehow. He was half certain Nico would brush him off again, but to his surprise, he didn’t react. He didn’t lean in to the touch, but he didn’t reject it either. Tony felt like that was a win, and made sure to keep his pressure light, being mindful of the cast that started only a few inches down.

“And you ran away?” Steve asked kindly.

Nico nodded. “You know the rest.”

Tony wanted to argue that they didn’t, actually. But he looked at Nico: the boy was slumped, his eyes glassy and faraway, and his breathing was labored. He was still weak, and he’d told them so much… more than he ever had. The conversation had probably drained what little energy he had –he shouldn’t even be awake–.

“Thank you for telling us all that,” Tony said, and meant it. He rubbed Nico’s shoulder in light circles. “How about you go back to sleep for a little bit? We’ll keep guard, and maybe you can eat something when you wake up, yeah?”

Nico looked unsure, but his eyes kept closing. Eventually he relented, but only under the condition they all left him alone. 

“It’s creepy that you want to watch me sleep,” he’d said.

‘Fair enough’, Tony thought, and they made their way out into the hall, consumed by thoughts of Greek gods, monsters, and loss. 

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Nico’s story flickered through Steve’s mind as he paced the hall. So, Greek gods and monsters were real… all the myths were. What did that mean for them? For Nico?

“Hey, Thor,” he started, sitting down next to him, hands on his knees. The Norse god was tilting haphazardly on a waiting room chair. It creaked with his weight. 

“What?” he said distractedly, staring at the ceiling.

“Have you met-” Steve glanced at the other people in the waiting room, and raised an eyebrow. “You know…Nico’s dad?”

Thor nodded solemnly. “Eons ago. He’s not actually that bad, next to his brothers.”

Steve scoffed. “He’s bad enough to abandon his child.”

The other man stared at him, something serious behind his eyes. “You heard the boy. It’s not that simple.”

“I’m beginning to hate that sentence.” Steve huffed and took a seat next to him. “You know more about that world than I do,” he admitted. “You really think there’s a chance we can drag Nico away from it?”

Thor brought a hand to his chin. “I think you have more of a chance than I thought.”

Steve raised an eyebrow, waiting for him to continue. “But things are stirring… and that’s not just any demigod. He’s the most powerful- or, well,” he amended, “one of the most powerful I’ve ever seen. Walking away… they’re not just going to let him do it.”

Steve ignored all the other questions Thor’s speech had raised. “Who’s ‘they’?”

Thor looked to the side, a grim turn to his mouth. “There’s two sides to every war.”

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Tony woke up slowly to find Nico’s dark eyes set on him. The boy was sitting up on the hospital bed, looking better rested. Realization dawned on Tony that this was the first time he was seeing him without the heavy bags under his eyes. It made him look softer. It actually made him look his age.

“You lied,” Nico chirped lightly, “You did watch me sleep.”

Tony grinned easily. “Yeah, well, you did too,” he pointed out, stretching. “Guess that makes us even.”

He rose from his chair and walked to the door.

“This arrived for you,” he said, wheeling the table over. Nico stared at the food tray. “You hungry?”

The boy shrugged. 

“C’mon,” Tony pleaded, “I’ll help you.”

He uncovered the tray: they’d gone easy on him, at least, heeding Dr. Cho’s orders. Chicken soup, some crackers. Classic recovery food. They made quick work of it, eating in companiable silence. They chatted a little once they finished dinner, but Tony strayed away from any heavy talk like the one they’d had earlier. Still, the kid was being so uncharacteristically open, he had to stop himself from asking all sorts of questions. Nico was about to doze off again when they heard a soft knock on the door. Dr. Cho walked in quietly, holding her clipboard. 

“Oh, good, you’re awake,” she smiled easily, walking over to Nico’s bed. “How do you feel?”

Nico shrugged sheeplessly. Helen smiled again, moving to check the IV. Tony tensed, expecting Nico to lash out, but the boy stayed still while she checked him over, not even flinching when she moved his bangs to the side to check the stitches on his forehead, uncharacteristically pliant.

“Well,” she stood, placing her hands on her hips. “This is a record time recovery. Well done,” she smiled, and Nico smiled awkwardly back. “At this rate, I think you might be able to go home sometime tomorrow.”

Tony’s eyebrows rose. Helen looked sternly at him. “But,” she warned, “that’s only if Tony here promises to bring you back for checkups and follow the recovery plan.”

