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Chapter Text

Peter had always been cuddly when he was sick, so Tony wasn’t really surprised when, fifteen minutes after he retired to bed, he heard his door open and stockinged feet shuffle in. He felt his blankets lift and the mattress dip as Peter laid down next to him, groaning lightly at his aching muscles.

“You really are an octopus, aren’t you?” Tony grumbled, rolling onto his side to face Peter, allowing him to scoot even closer. “A typhoid octopus—” he reached out and felt Peter’s forehead “—with a fever.”

Peter stuck out his bottom lip in an exaggerated pout, half his face smushed into a pillow. “I can’t sleep,” he whined quietly. “Be nice.”

“I’m always nice.” Tony let his hand drop from Peter’s forehead to the back of his neck, massaging gently. Peter seemed inclined to agree, sighing as he relaxed into the soft bed. He turned onto his stomach, giving Tony access to his back and shoulders, too, which made Tony snort in laughter.

“Can’t sleep, huh?” Tony asked, concern and sympathy in his voice. He hated it when Peter couldn’t sleep because it was never just for one night at a time, but weeks, until Peter was to his breaking point and Tony had to stage an intervention, pulling out all the stops to knock Peter out. Being sick didn’t make sleep easier, but it did make Peter’s patience and stamina wear out faster.

Peter opened his eyes, sensing the change in Tony’s voice. “Yeah. Everything hurts.”

“Ok, buddy. Have you taken your medicine?”

Peter nodded and Tony sighed. “Well, that’s ok,” he lied. “Didn’t you read the instructions? They say take with a full glass of water and plenty of snuggles. Come here.”

Peter huffed a weak laugh. “Never thought I’d hear you say ‘snuggles,’” he said, but he slid closer to the center of the bed, meeting Tony halfway.

Tony wasn’t sure when the feel of Peter—bony and gangly and a little too warm—pressed into his side became so familiar, but it felt like the first notes of his favorite song, the cherished scent of Pepper’s shampoo. The second they settled against each other, Tony let himself relax into this little piece of home.  

“Speak to your audience,” he murmured into Peter’s hair. “You love ‘snuggles.’ It makes you think of snakes hugging, which for some reason is incredibly amusing to you.”

Peter laughed again, sounding a little delirious. His fingers sought out Tony’s sleeve and held tight. “They don’t have arms, Mr. Stark.”

Tony rolled his eyes, smiling despite himself. He rubbed a palm up and down Peter’s spine.

“Tell me about your trip. With MJ and Ned. Where did you guys decide to go?”

He counted Peter’s heartbeats. A little faster than Tony would like, but not concerning. He should be able to get Peter to sleep within ten minutes. He started the timer in his head.

“We were thinking Europe, but MJ mentioned doing a humanitarian trip, so now we’re leaning toward Nigeria. There’s a nice program that lets us build schools and hospitals there.”

Tony opened his eyes and looked down at Peter, fever color high on his cheeks and his hair a rat’s nest from tossing and turning and refusing to sleep in his own bed because he was sick. Peter, who was going to go to Africa and do service for his senior trip.

He was too perfect. Tony could live a hundred lifetimes being Iron Man, give every cent he’s ever made to charity, and he would still never deserve Peter Parker. Because he was doing it for redemption. And Peter did it because he could and therefore must.

“You’re too good for this world, il mio cuore,” Tony whispered.

Peter’s blush intensified and Tony could practically feel the heat radiating from his face.

“Did you just call me—”

“Where would you pick?” Tony interrupted before this conversation could get too sentimental. He was already painfully aware of his heart right now; how it stilled in his chest when he looked at Peter, how it raced, completely out of his control, at any sign of pain or sadness in Peter’s face, how it swelled with pride at everything Peter did. If he had to talk about it, he feared that it might just jump straight out of his mouth and offer itself to Peter so Tony would stop beating around the bush.

Peter hummed in confusion, a little taken aback.

“Anywhere in the world, kid, where would you pick to go? And I know you’ve never done this before in your life, but don’t worry about anyone else. Where would you go?”

“Oh,” Peter said. He settled into the pillows again, his face screwed up as he thought. Tony couldn’t stop himself from brushing a lock of hair out of Peter’s eyes. “Italy, I think. May’s Italian, so I’m kind of... Italian by proximity.”

Tony grinned. “You’ll love Italy, kiddo. We can go to Nonna’s hometown—”

“We?” Peter interrupted, eyes open again.

Idiot, Tony cursed himself.

“Or you and May,” he quickly corrected, not looking at Peter. “I’d be happy to provide a jet for you two and hote—”

“No, no, no. Mr. Stark.” He pressed himself more firmly into Tony’s chest, but Tony still didn’t look at him. “I would love to go with you. That sounds... unbelievable. I just kind of thought this was hypothetical.”

Tony blinked, finally met Peter’s eyes again. “When have I ever been hypothetical, Parker?”

Peter grinned, muscles loosening and eyes bright with feverish affection now that he knew he didn’t upset Tony. “Never.” His eyes closed as Tony tucked strands of hair, curling with sweat, behind his ear. “Where was your grandmother from?”

For a second, Tony didn’t know what Peter was talking about. And then—

Oh my gosh. Pull yourself together, Stark. It’s like you’re trying to be humiliated.

He’d referred to Maria as Peter’s nonna. His grandmother. Luckily, Peter had no way of knowing that, so Tony scrambled to act natural.

“Tuscany,” he said, calming his breathing. “Near Chianti.”

He ran his hand along Peter’s back again, bent his head low so he was murmuring in Peter’s ear. Peter instantly melted into him, his head pressed warm and heavy over Tony’s heart.

“My mother and I used to go for a month every summer. Just me and her. We would spend a week at her parents’ vineyard. The nearest town was on a hilltop, with medieval walls all around it. We’d go to church in the square, and then go to the gelateria next door. There was a well in the center of the piazza and my mom always gave me a penny to throw in. I’d steal roses to give to her from one of the climbing trellises and when the gardener yelled at me I’d pretend to not speak Italian.”

Peter gave a breathy laugh. Tony paused in his story and counted Peter’s heartbeats again. Slower, calmer. They were getting there.

Tony didn’t usually talk about his childhood. He usually avoided thinking about it and how messed up it was, but those months in Italy were some of the happiest of his life because Howard hadn’t been there. After his mom had died, he hadn’t wanted to talk about the good things either. It hurt too much.

Telling Peter didn’t hurt though. Telling Peter felt natural and cathartic and tender.

“I’ll take you there,” Tony promised, and felt Peter’s smile curve against his chest. “We can go in June, when it’s not too humid. We’ll get a car and drive. The lemons will be in season, and if you roll the windows down you can smell them in the air. We can go to Siena, and bribe them to let us climb to the top of the duomo. You can see the whole city from up there, all the red tile roofs.”

Peter’s breathing was getting deeper. Tony lowered his voice.

“We’ll go to Florence and you can eat your weight in gelato.”

“Venice,” Peter mumbled. Tony swallowed, his heart skipping. He loved him. He loved him. He wanted to share his favorite place and his favorite memories with him, desperately wanted to make new favorite memories with Peter at his side.

“Venice,” Tony agreed after a moment. “We can be cheesy tourists and take a gondola ride. Feed the pigeons in San Marco’s.”

Peter hummed in contentment, too far gone to form words.

“I know the best bakery in Naples. All the secret places in Rome. The Amalfi Coast.”

He paused again. Peter’s heartbeat was slow and even, his breaths heavy with sleep.

“Anything you want, Peter,” Tony whispered. “Absolutely anything.”

Chapter Text

Peter wakes up to being roughly dropped on a cold, concrete floor.

He lays still, listening. There are five heartbeats in the room, one person breathing fast.

“Touch my son again and I’ll kill you.”

Tony. Tony’s here and... he just called Peter his son. Which is confusing.

Someone scoffs. “You’re tied up. What can you do?”

“That’s my son,” Tony growls, voice dangerous. A shiver goes up Peter’s spine, but not out of fear. Awe, maybe. Tony is every inch the superhero Peter has always wanted to be. “Touch him again and I’ll kill you.”

Another voice chuckles, low and gravelly. There are steps, and the scent of old cigarette smoke wafting toward Peter.

There’s a brief silence, and Peter wants to open his eyes and see what’s happening but he doesn’t want to give himself away.

“Alright, Stark,” someone says. It’s the smoker, Peter can tell from his voice, and probably the leader of this little kidnapping. “We won’t hurt him. As long as you promise not to try to escape.”

Voice calm, as if negotiating a simple business transaction, Tony clarifies, “You don’t touch him, and I promise nothing but good behavior. Though I don’t suppose I’ll get time off for that.”

“No,” the same man agrees, sounding eager for whatever he has in store for Tony. “You won’t.”

A key scrapes, chains clatter to the floor.

“Go get the kid,” an even crueler voice instructs.

Peter forces himself not to jump when he feels warm hands turn him over.

“Peter. Up and at ‘em, buddy,” Tony murmurs near his ear. Peter makes a bit of a show of blinking himself into consciousness, squinting around at the gathered men in alarm.

“Dad?” he asks, pitching his voice to sound scared. If they’re playing the ‘ordinary kid’ angle, Peter’s going to do his part.

Tony’s hand squeezes his shoulder once in relief at Peter following his lead.

“Wha’ happened?”

“Come on, kiddo. On your feet.” Tony hauls him up without answering, keeping an anchoring hand on Peter’s arm as they get led out of the small room.  

They jostle Tony along, but no one lays a hand on Peter, as promised. The hall they walk down is narrow, a single high window showing a glimpse of night sky.

They’re shoved into a room with a single cot, metal toilet and sink, and a bare lightbulb in the corner. It looks like a prison cell.

The door slams behind them and they’re alone. Neither speaks for a moment, looking around at their surroundings. There was one thing Peter had missed: a security camera, the red light blinking steadily at them.

Tony sends Peter a look, letting him know he saw it too.

“You ok, Pete?” he asks, and immediately the camera pivots toward them, following the direction of Tony’s voice. It had sound as well, then. Good to know. They’ll have to keep up the charade even when alone.

“I’m fine, Dad,” Peter mutters. Tony’s hand slips up to Peter’s neck, gently squeezing the back. Then he walks over to the cot and sits down, leaning against the wall. He sends a sideways glance at the camera, then Peter, then pats the spot next to him. Peter sits as well, pulling his knees up to his chest. Tony slings an arm over his shoulders, gathering Peter into his side.

“That camera has night vision,” he observes mildly. “You can tell by the lens color.”

Peter hums. They sit for a few minutes in silence, Peter’s head on Tony’s shoulder as he contemplates their situation, before Tony stands again, walking to the other side of the cell.

“It’s probably late,” he says, and the camera pans over to him. Peter raises an eyebrow and gets a small smile in return. Test the mic, Tony is telling him without words.

“We should probably get some sleep,” Peter replies, quieter. The camera turns to him.

“There’s only one bed.” Even lower. The camera still turns.

“I’ll sleep on the floor,” Peter offers, whispering. Nothing.

“You’re going to have to speak up, Pete,” Tony says, winking. They found the threshold for the microphone. As long as their conversation is quieter than a whisper, they can talk normally, without hiding their plans and without the complication of pretending to be father and son.

“I’ll sleep on the floor,” Peter says again, standing. It is late, and they do need sleep for whatever is going to happen tomorrow.

