Outside the room, the Avengers were huddled together by the door trying to hear what was happening inside. Obviously the kid was a meta, and dangerous if given the fact that he was covered in blood and looked just about ready to eat them alive, but it really just begged the question of How does Tony know him? Tony wouldn't have locked himself in with a hostile if he didn't know them, especially if he didn't trust them, leading Steve to wonder about just how long the inventor had kept the boy hidden from them.

Clint, on the other hand, had been trying for the past two hours to climb through the air vents to get to Stark, but apparently the man had decided he was fed up with the archer popping out from the high heavens at ass o'clock and installed security measures. Kudos to Stark for finally realizing how vulnerable he's been leaving himself and everything, but now Clint was absolutely certain that something was very wrong with the situation, or why else would he be locking even the vents?

Frustrated and just about ready to blow a hole through the wall for easy access, Clint turned around to rant to his partner when he realized that Natasha had disappeared. Normally it wouldn't bother him, but right now he needed a spy, not a soldier, and he was beyond stressed.

"Steve! Where's Nat?"

Steve shrugged. "I saw her duck out about 30 minutes ago. Said something about talking to Fury."

Clint groaned. Of course Nat had gone off without telling him her plan. Despite them being effective field partners and having a decent outside relationship, the man still had trouble getting her to communicate with him whenever she found a lead. Unless it was absolutely necessary, Natasha kept her silence, and Clint didn't think that would ever change.

Steve watched bemusedly as the other man stalked off. "Where are you going?"

"To find answers!"

"Good luck," he called back. Looked like Steve was going to be waiting alone. Again.

OoOoOoOoO

The two men next to each other at the bar, each nursing a drink as they thought about how to start. Or, at least, Harry was thinking about what to say; Tony was already opening his mouth to interrogate the teen.

"So tell me: why the fuck haven't you written in over a year, hmm? Busy? Too busy for a fucking phone call? Two minutes, maybe a, "Hey, won't be calling in for a while," or something to tell me why YOU SHOW UP FUCKING HALF-DEAD?!"

Tony had tried really hard to keep his cool, but honestly? He was anything but cool. He was livid; furious; confused; scared; but cool? Tony hasn't been cool since the seventh grade, so it was expected that he started screaming at some point. Screaming was a good thing, right? Yes. Every medical journal ever published would back him up (probably). Screaming good, showing up half-dead-and-bloody bad.

Harry, meanwhile, was trying not to meet his eyes. Instead, he kept his gaze fixed firmly on the marble countertop as he fiddled with his tea mug.

"I…I couldn't. I couldn't- wouldn't- call you; it was too dangerous."

He drummed his fingers on the table a couple times, glancing around the kitchen and doing his absolute best not to look at the older man.

Tony stared.

"What. You- I can't believe you right now! "Too dangerous"? If you haven't noticed by now, genius, I'm a fucking billionaire! I sold weapons! I was kidnapped by terrorists, and got myself out, and then became a damn superhero! How much more dangerous could it be than that?"

Pacing the floor, Tony flung his hands around as he tried to reason with the kid, his mind racing. Too dangerous? 'Couldn't call' my ass, and what's this about him not calling even if he could have? Damn wording; damn teenagers!

Coffee sloshing around dangerously close to the rim of his cup, the inventor paced the floor in frustration. How was he supposed to help Harry if he didn't know what was happening? How was he supposed to keep the kid safe when he didn't even know what to protect him from; who to protect him from? He slammed his half-empty mug on the counter next to Harry, barely even registering the flinch it elicited he was so angry. Never let it be said that Tony Stark was good at communication within personal relationships.

"Why?" Tony turned fully to Harry, voice crackling as he tried his hardest not start screaming again. "Why didn't you call me? What aren't you telling me? Please, Harry, I just want to know why..."

His voice trailed off, not even needing to finish the sentence; not wanting to finish the sentence. Why didn't Harry think he could trust him? Why was Tony always five steps behind the play whenever it came to talking to him? Why did Harry always insist on being alone?

The boy in question whined softly in the back of his throat, fingers flying anxiously over the countertop in some sort of unseen symphony that made sense to only him. Eyes fluttering about the space around Tony, Harry could only sob.

"You don't understand," he keened. "You don't understand...you don't understand...I have to go, this was a mistake, I have to go..."

He started to shift in his seat, getting ready to Apparate again- damn his body's limits- and get as far away as possible from here. He shouldn't have come here in the first place; he was being stupid and childish and wanting to go somewhere safehomesafe, and didn't even think about the consequences and this was how people are killed Harry, this is why the war ended so late because you were being stupid and childish and-

And he was tackled to the floor by a solid form smelling of motor-oil and expensive cologne.