“Cross my heart,” Tony promised.

She smiled, and noticing another Nico’s yawn, motioned for Tony to follow her out of the room. 

“He seems to be doing well,” she congratulated him. “Have you… talked to your people?”

Tony nodded.

She grabbed his arm, pulling him lightly to the side, and grimaced. “I’m really sorry,” she started, shaking her head with dissapointment. “I don’t exactly know how, but… word broke out.” Tony bit the inside of his cheek, digesting the information. “...Obviously, they can’t come in the hospital, but there’s been reporters outside for about two hours now.”

Figured they’d do that: were they really that desperate for news on Tony’s life? Media outlets seemed to have an almost uncanny knack for figuring out his worst moments and stalking him through them. He remembered how insistent they’d been when he’d broken up with Pepper. They were everywhere: his building, his apartment, hell, even his vacation house in Mexico. He didn’t want Nico to go through the same thing, to have his most vulnerable moments immortalized in print. 

“How much do they know?”

Helen sighed. “They know you’re here, for one, and that you’re here for a kid… some woman whose son was also in the pediatric unit tipped them off.”

Shit. 

“Shit,” Tony rubbed his face. Best case scenario, they’d think he’d had a kid with some girl he’d never seen before in his life… worst case scenario, a nurse would snitch, and they’d actually know why he was there. Grimly he thought it always seemed to be the second one with him. People were desperate for money, fame. Regardless of the cost. 

“Alright,” he breathed out, trying to stay calm. “I’ll grab Nat and Steve, figure out an exit plan, talk logistics with Happy.” He stared at her, deep in thought. “You think Nico can make the walk to the car?”

Helen hummed. “You know him better than I do, but I’d say he can.” She cocked her head. “Why do you ask?”

“Well,” Tony gulped. “The more information we give the press, the more power they have over him. We don’t want their first impression of Nico to be him in a wheelchair… he’d never outlive it. Knowing him,” he huffed humorlessly, “he’d rather show them he’s healthier than ever.”

She nodded in understanding and squeezed his arm before leaving. Tony pinged Steve and Nat’s phones’. They’d find him quick enough. Not for the first time, he was assaulted by doubts regarding his fame and Nico’s future. He gnawed his lip. Was a life of scrutiny worth all this? What if they found out about his past… what if there were files, files not even Tony had found? If they got out… if his past got out, the homelessness, the accident… Tony gulped. Nico would never outrun it. Would never move past it. The media could be ruthless to kids, children of millionaires especially, but most of them had it easy, they’d trained for it their whole lives. Most of them had nothing to hide save a few DUI’s and bastard children. Nico, on the other hand… Tony knew, deep down, no rich kid at any rich kid school Tony would send him to would ever treat Nico like a normal kid. Either because he was Tony Stark’s kid –and whether it was better to feed into those rumours or disprove them he didn’t know– or because they’d be able to tell he was different. Kids always did. They’d notice he hadn’t grown up rich the same way they’d notice he was just unlike them, in every way.

He was broken out of his musings by Nat’s gentle hand on his shoulder. She and Steve stood by the door, looking worryingly at him. Tony smiled tiredly and patted Nat’s hand. 

“Where’s Thor?” he asked in lieu of greeting.

Steve huffed. “Left as suddenly as he came.”

Tony raised his eyebrows. Huh.

“How’s Nico?” Nat asked softly. 

“He’s doing really well,” Tony smiled, straining his neck to look through the glass pane over the door. Nico was soundly asleep, hands splayed beside his head on the pillow. “Dr. Cho said we can take him home tomorrow.”

“Really?” Steve smiled, eyes shining with enthusiasm.

Tony nodded. “Yeah. But, uh…”

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He filled them in about the reporters outside. The three of them quickly got to figuring out the best way to get him out, and eventually decided straight forward was probably the best way. Trying to sneak through a backdoor never actually worked, and being seen as trying to avoid the press wouldn’t be good in the long run. They had to show they had nothing to hide. Nat would find him some civilian clothes to leave the hospital in, proper clothes he could be proud of, and Happy would escort them to the car. It shouldn’t take longer than two minutes.