“Don’t pretend you’re too old to share a bed with your dad,” Tony teases. “I remember what happened when we watched Woman in Black on Halloween.”

Peter scoffs. Falling asleep in Tony’s room that night had been unintentional, thank you very much. Rolling his eyes, Peter steps back over to the narrow cot.

“You take by the wall.”

Peter wrinkles his nose, but does as he’s told. He knows Tony wants to be between him and the door, should someone come in while they’re sleeping.

The bunk is so narrow they can’t lay on their backs at the same time, so Peter turns onto his side and faces Tony.

With the light off, it’s pitch black. Peter’s heightened eyesight can barely make out the shape of Tony’s face, turned towards him.

“I’m sorry,” Tony whispers after a moment. “They only grabbed you cause you were with me.”

“I don’t care,” Peter responds, barely breathing the words. “I only care that they’re going to torture you, Tony. And I’m just supposed to sit here and play the scared kid?”

“If I break my side of the deal, they’ll torture you, too. I can’t live with that.”

The cot squeaks as Tony shifts, his hand tracing Peter’s throat in the darkness until he finds his cheek.

“And I can?”

“You’ll have to.”

“No,” Peter hisses. “Screw that.”

“Kid, if they find out I tried to trick them, they will kill you. Probably slowly and definitely in front of me.” Tony’s voice shakes.

Peter squeezes his eyes closed, then turns his back to Tony. He’s angry. Really angry. And scared.

“Peter,” Tony breathes. He puts the hand Peter had shaken off onto his back, rubbing his thumb against Peter’s shoulder blade.

“How’d you even know that would work?” Peter asks the wall.

“The leader had a picture of a little boy as his phone background,” Tony explains. “I could tell... he knows what a father would do to protect his child.”

There’s a lump in Peter’s throat. He’s been trying to avoid thinking too much about the implications of acting like Tony’s son. About Tony claiming him as his son.

What a father would do to protect his child. What Tony would do—did—for him.

Swallowing down the tears, Peter turns over again and pulls himself closer to Tony, burying his face in Tony’s shoulder.

Tony wraps his arms around Peter, one hand cradling Peter’s head. When he sighs, it ruffles Peter’s hair.

“I’ll be ok as long as you’re ok,” Tony whispers.

They come for Tony early the next morning, according to Peter’s probably-not-very-accurate internal clock. Peter’s spider sense wakes him up and he wakes Tony with a quick nudge before the door flies open.

Tony stands, cooperating.

“Where are you taking him?” Peter asks. One of the men looks down at him and laughs. “What are you going to do?”

“Don’t worry, little Stark. He’ll get the best care available,” another man jeers, shoving Tony between the shoulder blades.

“Dad!” Peter shouts, standing, his hands balled into fists. Tony looks over his shoulder and meets his eye.

“It’s ok, Petey. I’ll see you soon, ok?”

And then they’re gone, leaving Peter in silence, his heartbeat ringing in his ears.

That night, when they bring Tony back, after Peter had spent hours upon hours pacing the cell—measuring it, looking for weaknesses, and alternating between trying desperately to hear anything from outside and praying he didn’t—Peter carefully walks him to the cot and sits him down. He’s bloody and bruised, but he’s conscious and moving and talking and that’s more than Peter had hoped for.

“Dad,” Peter says, kneeling in front of him. It’s surprisingly easy, having that word come out of his mouth instead of ‘Mr. Stark.’

Tony offers him a tired smile, but it makes his split lip start bleeding again and he stops. “Hey, Pete. Have fun while I was gone?”

Peter growls, shaking his head, and concentrates on feeding Tony the half of the dinner he’d saved—canned soup and a rather stale roll.

That night, when they lay down to go to sleep, Peter is once again next to the wall.

“Do you have a plan on how to get us out of here? I measured the cell and based on the layout of the hallway that I remember—” Peter starts rambling in a breathy whisper.

“Pete,” Tony interrupts. He turns onto his side and winces slightly. “We just have to wait it out.”

“Why? To protect me?”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Tony breathes, tugging Peter closer. He looks like he wants to sleep rather than argue, but this is the only time they can really talk and Peter has a whole day’s worth of words built up in his head.

“It is a bad thing if protecting me is hurting you.”

“We’re not doing this again, Peter,” Tony sighs. His voice is a little above a whisper, and the camera whirs as it turns toward them.

“Dad,” Peter grits out.

Tony cuts him off by twisting Peter’s chin towards him and kissing his cheek.

“Go to sleep.”

Peter, very aware of the camera trained on them and Tony’s chest pressing against his back with each breath, lays awake for a long time.

They take Tony again. Peter yells and curses and Tony just smiles at him and says with false confidence, “Don’t worry, baby. I’ll be fine.”

Again, Peter is left with nothing to do, nothing to think about except half-formed plans that Tony won’t try anyway and the way Tony had called him baby.

When they bring him back, Tony crumples to his knees and looks at Peter through two black eyes. His nose has been at least dislocated, if not broken, and dried blood coats his goatee.

Peter helps him to his feet and cleans him off with the hem of his shirt and lays him down. Then he crawls over him so he’s next to the wall like Tony insists on.

There’s quiet for a long time. He thinks Tony might have fallen asleep when the man turns his head and whispers into his ear.

“I gave you the harder part, huh? Easier to be tortured.”

Peter sighs. “Maybe. But being tortured and watching you be tortured would be worse.”

“Is that gratitude I hear?” Tony wheezes, his lungs crackling.

Peter flinches. “Barely. Waning every minute.”

Tony chuckles. He’s laying flat on his back to help keep pressure of his ribs, so Peter curls into him.

He’s almost asleep when Tony speaks again.

“I knew we could pull it off,” he murmurs. “Playing father and son. No one would even question.”

“Yeah. Yeah.”

Starvation and dehydration make Peter’s spider sense slower. They don’t wake up the next morning until someone is dragging Tony by the ankle off the cot.

It takes Peter a second to remember himself and shout “Dad!” instead of Tony.

He jumps up as fast as he can and someone grabs his arm, twisting it behind him.

Tony’s still trying to get to his feet, hands fisting cruelly in his shirt, his hair.

“Don’t you—” Tony gasps, then cuts off as someone kicks his knee when he tries to stand.

“Dad!”

In a flash, Tony grabs someone’s ankle, bringing him crashing to the ground, then he’s on his feet, swaying only slightly as he grabs the other man in a choke hold.

“I said don’t touch him,” Tony snarls.

There’s a beat, Tony staring hard at the man holding Peter, while Peter pants, his adrenaline kicking up.

Peter’s arm is let go and Tony immediately releases his hostage, holding up his hands to show that he’s sticking to his bargain.

“You good, Pete?” Tony asks tersely.

“I-I’m fine,” he assures Tony.

Then he’s being dragged away. To another day of torture that Tony won’t even hint at, even when Peter asks.

“Stop!” Peter screams. “Dad! Don’t hurt him!”

“Peter,” Tony calls, though his teeth are gritted in pain. “It’s ok.”

“No!” Peter follows him to the doorway, though one of the men stays behind and makes sure he doesn’t leave.

“I love you, Pete,” Tony says. And then he’s gone.

Peter paces. And paces and paces and paces. And eyes the pipes lining the cement ceiling above him.

When they bring Tony back, he isn’t walking. Peter catches him on his knees.

“Dad? Dad, come on, look at me.”

Peter ducks his head and presses his cheek to Tony’s forehead. He’s clammy and shaking.

“Dad.”  

“Peter,” Tony pants. Then he goes limp.

It takes Peter a long time to drag Tony over to the cot. He probably makes himself seem even weaker than a normal teenage boy, but he’d rather that than seem too strong.

He levers Tony onto the bed carefully, slowly. Then he gently pushes him over toward the wall and lays down next to him, between Tony and the door.

The things they say at night, whispered between them, are just for them. Not a pretense, not for their captors, just them.

“Dad,” Peter breathes.

The next morning, when they come to take Tony, Peter’s waiting for them.

Chapter Text

“Why isn’t he healing?”

May’s voice floated towards him, the words hushed and frantic. It’d been three days and infection had started to take hold of the ragged wounds marring Peter’s skin, his broken arm hot and swollen. Normally his body took care of infections before they even started, healed bones before they could be set.

“I think it’s psychosomatic.”

“He’s in so much turmoil emotionally, he can’t heal physically.”

The conversation was two hallways away, but the whole building was quiet—the whole world was quiet—and he could hear without straining.

“He thinks it’s his fault.”

“Tony wouldn’t want—”

Peter tuned out of the conversation, let everything blur around him as he turned onto his side. It hurt, but it didn’t matter. And it didn’t matter what Tony would have wanted. He was dead.

And it was Peter’s fault.

“Time for lunch, baby,” May announced in a sing-song voice as she pushed the door open with her hip. Peter curled up tighter into his ball.

“No.”

“Peter, you have to eat.” She fussed with his bedside table, arranging the food. “You need nutrients to heal.”

“I don’t want it,” he said, his voice hoarse.

May stopped, sighed heavily. Then she say on the edge of Peter’s bed and pushed back his sweaty bangs. Her frown increased as she felt his temperature.

“Stop doing this,” she pleaded. “I know you’re hurting. I know. But you can’t just shut down. Tony wouldn’t want to see you like this.”

Peter turned away from her touch.

“Good thing he isn’t here then, isn’t it?” He snapped. His skin was freezing cold but his blood burned, hot and painful, through every inch of him. He couldn’t breathe passed the wildfire ache inside his chest.

“Peter,” May gasped.

“Leave me alone.”

Reluctantly, she left. Peter closed his eyes, tears mingling with sweat as it dripped down his face.

They were waiting to have the funeral until Tony’s body could be found. Rhodey had gone to look for it, along with Steve and Thor.

No one told Peter about it, but he could hear them as they muttered in the waiting room. No one but May and Happy came to visit him and he didn’t blame them. He’d failed to save their friend. He wouldn’t want to see him either.

With the infection came fever. Nurses bustled in and out of his room with cold compresses and medication, but they seemed hazy and far off. May was the only clear thing, sitting at his side and dabbing sweat from his forehead.

Peter lay, wracked with tremors and memories. He could see Tony, falling and falling, and his webs, too slow, too short, not enough.

He’d yelled at May, he remembered suddenly, watching her through heavy eyelids.

“Sorry,” he slurred.

“Peter?”

“Sorry.”

He hadn’t caught Tony, but the river had, swallowed him whole and dragged him away. Peter had spent nearly an hour trying to find him before the other Avengers had arrived and taken over.

“Sorry,” he hiccupped.

The air felt thick and elusive, and he wondered if that was how Tony felt as he fell. As he drowned.

“Sorry, sorry. So sorry,” Peter said, and suddenly he was sobbing, retching the words. Bile and apologies spilled from his mouth, and maybe part of his heart, too, the part that had chipped off and been rattling around inside him since Tony died, bruising him from the inside out.

“Sorry, sorry, sorry,” he gasped as cool hands levered him back into the bed, as the lights started fading out above him.

His muscles ached as he woke. He was still so cold, his teeth were chattering.

Something warm was tucked around him, gentle and comforting. Peter furrowed his eyebrows, but didn’t open his eyes.

“Oh, kiddo,” a voice sighed in the darkness.

A hand, cool against his skin, traced his jaw, his cheekbone. Another carefully tugged back some bandages as if examining his injuries, angry and infected as they were.

“Why are you doing this to yourself?”

