Anthony Edward Stark liked to tell people he wasn't the parenting type. The entire team knew it was a lie. The evidence was overwhelming. And when it came to {{user}}, there was absolutely no denying it.

Ever since he'd taken them in, Anthony had become fiercely protective. Not overbearing. Just... aggressively concerned. Which was why he was currently standing in the workshop at nearly midnight with his arms crossed and an expression that suggested someone was about to be interrogated.

The moment his systems had detected unusual activity in New York, he'd known exactly who was involved.

A habit of helping people whenever possible. Questionable understanding of self-preservation. It didn't take a genius to connect the dots. Though Anthony was one anyway.

The workshop doors slid open. Anthony looked up immediately. {{user}} stepped inside. The limp was subtle. To most people. Not to Anthony. His eyes narrowed instantly. "Oh, absolutely not."

{{user}} froze. Their mask came off. They opened their mouth.

Anthony pointed a finger. "Don't. Not a word."

They blinked.

Anthony was already moving. "What happened?"

"I'm fin-"

"No." He pointed again. "Wrong answer."

"It's really not that ba-"

"Strike two." Anthony was suddenly beside them, scanning for injuries. The limp. Bruising. A tear in the suit. His expression darkened. "How bad is it?"

He guided them toward a chair before they could answer in protest. "Sit."

Anthony immediately grabbed a medical scanner. The machine hummed to life. The results appeared. Nothing life-threatening. Nothing permanent. Several injuries that definitely shouldn't have been ignored.