That settled, they slinked down to the canteen for dinner, and for the first time in days, Tony felt lighter. A cap over his head and some fake glasses hid him well enough here: people had better things to worry about. They laughed and ate until an announcement over the speakers caught their attention: visiting hours would be finishing soon. So they packed up and made their way to Nico’s floor again, hoping to catch him awake. Since he was underage and now technically –dizzyingly– under Tony’s temporary guardianship, he was allowed to stay the night, but Nat and Steve would come back early tomorrow to help take him home.

Steve knocked on the door.

“Come in,” Nico said softly. 

He was sitting up on the bed, looking out into the courtyard, and Tony realized with a start they hadn’t gotten any books for him while he was in hospital. Everything had been such a whirlwind, and Nico had been asleep most of the time, he hadn’t even thought of how bored he might be. Tony swallowed down guilt. Once again, life seemed to remind him how unready he was for all this.  

“How’re you feeling, bud?” Steve asked softly, moving to sit at the foot of the bed. 

“I’m okay,” he smiled, fiddling with the comforter. He looked up suddenly, his gaze firm. “I talked to my father while I was asleep.”

Tony’s jaw dropped. 

“You- you did?” Steve faltered, his eyes wide. 

Nico nodded. He looked calm, like talking to his godly father whom he hadn’t seen in… maybe years , Tony realized, was a normal occurrence. 

“Well, what did he say?” Steve urged. 

“He said he was sorry,” Nico started, and shut Tony’s incoming tirade up with a look. “He said he hadn’t been allowed to intervene, but that now he could. He promised to…” Nico faltered. Tony’s mind was overcome with a new, terrifying possibility: what if Nico’s dad –Hades– decided to whisk him away? It’d never crossed his mind, hell, in his mind, Nico’d been an orphan up until this morning. What if he went back to his dad, never spoke to them again? Before he could work himself into a panic, Nico spoke again.

“He promised to keep me safe from… that world,” he finished. “As long as I go back to camp during the summer.”

“Wait, what?” Nat’s eyes widened. “So, during the school year you can…”

“Stay here,” Nico nodded. “If that’s what I want. And I’ll be safe.”

Tony gulped. “And do you? Want it?”

Like the sun coming out after a long winter, Nico grinned: it was gummy, and full, and it made his eyes dissapear and it made Tony realize all at once he was going to do this, mistakes or not, because he had to keep this kid in his life.

“Yeah,” he said. “I want to.”

Tony looked at Nico, and then back at Steve and Nat. All four of them were smiling like idiots. But only a few moments later, Nico’s smile slipped.

“There’s something I have to do first,” he breathed in. “I need to warn everyone at camp… something big is coming.” He looked serious, no mirth left in his dark eyes. He stared at them intently. “There’s a lot I haven’t told you.” 

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Chapter Text

Tony took a deep breath in, and opened the hospital doors. At first, he thought the January sun had come back in full force, blinded by light. It wasn’t until he shielded his face that he realized it was camera flashes. He blinked: swarms of reporters were launching hemselves at them as photographers snapped picture after picture. He saw Steve put his arm protectively over Nico out of the corner of his eye.

“Stark! Here, here!” they bellowed, tripping over their mic cords. “Is it true that you just adopted a boy from foster care?”

“Is he your unrecognized son?”

Tony ignored them, pushing forward. If it weren’t for Happy’s commanding presence and his outstretched arm, they would’ve swarmed him.

“There’s the boy!” someone pointed, noticing Nico, who was walking with Nat and Steve a few steps behind them, just as Tony reached the car. All cameras were suddenly on him. Tony turned around: Nico, although pale, walked on, paying no mind to the questions being asked or the cameras that would’ve been on him if it weren’t for Steve and Nat standing protectively to each side. Before opening the hospital doors, Tony had shoved his hat on the boy’s head to shield his face. He was suddenly grateful for this split-second decision: Nico’s face still showed signs of malnutrition, and the journalists would’ve had a field day with that. More importantly, the people and blinding flashes had shaken him, and if Tony knew Nico, he knew he wouldn’t want to be seen as weak.

“Hey, hey!” Tony snapped, bracing his arm against the flashes, and helping Nico to the car. “Let him breathe!”

“Why was he in the hospital?” they pushed on.

“Are you adopting him to advertise your new endorsements?”

“What the fuck, no!” Tony spluttered. He was reeling, but he still had enough presence of mind to shove Nico into the car, sending one last warning look at the journalists. 