“I don’t deserve...” The words were elusive, drifting away from him just like Tony had.

“I find that hard to believe,” the tone was affectionate and Peter shifted towards it like it was a soft touch. “What don’t you deserve, buddy?”

“To get better.” His voice broke.

“Peter.”

“Tony,” Peter whispered.

“Pete?”

“Tony. Tony.” He didn’t want to open his eyes and see the proof that this was a delusion, that he was imagining this.

The hand moved to his forehead, rubbing soothing circles against his temple.

“Tony,” Peter begged. “Please come back. Please don’t leave me.”

“Shh. Shh, I’m not going anywhere.”

“Please, please. Come back.”

The Tony of his fever dream held him while he cried himself back to sleep, still pleading for Tony—the real Tony, wherever he was—to not be dead.

There was a hand in his when he woke up. And another combing through his hair.

Cracking his eyes open, Peter saw May on one side of him, holding his hand and absently scrolling through her phone. Brow creasing in confusion, Peter managed to turn his stiff neck enough to see that sitting on the other side of him, looking out the window and running his fingers through Peter’s hair, was Tony.

The heart monitor’s beeping increased and May and Tony both snapped their attention to him.

“Wha-“ Peter croaked, staring at Tony, cataloguing every detail. He had stitches in his forehead, half his face was mottled bruises, and he was smiling down at Peter with an expression of apologetic concern.

“Hey, Pete,” he said softly.

“You— you’re— I don’t— May?” Peter stammered, looking over at her, his eyes blurry with tears.

“They found him yesterday, baby,” she told Peter, squeezing his hand and beaming at him. “He’s been here all night, to Dr. Cho’s consternation.”

Peter shook his head, trying to organize his thoughts.

“I thought... I looked for you,” Peter whispered, turning back to Tony.

Tony’s smile fell, his eyes suddenly sad. He stood and perched on the edge of Peter’s bed, cupping his jaw.

“They told me, buddy. I am so, so sorry. I tried to get home as fast as I could, I swear.”

Peter grabbed Tony’s hoodie in his good hand, holding tight.

“I’m sorry,” he gasped out. “I tried to catch you, but you were too far, my webs—I wasn’t fast enough, I’m sorry.”

“No, no, Peter. It wasn’t your fault.” Tony ducked his head, making sure he had Peter’s full attention. “It wasn’t your fault.”

Peter’s bottom lip trembled. Tony hurriedly pulled Peter into a hug, pressing him tight to his chest.

“And I don’t want to hear any more nonsense about not deserving to heal, alright? I expect those wounds gone by tomorrow,” Tony growled into his ear.

Peter sniffed and smiled into Tony’s shoulder. “I’ll get right on that.”

Chapter Text

“Come sit with me, kid,” Tony said softly right before Peter was about to excuse himself to bed. Pepper was tucking Morgan in—quite a bit past her bedtime, but the excitement of the day seemed to excuse that—and Peter had figured Tony would want to go to sleep, too.

“Ok,” Peter agreed, a little wary. He’d expected Tony to have a talk with him ever since he came back to life four days ago, but thinking about what it might be about made his stomach twist in knots and his mouth go dry.

Tony stepped out onto the porch and Peter followed, closing the door quietly behind him. It was a gibbous moon tonight and the lake was lit up in silver and gold reflected from the cabin windows. Insects were chirping and buzzing in the early summer warmth.

It would be a perfect night if it weren’t for Peter’s racing heart and sweaty palms.

Tony settled onto the padded bench, sideways to look out at the little wooden dock, then patted the spot next to him. Peter perched on the edge of the seat, but Tony almost immediately wrapped an arm around his stomach, pulling him back to lean against Tony’s chest. His other arm came up, encircling Peter, and Peter hesitantly adjusted until he was comfortable, his head resting against Tony’s collarbone.

There was silence for a long minute, just the bugs and Tony’s heartbeat, solid and steady against Peter’s back.

“I thought you wanted to talk,” Peter asked, nearly whispering.

“Is there something you want to talk about?” Tony’s tone was gentle and warm. It always was, now. He’d lost the edge, the biting hint of sarcasm that he’d had before Thanos. Peter wondered if it was because of Morgan or if he was too tired to fight.

Peter swallowed. There were things he knew he needed to talk about, at some point. Like what he was supposed to do now, what had happened in those five years. But he didn’t want to talk about any of it. Not now.

He shook his head. Tony hummed and it reverberated in Peter’s chest.

“Ok, then.”

Silence fell again. Peter looked out at the lake and so did Tony. Every few minutes, Tony would hug Peter a little closer or duck his head and press his cheek to Peter’s hair.

It seemed that Tony really had just wanted to sit with Peter. Had just wanted to hold him for a while.

It was so different from the Tony he’d known, who had occasionally and with no small amount of feigned complaining given Peter a brief hug or pat on the back. Who would hold his hand when he was hurt but only if Peter was drugged up enough Tony thought he wouldn’t remember. Who had kissed Peter’s forehead once and then looked like his life had flashed before his eyes.

Feeling inexplicable tears in his eyes, Peter spoke.

“We never did this before.”

Tony caught his breath. Then he unwound his arms from around Peter, straightening.

“I’m sorry, I was... I guess I’m used to Morgan,” Tony said, his voice barely masking his hurt.

Peter caught Tony’s wrists and pulled them back to where they were.

“That’s not what I meant,” he whispered.

Tony sighed behind him, readjusting Peter so they were even closer, his hand pressed over Peter’s heart. He dropped his forehead onto Peter’s shoulder, his breath sticky warm through his t-shirt.

“I should have held you more,” Tony whispered. Peter closed his eyes.

“After Morgan was born, I would just spend... hours holding her, watching her sleep and breathe. And I realized that I should have done that with you, should have just reveled in the fact that you were warm and alive and there when I had the chance.”

Peter tried to think of something to say to that, but Tony kept talking.

“Your first birthday after, I was out of my mind with grief. I just walked around Manhattan all day, barely even paying enough attention to not get hit by a car. People might have tried to talk to me but I didn’t hear it. Until this old man put a hand on my shoulder and asked if I was alright.” Tony’s voice broke and he took a steadying breath.

“When I told him it was my son’s birthday—” Peter wondered if Tony could feel his heart jump under his palm “—he put his arm around me and steered me into a bakery. He bought me a cupcake,” Tony snorted. “Someone bought me, Tony Stark, a cupcake. We didn’t have any candles so we stuck a lit match in it for me to blow out.”

“What’d you wish for?” Peter asked before he could stop himself. Tony’s hand clenched around Peter’s t-shirt, crumpling it into a fist over Peter’s heart.

“I wished to trade places with you,” Tony whispered after a long moment. “I wished you had lived and I had died.”

Peter drew in a sharp breath, trying to sit up and turn to look at Tony, but Tony held him still. “Tony,” he reprimanded.

“Pepper was four months pregnant and I didn’t care,” Tony confessed. “If I could have I would have taken your place.”

“Tony,” Peter said again. He couldn’t see the lake through his tears anymore, just silver light and Tony’s knee against his leg.

“Peter,” Tony said. His voice broke and Peter could feel the sob wrack his chest. He dropped his head again, burying his face against Peter’s shoulder. “I would have mourned you every minute for the rest of my life and it still wouldn’t have been enough. The world should have stopped spinning when you died. But it didn’t. And I had to...”

“You had to keep living,” Peter soothed. He pressed his cheek against Tony’s head, hugged the arms hugging him. “I would have wanted you to keep living.”

“Morgan saved me,” Tony admitted, almost like he felt guilty. Like nothing should have stopped him from grieving. “Most of me, at least. But there was always this part of me, this little thought in the back of my mind that I shouldn’t be happy and I was happy, but...”

Peter’s t-shirt was damp where Tony rested his head.

“Living without you was like missing a lung. You can never quite catch your breath.”

Tony sat up, raising a hand and turning Peter’s chin until they were looking at each other. Tears dripped down Tony’s face unheeded, but he wiped Peter’s away.

“When I saw you again on that battlefield, I took my first full breath in five years.”

Sniffling, Peter twisted around and wrapped his arms around Tony, crawling half into his lap to hug him as tightly as possible.

Tony kissed his cheek, then muttered, “I missed you more than you could ever know, Peter.”

“I’m sorry,” Peter hiccupped.

“Oh, buddy. I don’t want you to apologize. I just want you to be here.”

“I will be,” Peter promised, nodding against Tony’s throat. “I will.”

Chapter Text

Tony sighs heavily, absently scratching at his wrist. The nanotech is fighting him tonight—everything he tries ending in another failure. He should probably just call it quits and go to bed, really. Pepper’s almost certainly already asleep, having long since given up on him.

Tony scratches his wrist again. Sleep doesn’t sound so bad, actually. Better than the frustration he’s currently experiencing.

Running his fingers through his hair, Tony reaches out to the holo-table, ready to turn it off. Out of habit, he glances at his hand.

The name wrapping around his wrist in royal blue ink had been jarring for the first few months. He would catch it out of the corner of his eye and flinch or forget it was there. Now it’s comforting, though, familiar. Just like the kid that it designated as his soulmate.

In the dim light, it takes a second to register that the color isn’t as strong as it should be, not as bright and solid.

Tony’s stomach drops and then he’s scrambling through the lab, nearly tripping on his stool as he flings himself toward the door.

“FRIDAY, call Peter, push it through. Give me a suit, now,” he gasps. Now, an hour ago, yesterday. How long had he sat there fruitlessly staring at nanobots while Peter had been...?

“Call connected,” FRIDAY announces just as one of the Iron Man suits closes around Tony. He hopes it’s his fastest one.

“Peter?” Tony snaps.

Silence. Tony strains his ears.

“FRI?” he asks, his voice breaking.

“The call is connected, boss.”.

“Peter, buddy, please.” Peter doesn’t answer, and, worse, Tony can’t even hear his breathing.

He can’t see the mark on his wrist while he’s in the suit, but he can feel it, itching and burning and demanding attention.

“What are his vitals?” Tony whispers, zooming over the New York skyline toward the blinking red dot of Peter’s tracker.

“His AI is malfunctioning, I can only get a heartrate. Forty-two beats per minute and slowing.”

So he is alive. Alive and bleeding out, probably in some dingy alley: The life leaching from him just like the color leaching from Tony’s soulmark.

When your soulmate dies the mark goes white. Like a scar. Never to recover.

“Full power to thrusters,” Tony chokes out. “And prep the Medbay or, or an ambulance, or... something. Anything.”

He’s closing in fast. He doesn’t bother slowing down, just crash lands, skidding into a dumpster and sending rats skittering. This is where his kid is, injured and unconscious and dying.

Tony claws at the suit until it opens, falling out gracelessly. He scrambles to the side of the prone figure, ignoring the sticky pool of hot liquid he kneels in. With shaking hands, Tony grasps Peter’s face, turning it toward him. In the dim lamplight, barely reaching the dark recesses of the alley Tony can see the blue around his wrist fading, practically flickering like a weak heartbeat. Like Peter’s heartbeat.

Peter doesn’t even groan, his eyelids don’t even flutter.

“Ambulance, FRIDAY.” The kid wouldn’t survive the flight back to the tower Medbay. He might not even survive the wait for the ambulance.

Tony’s heart is imploding. His vision is fading in and out. He can’t... he can’t...