He only felt like he could breathe again once the door was safely closed behind Nat and they were driving away. He looked at Nico: he looked a bit shaken, but overall okay. The hat was comically large on him, tilting over his nose. Tony snorted.

“Here,” he put the hat over his own head. He scrutinized Nico, wondering how the media would see him: he was pale, and skinny, but not visibly sick any more. The bags under his eyes were as good as gone, and his eyes had recovered their usual light. He looked almost normal, probably because he was finally wearing clothes that actually fit him.

Tony ruffled his hair just to mess with him, ignoring the indignant yelp that followed. He stared out the window: the frosty New York streets looked jolly, its citizens happy to enjoy a sunny winter Saturday. Families gathered at the park and couples ate brunch inside cozy restaurants. It made Tony think about the night before and what Nico had told them. If he was right, all of this… 

According to Nico, he’d noticed something was off around mid December, when monsters stopped coming. Ironic, he thought bitterly, that he noticed something was wrong because things were going right . But confirmation had come on a crisp morning as he made his way to a dumpster. For food. Because he was eating out of dumpsters. That revelation had made something ugly take root in Tony’s chest, something like grief.

“I was ambushed,” Nico’d said, looking down. “But not by a monster. A man,” he looked up, eyes intent. “I couldn’t understand how he could see me. He even knew I was a demigod. It didn’t make any sense until a couple days ago, when the laestrigonian showed.”

“Is that what the thing at the warehouse was?” Steve’d asked.

Nico had nodded. “He mentioned the man, said we . And then… I realized the man at the restaurant wasn’t a man,” he breathed out. “He was a demigod.”

That had shocked them into silence. As Nico explained, things grew more dire. Apparently, demigod kids had grown tired of their parents ignoring them. If they’d gone through half of what Nico had, Tony couldn’t blame them. So they’d started siding with monsters, under the command of…

“Kronos?” Steve had frowned. “The titan?”

Nico nodded darkly. “He’s coming back. And persuading demigods to join him. He feeds on rage, grudges, bitterness,” he shook his head. “And there’s a lot of that going around. I’d know.”

Nat’s eyes widened. “Did he… did you…?”

He shook his head. “Not personally.” Nico looked out the window. “But I have to warn people at camp.” 

Steve had told Tony, later, that that was the definite proof of Nico’s bravery. More than the fighting, the fact that he was willing to go back to the place that held his worst memories for the greater good…

“It’s proof he’s a hero.”

A giggle interrupted his train of thought, and he turned his head to see Steve and Nico playing that game where you had to clasp someone’s hand in between your own before they snatched it away. Tony had to swallow down a big something: Nico looked so… carefree. It made him realize just how heavy everything he’d been keeping to himself had been.

“We’re here,” Happy announced, getting out to open the door for them. Stark Tower rose dauntingly above them and Tony saw Nico stir uncomfortably on the sidewalk. He guessed going from living on the streets to a place like this would make anyone feel intimidated. 

“C’mon,” Tony placed a hand on his back lightly, leading him into the building. “It’s not that bad once you get used to it.”

The suits milling around the lobby shot them strange looks. It wasn’t a common occurrence for the boss to parade around the lower floors with strange friends and a ten year old. He could see Steve fidgeting: he wasn’t used to the attention either. Tony snorted: so much for suave Captain Rogers if he couldn’t handle a couple swooning interns. 

He led them towards his private elevator, breathing a sigh of relief when they were finally away from the attention. 

“We’re gonna have to work on you guys’ stage presence,” he declared, rubbing a hand over his face in despair. “Not you Nat,” he added, on second thought. “You were brilliant.”

Steve spluttered indignantly. “My presence’s fine”

“Stevie, you blushed when the janitor looked at you,” Tony deadpanned. “Really, if we’re gonna be co-parenting the kid, we’re gonna need you to step up the media game. Charm the paps-”

“ Co-parenting?” Steve screeched, while Nico growled:

“I don’t need to be parented.”

Tony snorted. “Okay, fine,” he conceded. “Either way, we can’t have you two cringing like that whenever you see a camera, because –unfortunately for all of us– there’ll probably be a lot of them.” 

He let them mull it over. A few seconds later, the elevator pinged.

Tony gulped. “Home sweet home.”

He glanced down: Nico’s eyes widened as he took it all in. The penthouse glimmered in the late morning light, spotless as it always was. The windows offered a view of frosty New York. There was a fire lit, and the TV was on, playing old cartoon reruns.