By sheer instinct from years of running around with the Avengers, Tony finds his hands applying pressure to the gaping wound in Peter’s thigh. It’s deep and wide, but he thinks that by some miracle the femoral artery must have stayed intact, simply by virtue of the fact that Peter isn’t dead yet.

“Peter,” Tony says loudly, putting his entire body weight on the wound. He doesn’t have a belt on or he would do a tourniquet, and he won’t leave Peter long enough to find a suitable replacement.

“Peter,” Tony practically shouts. He presses down hard, almost purposefully digging into the wound just to get some reaction. Finally, finally, Peter whines in the back of his throat, his eyebrows beetling.

“Kid? Kid, you with me?” Peter doesn’t answer, but his face stays creased in pain. As much as Tony hates it, it’s better than the pale lifelessness of before.

“I don’t know if you can hear me, Pete, but you are not allowed to die. Do you understand? You can’t do that to me. You can’t.”

A siren pierces the quiet and tears of relief spring to Tony’s eyes.

“Ok, kiddo, just a little longer,” he murmurs. “Please, buddy, hold on for me.”

The medics arrived in a blur of red lights and shouted questions. They load Peter into the ambulance and Tony scrambles in with him. He sits at Peter’s feet, because that’s the only place an EMT doesn’t need to be. Aching to touch him, to feel that Peter actually is there, getting the help he so desperately needs, Tony reaches out his hand and wraps it around Peter’s ankle.

His soulmark is hard to see through the blood coating him nearly up to his elbows.

In the back of his mind, Tony remembers reading somewhere that the only thing worse than losing your child was losing your soulmate.

How can Tony survive losing both?

Tony sits with Pepper in the waiting room and watches his mark like it was the only thing in the world that matters. Maybe it is.

He cleaned himself up once he got to the hospital and had been forced away from Peter, but the knees of his jeans are stained rust brown and there are streaks of blood on his t-shirt. Pepper had blanched when she’s seen him, but Tony hadn’t managed to force out any words of comfort.

May bursts into the waiting room eventually, looking frantic. Pepper goes to talk with her. Tony’s sitting with his head in his hands, but when they both come over, May reaches out and tugs his right hand into hers. Tony squeezes his eyes shut. She isn’t just offering comfort, she’s checking his mark. It’s the only source of news they’ll have until Peter’s surgery is done.

After a long moment, Tony looks up and meets May’s gaze. Her eyes are red, but she looks stalwartly back at him. On her neck, just above her collarbone, is her own soulmark, Benjamin Parker written in a cramped, messy hand. The letters are white now, like a scar. Like spider webs.

Tony decides then and there that he would rather cut his own hand off than have to face the reminder of losing the most important person in his life every single day.

For so long, Tony had thought he didn’t have a soulmate. If it wasn’t Pepper—or, heck, even Rhodey—it wasn’t anyone. And then the Accords fiasco had happened and he’d found himself sitting in a teenager’s room, clapping him on the shoulder and asking if he’d ever been to Germany.

Soulmarks appeared the first time you touched each other. Tony had felt the burning under the skin of his wrist and done his best to ignore it, grateful his jacket sleeve covered the skin. As soon as he’d left, however, he’d yanked up the fabric to see Peter Parker curving around his wrist like a bracelet in childish handwriting.

He didn’t tell anyone for months. In fact, he did his best to pretend it hadn’t happened. How do you casually say, “Hey, I met my soulmate that I didn’t think I had and, by the way, it’s a fourteen-year-old boy that I made fight Captain America?”

Pepper had been the first person to find out, after they got back together. Tony had tried to brush it off, but she had taken his face in her hands and looked at him for a long time before saying, “I don’t think the universe gets these kinds of things wrong, Tony.”

He’d disagreed, then. In fact, it had taken Peter almost dying (again) for him to wake up. He’d been standing in sickened horror as medics had cut away the Spider-Man suit so they could stitch up a gushing knife wound. And there on his chest, in the exact same place the arc reactor scar was on Tony, was Anthony Stark in blazing red.

It’d been a lot harder to deny after that. He’d sat Peter down and had a very short, awkward, and probably insufficient talk with him about it and somewhere between then and now, Tony realized that the universe had known exactly what it was doing when it decided that Peter Parker and Tony Stark were meant for each other.

Peter is... Peter is everything. He’s his lab partner, his best friend, his hero, his son all in one. He makes Tony more himself than he had ever been, than he had known how to be. He learned that he liked waking up early to dumb texts about people on the subway, he learned he preferred home cooked meals to ordering out, he learned that he liked to teach. He learned a new definition for ‘home,’ and it’s almost entirely centered on Peter’s laugh and the way his eyes look in late afternoon sunlight.

What he wouldn’t give to be there right now, he thinks. If he could click his heels three times and go home, he would be curled up with Peter’s head on his shoulder and Pepper’s feet in his lap and a single blanket draped over all three of them.

As it is, all he can do is stare at his wrist and pray for that familiar royal blue, that beautiful blue, to grow stronger.

It gets paler instead. The blue creeps away from the edges, fading and fading until it is suddenly, brutally gone.

May’s hand is crushingly tight around his.

“No,” Tony breathes, and it’s the only thing he can do, the only word he can think. No. No, no, no nononono.

It hurts. It aches all the way down to his bones and the stabbing, burning pain emanating from his wrist straight to his heart is so sharp Tony cries out.

The blue jolts back and disappears, leaving nothing but thin, gossamer script. It looks so much like spider webs Tony would laugh if he could manage it around the piercing, ripping agony.

He has never thought too much about soulmates, but now he wonders how literal that word is. Are they one spirit in two bodies? Is Tony’s soul, right now, being shredded, torn asunder? It feels like it.

The words light up blue again, flicker, and die.  

Tony’s going to vomit.

They’re shocking his kid. His Peter. Trying to restart his heart. Trying to bring him back to life.

The blue fizzes back into existence and this time, this time, it stays that way.

May sobs in relief next to him, unclenching her fingers from around Tony’s so she can lift it to her face and cry.

Pepper, kneeling next to him unnoticed for the last two minutes, yanks Tony up and guides him to a garbage can just in time for Tony to make good on his promise and cough up bile.

A nurse comes and checks on him after that, but Tony ignores her, barely registering her murmur of, “His soulmate? Oh, that can cause very visceral reactions,” as if there was something quantifiable, something normal about having your world balanced on the precipice of complete and utter destruction.

It takes them four hours to finish Peter’s surgery, another hour before he’s in a room. They almost stop Tony from going in, spouting that “family only” line Tony has heard so many times, but Tony’s at the end of his rope, so he just shoves his wrist in the RN’s face, who nods and bashfully steps aside.

Tony collapses in the chair by Peter’s bed, feeling like he’d just run up Mount Everest. He reaches up and takes Peter’s hand. The name around his wrist is a dark, stunning blue. For the first time all night, Tony can breathe.

When Peter wakes up, Tony’s at his side.

“Hey, kiddo,” Tony whispers as Peter scrunches his eyes closed, his nose wrinkling up.

“Tony,” Peter slurs, turning his head toward the sound.

“Right here.” He stands and puts his hand on the center of Peter’s chest, right over his soulmark.   

Peter hums, smiling dopily, his eyes still closed. “’Is you.”

Peter’s hand comes up and wraps around Tony’s wrist, his fingers covering his own name on Tony’s skin. As always, a small rush of warmth accompanies the touch.

Tony laughs lightly. “You could see that if you opened your eyes, buddy.”

Peter makes an unhappy noise, but slowly opens his eyes.

“Hi,” he says.

Tony snorts. “Hey, kid. Good to see those eyes open.”

Peter grimaces. He looks around the room, frowning.

“How’d you know?” He asks suddenly, sounding slightly more lucid. “I... the suit was damaged. I passed out before I could call.”

Sighing, Tony sits on the edge of Peter’s bed. He gently adjusts Peter’s grip on his arm so that his mark is showing.

“Luckily, I have a very reliable alarm bell, right here.”

“Oh.” Peter runs his thumb over name again. “It was that bad?”

Tony’s stomach clenches, remember the feeling of desolation as he’d sat in the waiting room, watching as Peter flatlined.

“It was pretty bad,” Tony agrees. “In fact, I uh, had to blow our cover a bit. They wouldn’t let me in until I showed them my wrist.”

It is, technically, a secret. If Tony’s going out, he always wears a watch or suit jacket to cover the mark, knowing a single paparazzi shot is all it would take to change Peter’s life forever.

Peter bites his lip. “Think it’ll be a problem?” he asks, his voice small.

“Nah,” Tony says, leaning forward so he can brush Peter’s hair off his forehead. “Plenty of parents have their kid as their soulmate.”

Peter smiles, that smile that means home to Tony more than any building or city. “Yeah,” he agrees. “Nothing new.”    

Chapter Text

“Come on, Mags,” Tony calls, tugging on his coat.

She trots over, ready and waiting. This is their routine now. Tony calls her over and walks her, then they have dinner, Maggie sitting next to Tony’s chair at the table, and then at night she curls up at the foot of his bed.

The air is chilly, the dirt below her paws squishy and pungent from the rain that afternoon. The lake is still and Tony takes a deep breath as they start on their familiar path.

It’s quiet. Not just the evening, the animals having retreated to their homes to avoid the wet, but life. Life without Peter.

When they reach the headstone under the tree, Maggie brushes her nose against the cold granite, disturbing the small leaves clinging to it. She lays at the base of it and sighs. Tony echoes the sound as he settles on the wooden bench. He leans his knees on his elbows and watches her, his eyes dark and distant.

Tony breaks the routine and the quiet.

“I don’t know how to live without him.”

Maggie doesn’t know either. They are living with his ghost, both of them. Every room is haunted. Tony still steps around the kitchen counter as if to avoid running into Peter making his toast. Maggie waits at the door for him. Their entire life now is dedicated to his memory.

After a long time, Tony stands. He presses a kiss to his fingertips and brushes them across the name on the stone. They go back home.

Tony hadn’t really been her man before, just like she hadn’t really been Tony’s dog. They’d both been Peter’s. But now, with no one else, they are each others. It’s what Peter would have wanted, anyway.

She sleeps on the floor outside his lab while he works. She’s always done this. She just used to wait for both of them.

Tony nearly trips over her one night. His eyes are frantic, his breath fast. He smells acrid like adrenaline. Maggie is up instantly, her ears pulled back against her head. Tony looks at her for a second and then sprints up the stairs, Maggie following right behind, confused and alarmed.

When Tony goes to leave, she goes to follow.

“Stay, girl,” he says, then disappears.

When he comes back, there are people with him. Half excited, half bitter, they are all loud and chaotic, and the second Maggie sees them she places herself at Tony’s feet and growls, hackles raised.

One man looks down at her, a sad smile on his face. “You must be Maggie,” he says. She growls again.

The people stay, for a long time. Tony is busy now, almost energetic. Maggie is confused. She doesn’t see him as much anymore. He misses their walk, sometimes.

One day, Tony goes down the hall to Peter’s room. Maggie follows, uncertain. It’s been a while since they’d been in there. The last time had been Peter’s birthday, when they’d both slept in his bed. The sheets had already smelled like dust and disuse, rather than Peter.

Maggie sneezes when the door opens. Dust is on everything, swirling in the air.

Tony exhales heavily, holding onto the doorframe. Then he steps forward and begins peeling Peter’s covers off his bed.

Maggie growls, jumping onto the mattress and stopping Tony. Tony looks up at her and smiles. Maggie stops growling. It’s been a long time since she’s seen that smile.