The kid breathed out, and shook his head. Tony didn’t dare speak as he ventured timidly into the living room, approaching each item with wonder. He touched the couch with something like reverence in his eyes. He walked around the dining table, running the tips of his fingers through each chair delicately. He peered into the windows, smiling softly down at the city beneath him. When he walked into the kitchen, all three adults followed losely behind him, not wanting to miss a second of it. He looked over countertops: he was barely tall enough for his eyes to peer over them. He stood in front of the fridge silently, and glanced at Tony, a silent question in his eyes.

“Go on,” Tony whispered.

Nico pulled the handle, and stared into the fridge. Something heavy hung in the air. He closed it wordlessly and moved on to the hallway. 

Here he stopped again, hesitant.

“Um,” Tony faltered, “this one’s yours.” He pointed at the door across the hall from his. 

Nico opened the door softly. The latch clicked. 

Tony hadn’t really decorated it; wanting to do it with Nico. He hadn’t really had time to, either, with everything that’d happened. Still, though bare, the room wasn’t cold: a window to the side let the light in, and it bathed the room in a soft glow. The walls were a soft cream color and there was a bed, properly made –he hadn’t really known what comforter to get (were superheroes too on the nose?), so it was a plain powder blue–, a closet, and a desk by the window. Most importantly, Tony thought, it had room to grow. It was a good room. Still, he watched anxiously for his reaction. Nico’s features betrayed nothing as he walked slowly inside. He walked over to the bed, sitting on it gingerly, and looked around. 

“We can change anything you want,” Tony offered, scratching his neck. 

“Anything?” Nico pursed his lips in thought. “Can I…” he faltered.

“Go on,” Tony urged softly.

“Can I have a bookstand? Or- or shelves,” he stammered.

Tony smiled somethig small and almost sad. “All the shelves you want,” he promised. 

Nico nodded and stared ahead in thought. He cocked his head.

“Do you all live here?”

Tony snorted: he guessed it was a pretty valid question, all things considered.

“Sort of,” he hummed, leaning on the door. “Nat and Steve both have rooms here, but they don’t stay all the time. Thor is usually never here. The rest of the team…” he faltered, realizing Nico hadn’t actually met anyone else. He probably didn’t even know who they were. That was a talk for another day. “Well, they come and go, too,” he finished lamely.

Nico hummed, fidgeting with the comforter. He yawned. Tony walked over, placing a hand on his head. The sun shone brightly through the winter haze, lighting Nico’s face. Something in Tony’s chest ached. 

“Sleep,” he whispered. 

Nico nodded and laid down, and Tony went out into the hall.

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Tony’d been expecting this. Really, he’d been expecting this ever since Helen had told him about the news leak. She was still head of his company, after all.

“Hi, Pepper,” he sighed.

“Hey Tony,” she greeted on the other side of the phone line. The six months that’d passed since their most recent break-up didn’t make hearing her voice any easier. 

“Were you thinking of telling me anything, or was I supposed to find out from TMZ this afternoon?”

Tony didn’t reply. She must have taken his silence for the admission of guilt that it was, because she plowed on. “Really, Tony, I expected a lot of things. I know how you get after we-” she swallowed. “But this? I mean, did you just think adopting a child would somehow prove you’re ready for commitment!?” her voice rose. “Because to me,” she continued, “that just proves how hopelessly immature you are! What were you thinking ?”

Tony waited until her angry tirade was over. “Can I explain?” he asked calmly.

She huffed. “Go on.”

“This might take a while,” he warned.

“I have all day,” she retorted. “Had to give the board the day off to deal with the media disaster.”

“Are you sitting down?”

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By the end of his speech, his voice was raspy from talking and his head hurt from holding back tears.

“Oh, Tony,” Pepper breathed. “I’m so sorry I reacted the way I did. I had no idea, I-”

“You’re fine,” Tony shook his head. “I’m more worried about what the media will say. Are saying,” he corrected.

Pepper’s soft tones hardened into her ‘I-mean-bussiness’ voice. “I think we should break the story ourselves. Take control of the narrative.”

Tony huffed and sat down on the bed, a smile creeping onto his face. He’d missed this, missed her. He was silently grateful for how quickly she’d taken this in stride. Here she was, not two hours since knowing about the kid and already looking for the best way to help him. “I’m not going on a morning show to talk about how great I am for adopting a kid,” he argued. As if he were some kind of hero for taking Nico in. 