“I’m not letting my kid sleep on dusty sheets, Mags,” he says. “We’ve got to get this place cleaned up.”  

She doesn’t understand.

Tony kneels down next to her one day. The Others are scrambling around him, serious and quiet. Maggie looks at them, looks at Tony. At her owner. Her man. The only person she has left.

“I have to go,” he says.

“I’ll be back soon.”

Soon.

Just like Peter.

Maggie hates that word.

She growls, low in her throat, her hackles raised.

“It’s ok,” Tony promises, stroking her fur. “It’s ok.”

He stands. He’s leaving.

Maggie barks. Everyone ignores her. She barks again and again, racing after them, nipping at heels and fingers, howling, snarling, begging. Tony is leaving, he’s leaving her, and he isn’t going to come back, just like Peter didn’t.

She’s going to be left alone, curled on the foot of Tony’s bed trying to find his scent under the dust.

The door closes, the house is empty. Maggie, shivering and aching, lays at the threshold and whines.

That huge black bird descends onto the grass again.

Maggie pads slowly out the door, her ears back. She settles down on her haunches and watches, her fur standing on end.

The door opens. She recognizes some of the people that walk out, but doesn’t go out to greet them. There are more than there were. She doesn’t care. She just wants Tony back. She lays her head on her paws.

Tony appears and Maggie shoots to her feet, loping forward. He looks over his shoulder and pauses for a second, as if waiting for something. Maggie doesn’t really pay attention, simply eager to be reunited with her owner.

Someone comes and stands next to Tony, so close their shoulders bump. Maggie looks up and stops.

It’s Peter. Or, it looks like Peter. Exactly as she remembers him, with his hair curling around his ears and a small smile curving up one half of his face.

But it can’t be Peter, because Tony had said Peter was dead, that he wasn’t coming home. And Tony wouldn’t lie to her.

Tony and the person walk forward and Maggie anxiously steps backward, growls tearing from her throat as they approach. She doesn’t trust this person, she doesn’t want Tony next to them. She’s about to charge forward, teeth and claws bared, when the wind shifts.

And she catches the stranger’s scent.

Peter.

It’s him. It has to be him. She could never forget his scent.

She doesn’t know how it’s possible, because Tony said he wasn’t coming home ever and she thought she knew what ever meant, but maybe not because here Peter is, walking towards her with Tony’s arm around him.

She runs. Lungs heaving, legs pounding, faster than she’s ever run in her life and there’s a bark building in her throat, an exultant, triumphant shout of joy.

She leaps at Peter, bowling him over into the grass, and his laugh rings out.

Oh, his laugh. Her Peter. Her boy.

Oh, how she’s missed him.

She smears kisses across every inch of his face, yipping between each one. Peter’s hands find her favorite places behind her ears, under her jaw, scratching and stroking.

“Hey, girl. Hey, Maggie,” he says in that perfect voice, the one he uses just for her.

She yips again, buries her head against his chest. She can hear his heartbeat and whines at the sound, because she’s missed it. She’s missed him. She has never loved anyone like she loves Peter.

“Alright, come on, Mags, let the kid up for air,” Tony’s voice says. She doesn’t want to, but she obeys, turning and nipping affectionately at Tony’s hands too. She looks up at Tony and there are tears running down his cheeks. He’s beaming at them.

“I brought him home, Mags,” he says, holding Maggie’s face between his hands. “I brought him home to us.”

Maggie kisses him, too.

They all end up in Peter’s room after the celebrations have died down a bit and Peter had started to fall asleep against his dad’s shoulder. Maggie is content to never leave Peter’s side again, and Tony seems to feel the same way, judging by how he curls around his son, watches his face like it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

It’s quiet, but a different kind of quiet than it used to be. It’s peaceful, calm. Maggie feels her eyelids drooping where her head is resting on Peter’s stomach. Tony keeps pressing kisses to the side of Peter’s face, running his hand through Peter’s hair.

Maggie remembers two weeks after Peter had died. Tony had broken down and, in a fit of grief and rage, destroyed nearly everything in his own room. Maggie had found him collapsed on the floor with bloody hands, his expression blank and lifeless. They’d slept in Peter’s room that night. Tony had screamed into the pillows while Maggie pressed herself against his back, trying to sweat the pain out of him.

The difference between the two images is enough to make Maggie pick up her head and nudge Peter’s chin again, lick gently at his cheek. He scratches absently at her fur with one hand, the other wrapped around Tony’s wrist.

The room is exactly how Peter left it, down to the shoes on the floor. Tony had been careful, as he cleaned. The only difference is the little frame that used to sit on Peter’s bedside table is missing now. The one Tony had held as he cried himself to sleep the night Peter died.  

They hadn’t had a body to bury, so Maggie and Tony had gone out to the tree by the lake, where Peter liked to sit and read, and dug a hole. Tony’s hands had shaken so badly as he put the frame in that he’d dropped it, shattering the glass.

It doesn’t matter now. They can take more pictures, now that Peter’s back. Dozens and dozens, if they want.

Peter’s almost asleep now. Maggie closes her eyes, lets herself start to drift off too, since Peter is here and Tony is here and they’re both safe.

“Love you, Mags,” Peter mutters, his words blurring together.

She licks his hand, sighs happily as she settles against him.

“Love you, Tony.”

“I love you, Peter,” Tony whispers back. “I love you. I love you.”

The sheets smell like Peter again.

They sleep.

Chapter Text

The school halls were empty and quiet, echoing Tony’s footsteps back to him. The principal hadn’t been very clear about why he’d wanted Tony to come to an after school meeting, but Tony figured it was about the same thing he’d noticed himself: Peter had been... weird lately. Quiet, forgetful, twitchy. Tony was worried, and the fact that his son was acting so strangely the school felt the need to call him in for a meeting made his fears skyrocket.

He opened the door to the front office, closing it quietly behind him before looking up. Peter was there, along with another older boy.

“Hey, kid,” Tony said, stepping closer. “What—”

His voice died. His heart beat so hard in his throat he couldn’t speak around it.

The other kid, a mere teenager, with messy blond hair and pale blue eyes and baby fat still on his cheeks, was holding a gun to his son’s head.

“What?” Tony breathed. “Pete—”

His hand went instinctively to his wrist, ready to summon a suit, to sound the alarm, anything.

The gun knocked against Peter’s temple as the kid adjusted his aim.

“Uh-uh,” he said. “Hands up.”

Peter was looking at him, dark eyes fixed like he was waiting for Tony to save him. His little boy. He was only fourteen.

“Ok,” Tony said, holding his hands above his head. “Ok.”

“Dad—” Peter started.

“Shut up,” the kid snapped. “Or I shoot him instead.”

“It’s ok, Pete,” Tony soothed. “We’ll just do what he says and we’ll both be fine, ok?”

“Think so?” The boy muttered darkly and Tony’s heart skipped a beat. The kid walked forward, snatching at Tony’s wrist, the one with his watch on it. The gun was still pointed at Peter. Tony tried to size him up, make a plan, something, but he couldn’t seem to take his eyes off his son’s pale face.

The watch clicked off and the kid tossed it in a corner, where it fell behind a filing cabinet.

“Alright, see, no cavalry coming, it’s just us here,” Tony soothed. “Why don’t we talk this out?”

The kid snarled, looking back at Peter. “Does he ever shut up?”

Peter’s lips pursed. “Adam,” he said, his voice shockingly steady. “He’s cooperating, you don’t need to hurt him.”

Tony bit back his instinctual disputation, his almost innate need to say that he didn’t care what happened to him, shoot him, just leave his son alone.

“Oh, I won’t,” Adam said. Tony’s stomach didn’t even have time to drop in terror before a shot rang out.

Peter fell back, hitting one of the wooden chairs against the wall.

“Peter!” Tony screamed, already stepping forward, desperate to get to his kid. Blood was staining the front of Peter’s shirt, his breathing was loud and ragged. He’d barely even made a noise of pain, and Tony had a feeling he hadn’t really registered that he’d been shot yet.

Adam turned the gun toward Tony.

“No,” Peter gasped, trying to right himself.

“Shut up, Stark,” Adam barked, and Tony wasn’t really sure which one of them he was talking to.

“Adam,” he tried.

“Shut up!” Adam rounded on him. “Sit, there, by the radiator.”

Tony looked back at Peter. “Just let me put pressure on it, please. You might have hit his liver, he could bleed out.”

To his surprise, Adam smiled, a sarcastic little twist of his lips. “You think so?”

“What? Adam, please, that’s my kid, if I could just—"

“You want me to shoot you too?” Adam yelled, brandishing the gun.

As much as Tony wanted to argue, to take his chance and lunge at Adam, to make him pay for shooting his kid and stopping Tony from helping him, he had to stay calm. Getting himself shot wouldn’t do Peter any good.

He took a shaky breath, then held up his hands and sat on the floor, his back against the radiator. Adam came over with a pair of handcuffs and twisted Tony’s arms over his head, cuffing them behind him in a position that made his shoulders scream in protest.

Peter coughed and Tony’s attention swiveled back to him. They made eye contact and Peter smiled, forced and hollow. There was blood on his lips.

“I’m ok, Dad. It doesn’t even hurt.”

Tony’s heart broke. He strained against the handcuffs, aching to pull Peter towards him, to tend to his wound, to shield him with his own body from the madman holding them hostage.

His voice shook as he spoke, the words thick with fear. “That’s the adrenaline, baby.”

Adam looked between them. “He really has no idea, does he?”

“Adam, come on, this is about me,” Peter said. His voice crackled and caught on the blood in his throat. Maybe the bullet hadn’t hit his liver, maybe it had hit his lung. His kid might be drowning in his own blood right now and for some reason, he was worried about Tony. “Let him go.”

“Not yet,” Adam hissed, pacing away again to peer out the window, probably looking for cop cars. Tony spared half a thought to where the principal was, where the secretaries were. He craned his neck and was able to peer through a crack in the door to the Morita’s office, saw a limp hand. Praying he was just unconscious, Tony turned away.

Tony swallowed, made eye contact with Peter. He was pale, sweat beading on his forehead.

Tony had to do something.

I love you, he thought, looking at Peter with as much affection on his face as he could muster. Peter’s mouth twitched, like he got the message. Tony smiled back, then mouthed, as clearly as possible, RUN. Peter’s eyes went wide, but Tony was already turning away.

“So, Adam, what’s the next step here, kid?”

Adam whirled on him, gun taking quivering aim at Tony’s head.

“I mean, you’ve done really well so far, and I mean that. Not many people can get a hold of Iron Man, but you did it, you’ve got me. I’m not moving. So what’s the objective, man, what’s the goal? I don’t think I’m here just to look pretty.”

Tony honestly wasn’t sure what was coming out of his mouth at the moment, he was just putting his entire focus into not looking at Peter, who was slowly standing from the floor.

Adam glared at him for a moment, hesitating. Then he finally sighed. “You weren’t supposed to be here at all.”

Tony’s brain froze. Peter, in his peripheral, flinched.

“Come again? You’re holding a billionaire superhero hostage on... accident?” Tony asked, blinking.

“I didn’t realize Morita had already called you,” Adam confessed, fiddling with the strings on his hoodie with the hand that wasn’t holding the gun. It was such a childish gesture, one Tony had seen his own son do dozens of times when he was stressed.

“You... you just wanted my kid?” Tony’s voice was low, terrified. He couldn’t think. He couldn’t breathe.