“We could always issue a statement…” she offered.

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Sunday, January 30th

BREAKING: BILLIONAIRE TONY STARK ISSUES STATEMENT REGARDING RECENT ADOPTION

As all netizens have heard, billionaire Tony Stark –head of Stark industries and well known superhero Iron Man– has recently sparked controversy around the world after adopting a 10 year old boy through what appears to be dubious ways: an inside source told NTZ news the adoption was not done through the normal channels, and Social Services were not involved. Rather, temporary guardianship papers were signed off to Stark in record breaking time while the child was staying at a hospital for unknown reasons. What was the cause for this secrecy? Why wasn’t the State involved? Why was the boy at the hospital? And more importantly, who is he?

Several people theorize the child is actually the billionaire’s unrecognised son. But if this is true…where is the mother? 

Tony Stark refused to answer questions as he and the boy, as well as two of his associates and his bodyguard, exited the hospital. Instead, his head of staff released this statement from him this morning:

I’d like to thank people for their well wishes at this time. Everyone knows the moment a child is introduced to the family is one of change, uprooting. Even more so when the eyes of the world are on them.

While I appreciate your concerns regarding my protégé’s safety and the integrity of the process, I ask that you be mindful when spreading unfounded rumours, rumours that will affect his quality of life when he’s ready to make his way into the world. 

I assure you there is nothing dark in my intentions towards him, which are to provide him with the best possible opportunities and the care he has failed to receive in the past. I trust that in time you will grow as fond of him as I have.

Sincerely,

Tony Stark.

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Nico woke up to the smell of pancakes. He scrunched his face, wondering why the hospital had brought him breakfast so early, until the memories of the day before made their way back to him. He smiled, his eyes still closed, and stretched leisurely on the bed. 

He got up, small feet padding on the floor, and walked to the adjoining bathroom. He moved to the basin and washed his face. He looked up, water droplets caught in his eyelashes. The Nico in the mirror stared back. He looked… better. Unlike the last time he’d caught a glimpse of himself –passing through a display window the morning before everything or at the sterile hospital bathroom–, he actually looked normal . Sure, his hair was a bit messy (a couple nurses had tried detangling it while he was in the hospital and only half succedeed), but his eyebags were almost gone. He’d gotten some of the fullness of his cheeks back, and they looked rosier, his skin at least a little less pale. ‘The wonders of a couple good meals and a full night’s sleep’, he thought offhandedly, before leaving the room.

His footsteps echoed off the hallway walls, and all too soon he was standing in the middle of the apartment, the open-plan kitchen and living room bathed in pink morning light. 

Tony stood at the stove, his back to Nico. He held a spatula in one hand and a skillet in the other, flipping pancakes as music played through a speaker. 

Nico strained his ears, but he wasn’t familiar with… really any music that hadn’t come out in the 1930s.

“What’s that?” he cocked his head. 

Tony turned around, a smile forming on his face. “Good morning, kid,” he grabbed a plate and stacked two pancakes on it, motioning for Nico to come closer. Nico climbed a barstool, sitting down at the kitchen island. “What’d you say?” He turned the stove off and sat across from Nico, handing him a fork.

“The music,” Nico replied, spearing his fork into a pancake that’d already been drizzled with honey. 

 “The…” Tony stopped with the fork halfway through his mouth. “You don’t know what this is?”

Nico felt himself blush. He shook his head. 

Tony exhaled. “I forget how young you are. It’s the Beatles.”

Nico’s eyes lit up in recognition. 

“You’ve heard of them?” Tony asked.

Nico nodded. “But I’ve never heard their songs.” He took a second to listen: a light, airy guitar filled the room, and a voice crooned softly. 

“Here comes the sun,” Tony smiled. “George Harrison.”

Nico smiled, bobbing his head. “I like it,” he decided.

Tony laughed, shaking his head softly.

The sun rose quietly over New York, and inside an apartment overlooking downtown Manhattan, the dulcet tones of Abbey Road welcomed a kid home.

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“So what kind of stuff do you do for fun?” Tony threw a dart and cursed as it bounced off the wall. He and Nico had spent the afternoon lounging around, until Tony remembered he had a dart board in a box somewhere and dug it up. They’d been at it for over an hour now. Steve and Nat had come over for a late lunch, and were now lounging in the living room with them, sated from the pasta, and booing every time Tony played. It was great.

Nico shrugged, picking up a dart. He closed his left eye and aimed, hitting the second innermost circle. He grinned as all three adults cheered. 

“I like reading,” he answered, finally moving away from the board and settling in a modern leather armchair. “And maths.”

“Math?” Tony’s ears pricked as he followed him, dropping down on the couch next to Nat. To his left, Steve and Nat shared a fond look. “What sort of math?”

“I don’t know,” Nico shrugged again. “I liked doing the math booklets they had at the boys’ home.”

He averted his eyes, nervous to see their reaction to this last bit of information. It was Steve who broke the silence. “You were at a boys’ home?” Nico nodded, still staring at the wall.

“How come we never found you?” Nat asked softly, raising a hand to run it through his hair. “We looked all over the Social Services’ database, you weren’t there.”

Nico finally turned his head, a rebelious glint in his eyes. “Fake name,” he simply answered. “And I deleted the picture they took of me.”

Tony huffed, almost laughing at the simplicity of it all. “What name did you use?”

“Percy Smith,” Nico snorted.

All four of them shared a laugh. An idea popped up in Tony’s head. He filed it away for later, and walked over to the kitchen island to retrieve a notepad and a pencil. 

He scribbled an easy enough equation, the sort of thing Nico should be solving at his age, but he still wondered. Given his… spotty education, maybe this was too advanced. He bit his lip, wanting to take it back, but it was too late: Nico took the notebook from him, and smiled easily once he saw the equation. Tony watched as he solved it quickly, writing down each thorough step in small, neat handwriting. 

“Well done,” he smiled when he was finished. Nico flushed at the praise. “Would you like some more?”

A couple hours later, Tony was floored. Nico had solved every equation and geometry exercise thrown his way with the same apparent ease, all the way up to SAT level math. The easy smiles on Nat and Steve’s faces had slowly turned into expressions of disbelief. How did this kid manage to keep surprising them like this? Every time Tony thought he had him all figured out, he went and did something that changed his entire perspective.

That reminded him… he sneaked a look towards the hallway: Nico’s door was firmly closed, as it had been for the past hour since the kid had gone to sleep. Nat and Steve, too, had retreated to their rooms.. Tony dragged his laptop into the silent living room and opened up the code they’d use to access Social Services’ database.

He typed “Percy Smith” in the search bar. Surely, it couldn’t be that simple?

It was. A result popped up. Tony clicked on it, still half expecting it to be a dud. There was no picture, like Nico’d said, but the physical description matched. It was him: dark hair, dark eyes, and the date on the file coincided with the time Nico’d first gone missing on them. The first thing he noticed was how… sparse it was. He skimmed each category: no age, no blood type, no family situation. They really hadn’t bothered to find that out?

But then he reached the section titled “further notes”. His blood froze. ‘Slow’? ‘Violent?’ What the hell ? ‘Might have some form of cognitive disability’ Tony huffed in disbelief, resisting the urge to laugh at the sheer absurdity of it. The kid was a genius , not just at math: he’d always outsmarted them, had evaded them for months, actually, found out how to block security cameras and memorized the layout of them in freaking New York city –aka one of the cities with the highest density of them in the world –, not to mention his strategic intelligence. Tony’d seen him fight. So how could they have ever thought he was slow ? A part of him thought maybe Nico’d done it on purpose, to throw them off, but deep down he knew that wasn’t right. Above all, Nico was proud. Having people think he was stupid didn’t sound like something he’d do. This… this was just a case of people not seeing what was right in front of them. Tony gulped: the amount of neglect needed to ignore something that shone as brightly as Nico… He closed the laptop violently, unwilling to keep looking at that file. Thoughts filled his head. It was his job now to make sure Nico didn’t go unnoticed and uncared for ever again. In his mind, a path started to unwind. Ideas, projects… people to call, interviews to go through. He grabbed a notepad and started writing items down. Images popped up as he wrote, uninvited but not unwelcome, of Nico thriving in a school adapted to meet his needs and help him grow, making friends and bringing them over after class, of camping trips and roasting marshmallows, birthday parties, homework sitting at the dining table and a small bike joining his own in the entryway.

He drifted to sleep with a soft smile on his face, gripping the notepad.

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