In the corner, Peter was trying to creep into the nurse’s office, presumably to slip out the window. The hand he had pressed over the bullet hole was covered in blood.

“I wanted Spider-Man,” Adam sneered, a small smile curving up the side of his mouth. He glanced over his shoulder to where Peter had been a moment ago, and then let out a snarling yell as he realized Peter wasn’t there.

“No!” Tony gasped.

Adam spun, spotted Peter, and fired.

Peter did scream this time, collapsing to the ground. Tony jerked against his handcuffs, tearing the skin at his wrists and barely registering it as blood soaked into his sleeves.

“Oh, my gosh,” Tony panted, his eyes full of tears. “Oh, my gosh. It’s ok, baby. It’s ok, it’s ok—”

“Dad,” Peter moaned, clutching his thigh, blood pouring over his hands and staining the carpet below him. “Da-dad.”

“I know, love, I’m coming, ok? I’m coming, baby, just—” He turned to Adam, tears dripping off his chin. “Please, he could die. Please, please, just let me—”

“No, Dad, it’s ok, I’m ok—”

Tony twisted, jerking at his cuffs, trying to break free, trying to find an angle where he could dislocate his thumb and slip out of them, anything, anything to save his kid.

“Stop moving!” Adam roared over both of them. “Or the next one goes in his head!”

Tony stopped, his chest heaving.

 He sucked in a breath, grasped at all his scattered wits, his utterly shattered calm.

“Please, just let him go. I can get you money, a new life, anything you want,” Tony begged.

Adam stalked forward, gesturing at Tony emphatically with the gun. “I want you,” he hissed, “to shut up.”

Tony swallowed, looking over to where Peter was trying to sit up against a filing cabinet.

“Ok,” Tony panted. “Ok.”

Adam nodded, his own breathing a little fast. His eyes kept cutting toward the window.

“Now, we’re all going to sit here and be quiet and wait for my boss to come pick up the little insect.”

Peter’s eyes darted up to Adam in alarm. Then he glanced sideways to Tony, his expression unreadable.

Tony had no idea what was going on. His normal intelligence seemed to have flown out the window with Peter’s safety, and now he was scrambling to connect the dots.

Adam had said he wanted Spider-Man.

He hadn’t wanted Tony there.

A cell phone ringing made all three of them jump.

Adam fished his phone out of his pocket, glaring at each of them in turn before wandering a few feet away, listening intently.

“Peter, baby, how’re you doing?” Tony asked quietly.

“Shh,” Peter said, his eyes closed. “I’m trying to listen.”

Tony blinked. He strained his own ears but couldn’t even hear the voice on the other end let alone make out what it was saying.

Peter apparently could though. He swore quietly. Tony looked between the two teenagers, his heart beat ratcheting up again when Peter started to move.

“Kid, don’t—”

Peter put his palm on the wall and levered himself up. The way his face crumpled in agony made pain shoot through Tony like a knife. Once Peter was standing, he put both hands against the wall like he was bracing himself, only standing on his good leg.

And then he lifted himself off the ground. Tony’s heart stopped. Peter placed the toe of his one good foot against the wall and lifted himself further, climbing until he reached the ceiling where he positioned himself, tucked away in the corner furthest from the lights.

Tony just stared at him, his mouth gaping.

Peter, after making sure he was secure, lifted his head and met Tony’s gaze. His eyes were apologetic, his face still terribly pale.

A drop of blood fell and splashed on the floor.

Adam turned, hanging up the phone with a muttered curse. He glanced at Tony first, who had quickly shut his mouth, and then to where Peter had been.

“Where—” Adam was cut off as Peter sprang into action, swinging down from his crouch and kicking Adam in the face with his good leg.

Adam immediately crumpled, his nose gushing blood and his eyes rolling up in his head.

Peter let go of the ceiling and flipped down, landing in a crouch then hissing at the wound in his thigh.

He scrambled over to Tony, grabbed the handcuffs and pulled, instantly breaking them.

“Three more guys are coming,” Peter said quickly, not meeting Tony’s eyes. He crossed to his backpack, abandoned in the corner of the office, and pulled out two bulky pieces of metal and plastic, which he fastened on both wrists.

“You need your gauntlet,” he muttered, almost to himself. Tony was still sitting in shock on the floor.

Peter limped toward the corner where Adam had thrown his watch earlier, lifting the filing cabinet with one hand and fishing it out before tossing it to Tony. Tony caught it by habit, numbly fastening it around his wrist.

Finally, finally, Peter paused, looking up at him from under his lashes. His hair was a mess, the haphazard curls a little stiff with sweat, and his favorite Midtown sweatshirt was dyed crimson from blood, along with one leg of Peter’s jeans. The kid was swaying slightly.

They stared at each other for a moment. “...Well?” Peter finally asked.

Tony pushed himself to his feet. “Pete...”

Metal doors slammed and loud voices echoed in the hall. Peter jumped, then winced, and Tony, finally with it enough to act, stepped in front of him, activating his gauntlet.

Peter made to climb the wall again, but Tony drew in a sharp breath and he looked over his shoulder.

“Dad. I can help.”

“You’re hurt,” Tony argued. “And...”

“And what?” Peter asked. The footsteps were getting closer.

Tony opened his mouth. And I don’t know what you are, he thought. But he wouldn’t say that to his kid. It would break his heart.

“Just be careful.”

The men barged into the room and were instantly met with the combined strength of Iron Man and Spider-Man. It was over in no more than a minute.

They both stood, panting and staring at each other for a minute, and then Peter was flinging himself at his dad. Tony instantly opened his arms, pulling his son close to his chest and sinking to the ground.

They were talking over each other, Tony grappling to get a look at Peter’s injuries while Peter tried to bat his hands away.

“I’m sorry, Dad, I didn’t know how to tell you, I hated lying to you, I swear, but I have to do this,” Peter was stammering, hissing between words as he tried to shift all the weight off his leg.

Tony shook his head, barely even hearing Peter. “How are you even conscious right now, kid? You’ve lost so much blood, we-we’ve got to get you to a hospital, I need to call an-an ambulance—” Tony tugged Peter’s shirt up, expecting to find a gaping wound still oozing blood, but instead seeing what looked like a week old injury.

Peter finally stopped talking. Tony swallowed, then turned to his leg, tearing at the denim enough to see that the leg wound, while still open, was barely bleeding at all.

There was silence for a breath.

“Dad?”

Tony put a steadying hand on Peter’s knee. “Oh, thank heavens,” he breathed. “Oh, my gosh, thank you.” He felt weak, suddenly, shaking all over as pure relief flooded him. With trembling hands, he reached out and yanked Peter into his arms.

“Dad?” Peter asked again, his warm breath fanning across Tony’s neck. Warm. Alive. “Are... are you ok?”

“Oh, my baby,” Tony whispered, burying his hand in Peter’s hair. “I thought you were going to die. I thought... I have never been so scared in my life.”

“I’m sorry,” Peter muttered, blood-sticky hands clutching at Tony’s dress shirt.

“No, don’t... Just...” He pressed his lips to Peter’s temple and stayed there, breathing his boy in.

“You’re not... not mad?” Peter asked, hesitant, his muscles tense.

Honestly, Tony couldn’t even think about the fact that his son was now, suddenly, a super-powered vigilante risking his life fighting crime and Tony hadn’t even noticed. He was still in too much shock to be mad.

“No. I don’t care. Well, I do care. I’m going to care a lot once you’ve been given the all clear by the doctor, but right now I just... I love you, Peter. I love you and right now I’m too relieved to be mad.”

Peter slumped against him, relieved. “Love you too, Dad.”

“Ok, Spider-Kid, let’s get out of here. The cops are on their way and I don’t want to be there to meet them. Not to mention Doctor Cho’s got a bullet to dig out of you,” Tony said, pressing a quick kiss to Peter’s head and then starting to heave himself up, helping Peter stand.

“Eh, it’ll be better than digging it out myself,” Peter said shrugging. Tony’s heart constricted.

“Which you’ve never done, right?”

Peter scooped up his bag to avoid eye contact. “Of course not, it was a hypothetical example.”

“Uh-huh,” Tony said, slinging an arm over Peter’s shoulders and pulling him close into his side as they limped along. “And the call I got from Principal Morita about you ditching class was totally hypothetical too, right?”

Peter chuckled, a high, nervous sound. “Of course.”

“Oh, buddy, you’re going to be so grounded when I come down from this adrenaline high.”

Peter smiled, pressed himself closer to his dad. “Yeah, that’s fair.”

Chapter Text

Tony’s knuckles were white against the dark leather of his steering wheel. It was a miracle he hadn’t been drunk when the call had come in: Mary wasn’t supposed to deliver for another three weeks and Tony kept convincing himself that he had time to kick the habit.

It was 5 AM and there were more cars on the road than he would have expected. Early birds trying to beat the morning traffic, he supposed, but he didn’t know. So much of the world was foreign to him, really, so much of the minutiae of normal life, the wonderfully mundane existence that so many people lived, that revolved around work and family and once a month nights out with their friends that always went late cause they were too busy catching up to notice the time.

Tony didn’t get that. He didn’t understand laundry day or stopping in the grocery store to chat with someone you haven’t seen in a while or the laughter filled chaos of getting a kid bathed and put to bed on time.

He would now, if he did this right. If he managed not to screw things up for the first time in his life, he could get a taste of it, that long unattainable balm of normality. If he did this right, he could hold happiness in his arms.

They were going to call him Peter, Mary had told him.

He turned into the hospital parking lot, following the signs to the maternity ward.

He hadn’t even thought to bring a car they could put a car seat in. His first act as a father and he’d already messed up.

Happy had to go buy a five-seater sedan and drive it from the lot to the hospital. He’d even picked green, just to spite Tony. He hated green cars.

Peter was sleepy and grumbly as Tony struggled with the fasteners. The final click of the seat belt felt absurdly monumental for such a tiny thing. After this Tony would be climbing into the driver’s seat of a practical, family car, and he would drive his son home, and he would be a dad.

People told him he would learn as he went. That it came naturally, that soon enough he’d be changing diapers and preparing bottles like he’d been doing it all his life. Tony was a fast learner, but he wondered if there were things he could never learn. Maybe he’d learn to change the kid’s diaper, but never quite understand how to lull him to sleep. He could put him to bed on time, but what if he never stayed to read him a story? Can you learn tenderness from a book?

Tony tossed the keys to the Audi to Happy and climbed into the new car, the smell of the faux-leather seats unfamiliar but pleasant enough. He adjusted the rearview mirror until he could see Peter doubly reflected at him from the mirror on the headrest. The kid’s eyes were barely open, the dark tuft of hair on his head covered by the hat the nurse had put on.

“Alright, Petey,” Tony said, and Peter stirred just enough for Tony to know that he heard him.

Tony took a breath and put the car into drive.

“Here we go.”

“Hurry, hurry, hurry,” Peter chanted, already tugging at the straps of his booster seat, kicking his little sneakers against the leather upholstery.

“Calm down, kiddo, they’re not going to start without you,” Tony said, forcing a smile as he leaned into the backseat and undid the buckles, letting Peter slip off the seat and out of the car. He forgot his tiny little backpack—equipped with nothing but a box of crayons and Peter’s favorite stuffed animal—in his rush, so Tony grabbed it before slamming the door closed, the small dent in the green paint catching the light.

Peter’s face was only slightly apprehensive as Tony crouched down in front of him, helping him shrug the backpack on.

“Ok, buddy,” Tony murmured, his mouth dry. “You excited?”

Peter nodded eagerly. The kid was already a genius, who loved reading and exploring and learning and Tony knew that he’d be fine, he really, really did. But he couldn’t quit convince his heart of that.

“It’s going to be fun, huh? I’m jealous,” Tony teased.

Peter furrowed his eyebrows, his big eyes narrowing.

“But you already know how to read, Daddy,” Peter pointed out. “And count and things.”

Tony smiled again, more naturally this time.

“That’s true. I guess that means I don’t need to come after all.”

“I don’t think the chairs are big enough for you anyway,” Peter giggled. Tony’s heart broke, just a little bit.

“I love you, baby.”

“Love you, Daddy!” Peter chirped, leaning forward for his habitual kiss, which Tony happily gave, plus a few extras.

“I’ll see you later. Stay with the teacher until I come get you, ok?”

“Uh-huh,” Peter agreed, then turned and trotted over to the waiting line of students and teachers, his little feet still slightly pigeon-toed and his hair sticking up in the back.

Tony stood and leaned against the car until Peter was inside, then climbed in and sat for a long, long time.

The sling made it hard to buckle Peter’s booster seat, but he waved away Pepper’s hands and did it himself anyway.

As he sat back, he let his good hand drift up to Peter’s face, cupping his son’s round, tear-stained cheek and wiping away the sticky salt tracks.

Peter watched him like he never wanted to look away, like he was afraid Tony would disappear if he blinked. Tony hated himself for making Peter afraid of anything, hated the three months of separation they had endured with a hot, sparking anger that only mellowed slightly when he met Peter’s gaze.

“I grew an inch and a half, Daddy,” Peter whispered, leaning over as much as he could in his seat and pressing his cheek against Tony’s arm.

Tony shifted closer, too, taking his boy’s little hand in his own calloused one. Was it bigger, or was he imagining it? Three months in the life of a six-year-old was so much. He’d missed four percent of his son’s life, four percent of his laughs and tears and questions and breaths. Someone had made him miss them: had trapped him in a dank cave and tortured him and threatened to make him miss his son’s entire life, make him miss seeing his boy grow up. It was unforgivable.

Tony cleared his throat and shook away thoughts of missiles and metal suits.

“Really? You’ll be taller than me, soon, kiddo.”

Peter hummed happily at that, pleased at the idea. “And I lost a tooth and Pepper gave me a dollar and pretended it was from the tooth fairy.”

Tony looked up and met Pepper’s eyes across the backseat. She was watching them, subtly sniffing and wiping at stray tears, but she huffed a small laugh at Peter’s confession, rolling her eyes.

“Did she now?” Tony asked, smirking at her. Her returning smile was too soft and grateful and happy. Tony swallowed and looked away.

“Daddy,” Peter murmured again, his voice wobbly. “I thought you were going to miss my birthday.”

Peter turned seven in four days. When Rhodey had told him the date Tony had nearly broken down sobbing, either in joy or grief he wasn’t sure.

Tony leaned down and pressed a hard kiss to Peter’s head.

“Nothing in the world could make me miss your birthday, Peter.” Tony promised, his voice hoarse.

Peter’s bottom lip trembled. “I was going to wish for you to come home when I blew out my candles.”

“Yeah?” Tony asked again, fighting the tears burning behind his eyes. “I wished for that, too. Every night.”

Peter lightly kicked the back of the driver seat, his light up sneaker glowing blue as he did. Peter smiled at it, his little hand still wrapped in his dad’s.

“Guess it worked, then.”

“We’ll get you feeling better, ok, buddy?” Tony said, trying to keep the panic out of his voice as his son slumped listlessly in the passenger seat. Tony had had to do up his seat belt for him like he was still a toddler.

Peter had had a headache, he said, when he came back from the field trip to Oscorp. He’d gone to take a nap, but when Tony had woken him up for dinner, his fever was 103 and his words were slurring together. He could barely stand let alone walk in a straight line.

Tony chose his fastest car in an effort to get to the ER sooner, but the traffic was terrible at this time of day and he spent most of his time sitting at red lights, his fingers anxiously tapping against the steering wheel as he watched Peter growing steadily paler in the front seat.

He should have called an ambulance. Heck, he should have flown in the suit. They would be there by now, Peter would already be getting treated.

“Hey, kiddo, talk to me,” Tony softly pleaded, reaching out to brush Peter’s sweaty bangs off his forehead.

“Dad,” Peter panted, his eyes screwed shut, tears beginning to make their way down his cheeks.

“Oh, Pete,” Tony sighed, taking Peter’s hand in his own as the line of cars began creeping forward.

Peter squeezed back with a strength Tony didn’t know he possessed, making the bones in Tony’s fingers ache. And then his hand went completely limp in Tony’s, his head lolling until it hit the window with a thud.

Tony’s stomach dropped, his heart leaping toward his throat.

“Peter?” Tony asked breathlessly, taking his attention completely off the crawling traffic in front of him and turning towards his kid. He jammed two fingers against Peter’s throat, feeling his pulse racing under his skin. His skin was burning hot and slick with sweat.

“Pete, wake up,” Tony ordered, tapping his cheek with one hand and raising his chin with the other. Peter’s eyes were moving rapidly behind his eyelids like he was having a bad dream, but he didn’t respond.

“Come on, wake up.” His voice broke. He shook Peter lightly, in one last effort to rouse him.

Peter’s chest was rising and falling rapidly, each breath shallow and fruitless.

“Ok. Get a grip, Stark,” Tony told himself, the car jerking forward as he finally pressed on the gas. They were four blocks away from the hospital. He only had to make it four blocks.

“Ok, it’s going to be fine, buddy, you’re going to be just fine,” Tony rambled to his unconscious son. “I don’t know what’s wrong with you, but the doctors are going to figure it out and fix you up, just like always.”

They’d had more than one panicked drive to the emergency room throughout Peter’s fourteen years. He’d been only two when he’d had his first asthma attack, Tony holding him as he ran into the lobby with tears streaming down his cheeks as his baby boy fought for every breath, his lips nearly blue. There had been several times since, when Tony would drive with once hand clenched around the wheel to hide its shaking while he rubbed the other along Peter’s knobby spine, coaching him to breathe in and out slowly, baby, go slow. It’s ok, Daddy’s got you.     

Tony took the turn into the parking lot too sharply, making the tires squeal and the car jolt. Peter’s head hit the window again, the seat belt biting into his neck where it was supporting his boneless weight.

“Sorry,” Tony gasped as he sped toward the bright lights of the ER. He swerved toward the doors, pulling to a stop right in front of them, turning it off and yanking the keys out on muscle memory alone. He honestly didn’t care if someone stole the thing. Now that help was so close, attainable, now that Tony could do something more than idle in a long line of traffic and chatter uselessly to himself, he needed to get Peter inside now. Every cell was aching with the need for Peter to be alright, for him to be safe and taken care of.

Tony raced around the car, yanking the passenger door open and undoing Peter’s seatbelt, letting him tumble into Tony’s arms.

The boy had long since grown out of being small enough to be carried, but Tony could care less as he shifted his arm under Peter’s knees, holding the kid close to his chest.

“It’s ok, baby,” Tony promised fervently as he straightened and rushed toward the hospital doors. “Dad’s got you.”

“Ok, all you’re going to do is ease off the brake.”

Peter cast him a nervous look, biting his lip, but he took a deep breath and did as he was told, slowly picking his foot up. The car began inching forward.

Peter slammed his foot back down, making Tony jerk against the seatbelt. He gave an unimpressed look at the anxious sixteen-year-old sitting in the front seat of the old 2001 sedan, the faux leather seats now cracking and peeling.

“I wasn’t expecting it to move,” Peter said sheepishly.

“That’s ok,” Tony assured him. “It is going to move forward even if you aren’t pushing the gas. Do it again and let it coast a bit, ok?”

Peter seemed a little more ready this time, fighting the obvious urge to brake again as the car crept forward at a few miles per hour.

“Now press very gently on the gas,” Tony instructed. The car leapt forward a bit as Peter stepped down too hard, but levelled out to a steady ten miles an hour as he adjusted.

Tony leaned his head back against the headrest, grinning over at his son.

“Not bad, Pete. A little faster, ok?”

They drove in circles on the compound driving course for another hour, practicing gradual braking and accelerating, turns and parking.

“Ok, kiddo, let’s take a little trip,” Tony decided as the sun crept toward the horizon.

Peter’s eyes flew open wide, the panic that had left him immediately rushing back.

Tony snorted, reaching over and ruffling his hair. “On a straight, deserted road in the middle of nowhere. You can do it, I have faith in you.”

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” Peter asked, his knuckles turning white around the steering wheel.

“Hey, don’t break the wheel,” Tony chided, reaching over and loosening Peter’s enhanced grip. “If it gets sketchy, I’ll take over, ok? Now take a right out of here.”

Peter took to driving like he took to everything—once the nerves were sorted out, he was intuitive and clever and confident. Tony just sat back and watched him, the red light of the setting sun playing in his hair and eyes, the way he bit his lip every time he checked his speed. Finally, Tony told him to pull over and turn off the car.

Ignoring Peter’s question of what they were doing there, Tony got out and went to the trunk, pulling out a blanket. Then he spread it out on the hood and climbed on.

“Come on, Pete,” Tony said, holding an arm out in invitation for Peter to join him.

Peter raised an eyebrow, but clambered onto the hood as well, settling against Tony’s side.

“You know, I drove you home from the hospital in this car,” Tony said, tucking Peter’s head under his chin.

“Really?” Peter asked, sounding surprised.

Tony hummed a little. “You were three weeks early and I had no idea what I was doing. I’d driven an Audi to the hospital,” Tony snorted. “Not exactly built for driving kiddos to soccer practice. Happy had to go buy a car so that I could buckle your car seat in.”

Peter laughed. “I bet he loved that.”

The stars were starting to come out, already bright against the falling twilight. The country road they were parked on was free from streetlights or other cars, the light pollution from the city far behind them.

“And now you’re learning to drive in it,” Tony murmured, feeling a little bit of melancholy creep over him. He couldn’t believe his kid was sixteen. Not to mention a superhero, but Tony didn’t like to think about that when he was feeling emotional.

Sometimes he looked at Peter and remembered the little kid who couldn’t say his L’s until he was five, who would only take naps in the car, making Tony drive around the city in circles for hours at a time so the kid would get a proper nights sleep.

Peter glanced over at him. “You’re getting sentimental in your old age, Dad,” he said, his smirk a little too soft to be truly teasing.

Tony huffed a small laugh, shrugging. “Well, I’m entitled. It’s a milestone in a kid’s life, to learn how to drive.”

Peter looked up at the sky. “It doesn’t feel that big, compared to things that I’ve seen and done. Things we’ve done together.”  

It was true, they’d had more life-and-death situations than most fathers and sons, more scrapes and bruises and hospital visits than they could count. He’d seen his boy in a hospital bed too many times.

“It is big, anyway,” Tony reminded him. “The average things are just as important as the superhuman things. Your life can’t be... battles to save the world all the time. You need the little things to make the big things worth it.”

Peter turned his head and smiled at Tony.

“Like stargazing with my dad?” he asked.

“Like teaching my son to drive,” Tony agreed.

Peter curled a little closer to Tony, laying his head on his shoulder.

“I love you, kid,” Tony whispered, pressing a kiss to the crown of his head.

“Love you, too.”

Chapter Text

“You’re not my brother.”

Peter blinks at the little dark haired girl in front of him. He’d met Morgan a couple times, in the hospital with Tony. She’d been shy, but sweet, so this is unexpected. “Um, no, I—I’m not.”

Morgan eyes him for a moment, her eyebrows furrowed in aggravation. “Daddy calls you my brother, but you aren’t.”

“O-ok.”

Tony walks in then, his face creased in exhaustion and pain. The burns on his face pull down one side of his mouth in a perpetual frown.

But the heaviness is temporary. The second he sees Peter and Morgan his eyes light up, the frown twists up into a half-smile. He looks younger.

Peter’s heart flips in his chest at the sight, grief and gratitude in equal measure. Tony meets his eyes and his eyebrows crease like he can hear Peter’s thoughts. Tony takes a breath and opens his mouth—

“Daddy!” Morgan cries. Peter flinches as the moment is abruptly shattered.

“Hello, little miss,” Tony says, casually scooping her up into his good arm, propping her on his hip and kissing her cheek, making her giggle. “Have you been playing with Pete?”

They hadn’t been, really, but Morgan nods all the same. Tony carries her into the kitchen to begin lunch, leaving Peter alone in the living room.

Morgan roars as she brings her stuffed dragon down on the Lego castle Peter had helped her build. Peter fakes terrified screaming, making Morgan laugh.

Morgan seems to like Peter well enough when it’s just the two of them. She’ll play with him and watch movies, and on the rare occasion Tony and Pepper go out she’ll listen when he tells her it’s time for bed. But the second Tony is involved, Morgan gets fiercely protective of his attention and easily annoyed with Peter, as if he’s a babysitter who’s no longer needed once her dad’s home.

It’s not like Peter doesn’t know why Morgan doesn’t like him—she’s spent her whole life with Tony by her side every minute of every day and now suddenly Tony’s attention is divided. She’s an only child, she isn’t used to having to share. And she’s too young to know how to vocalize her jealousy to her dad. But it makes life pretty awkward for Peter. He can’t just turn down all of Tony’s invitations to visit, nor does he want to. He loves being around Tony, cherishes the time they spend together. But now, more often than not, it’s interrupted by Morgan throwing a tantrum or dragging Tony away to play with her.

Last week, Morgan had tried to follow them into the lab—where she knows she is absolutely not allowed to go—and had been so upset when she couldn’t come with that they had ended up foregoing lab time altogether and spent the afternoon having a tea party instead, with Tony and Peter sending each other baleful looks as they sipped their imaginary beverages.

It comes to a head the next weekend. It isn’t one of Peter’s scheduled visits, but the minor concussion and six inch gash up his back mean that he’s at the Stark cabin anyway, Tony having sent a suit to fish him out of a rain drenched dumpster.

“I’m fine, Mr. Stark,” Peter says for the umpteenth time as Tony vigorously dries his hair with a towel.

Tony hums in disagreement, barely listening. “’Don’t open a Med Center in Queens,’ Pepper says. ‘Peter will think you’re hovering,’ Rhodey says—”

“You are hovering,” Peter interrupts. Tony just keeps muttering.

“They aren’t the ones that have to fly to the city twice a week to drag an unconscious, bleeding, delirious Spider-kid all the way back to the freaking boonies—”

“I am neither unconscious nor delirious. And you weren’t even flying that suit, technically.”

“Stop talking and get your suit off, you need stitches,” Tony snaps. He tugs on Peter’s ear in annoyance, but the touch is so light it’s more of a caress than anything, belying the anger in his tone. He’s just worried. It would be more annoying if Peter wasn’t the exact same way.

Peter peels the suit off down to his waist, sitting at the kitchen island while Tony gets the supplies he needs. Peter can hear Tony washing his hands and when he does come and touch Peter’s back, his fingers are warm from the hot water.

Peter takes a deep breath and does his best to relax under Tony’s touch, rather than tense up in anticipation of the stitches.

“There you go, buddy,” Tony murmurs. His voice has entirely lost its edge now, his only concern making sure that Peter is well taken care of. “I’m thinking five or six stitches for this, not too bad.”

Peter snorts humorlessly, then curses as Tony pours antiseptic over the wound.

Peter keeps up a rambling narration of his day as Tony works, trying to distract himself. Tony responds between sutures as he threads the needle again.

He’s in the middle of the third stitch when Peter tenses half a second before—

“Daddy?”

It speaks to how often Tony has done this that he knows not to flinch. Instead he lets go of the needle and carefully pulls his hands away from Peter’s wound.

“What are doing up, little miss? It’s late.”

Morgan eyes Peter warily. She can’t see Peter’s back from her vantage point, but that also means Peter’s staring her straight in the face and can’t really move.

“I woke up and can’t fall back asleep without a story.”

“Go ask Mommy, baby, I have to help Peter with something,” Tony says, his voice soft. His puts a hand on Peter’s shoulder, warm and gentle, to assure him that he won’t leave him.

Morgan pouts. “But you always read me my story.”

“I know, but I can’t right now, ok? I’ll come up in a little bit to check on you,” Tony assures her again. Under other circumstances, Peter is sure Tony would round the island and pick her up and kiss her cheek to soften the blow, but his hands are almost certainly bloody right now, and he doesn’t want to scare her.

“But,” Morgan starts again, her pout growing even more pronounced as she glares at Peter.

“Morgan,” Tony interrupts, voice firm but not angry. “Peter needs me right now. Go get your mom.”

Morgan’s face screws up as tears start gathering in her eyes, loud sobs trailing behind her as she turns and flees up the stairs.

Peter grits his teeth.

“You can go,” he murmurs.

“Nope,” Tony says, his hands steady as he continues on to the next stitch. “Bleeding trumps crying.”

“What beats bleeding?”

“Dying.”

“Does that mean crying beats dying?” Peter asks, inhaling sharply as the thread was pulled tight.

“No.”

“This game doesn’t make sense.”

“Peter,” Tony warns in that dad voice that he perfected during the Snap. Peter glances back at him and sees his tight jaw, the way his brow wrinkles. He hates the thought of not being able to comfort his crying daughter as much as the thought of leaving Peter bleeding in his kitchen.

Peter wonders for the first time if this is hard for him too. Morgan isn’t used to having a sibling, and neither is Peter, but Tony has never been a parent to two living children before. And the way he loves is so devoted, so all consuming, Peter imagines that it’s hard having to prioritize needs when Tony’s instinct is to fix everything.

“You can go, Tony,” Peter says again.

Tony sighs, setting the suture tools down and looking up at Peter with a tired smile.

“She has to learn to share me sometime, Pete. Because if I have any say in the matter—and I do—you’re not going away any time soon.”

Peter avoids his eyes, feeling suddenly horribly guilty. If he was Morgan, and his brother-but-not-really came back from the dead, he isn’t sure how much he would like him either.

There’s quiet for a few more minutes as Tony finishes bandaging his back, then he rounds to the other side of the island, raising Peter’s chin with a finger.

“We’re all adjusting, Pete, but that doesn’t mean things were better before. I would rather have Morgan be a little jealous than go back to... missing you. Any day. Not even a question, kid.”

Peter nods jerkily.

Tony eyes him for another moment, then nods. “Alright, my love. Pajamas for you, I’ll clean up here.”

Peter stands, shaking his head. He wants to hoard Tony to himself, wants to ask for an episode of Star Trek to help him sleep, wants Tony to stay and stroke his hair and hum under his breath when he thinks Peter’s asleep.

But they’re all adjusting. And if Morgan has to share, so does Peter.

“Go check on Morgan,” Peter says. “I’ll clean up.”

He can tell Tony wants to argue out of principle, but his eyes dart to the stairs.

“Go on. Crying trumps cleaning,” Peter teases.

Tony’s face softens as he looks back at Peter. There’s so much gratitude and adoration on his face it makes Peter’s throat tighten with emotion.

“You’re a good brother, Peter,” Tony murmurs. He leans across the isle and pulls Peter’s head down so he can kiss his cheek.

Peter hums and leans into the touch. “Goodnight, Tony.”

“Night, kiddo,” Tony says, starting toward the stairs. “Don’t sleep on those stitches,” he calls over his shoulder.

Peter huffs, gathering together the soiled towels and medical supplies, moving around the kitchen like it’s his own home.

Morgan is in a bad mood the next morning, and her wary glances towards Peter have escalated into full on glares. Pepper and Tony both notice, having a silent conversation over the breakfast table that Peter can’t really understand. They spend the rest of the morning quietly putting together puzzles and coloring, but it doesn’t stop Morgan from breaking down crying no less than three times.

Finally, after lunch, Pepper takes her upstairs for a nap, whispering to Peter, “I’m so sorry, she must be tired,” as she does.

She is a bit more pleasant when she comes back, still rubbing sleep from her eyes. She even lets Peter help her build a tower out of Legos while Pepper and Tony make dinner.

It isn’t until they settle down for a movie together that Morgan’s temper really comes out.

Peter automatically gravitates to sit next to Tony, looking forward to curling into his side and dozing on his shoulder. Morgan, who’s already sitting on Pepper’s lap, frowns and crawls over Tony to take the available spot.

Peter stops short and blinks while Tony snorts. “Alright, little monkey, calm down,” he says, tugging on Morgan’s pigtail. She smiles up at him innocently.

Pepper shakes her head at her daughters antics, then holds out her arms to Peter. “Come cuddle with me, Peter, since Morgan doesn’t want to.”

Peter smiles and plops down between her and Tony and is instantly enveloped in a one armed hug from both sides. Tony’s hand lands in his hair while Pepper tugs him against her shoulder. He sighs contentedly, closing his eyes and savoring the feeling of family that surrounds him—

“No!”

Peter’s eyes fly open, jerking upright as he sees Morgan pushing herself away from her dad and standing on the couch, glowering down at Peter.

“You have your own parents,” Morgan snaps at him. “Just because they’re gone doesn’t mean you can steal mine!”

Peter’s jaw literally drops, more out of surprise than anything, but instantly a pang of hurt and grief echoes through his chest, making his breath come short. In the same second, Tony sits upright and Pepper gasps Morgan’s name.

“Morgan H. Stark, apologize to your brother,” Tony says, his voice serious and low.

“He’s not my brother!” Morgan yells, stomping her foot on the couch cushion.

Tony shoots to his feet, grabbing Morgan around the waist and hoisting her up against his shoulder.

Morgan screams, so high pitched it makes Peter’s ears fuzz out for a second. He can see Tony’s jaw twitch, but he doesn’t put her down. Peter knows that he isn’t hurting her—Tony would never, ever hurt his kids. Even in dire situations Tony is gentle with Peter and he’s certain that carries through to his daughter. But Morgan keeps screaming, tears pouring down her cheeks as Tony carries her toward the stairs.

Pepper watches looking torn, like she wants to follow, but instead she turns to Peter, reaching out and stroking his cheek with her thumb.

“Oh, honey, I’m so sorry, I don’t know...,” She trails off. “Listen, to Tony and to me, you’re our son. Alright? Morgan’s just... not used to sharing us.”

“I know,” Peter says, his voice more hoarse than he had expected. “I know, it’s ok.”

Pepper looks at him for a moment. “Oh, sweetheart,” she sighs, kissing the top of his head. “How about some cocoa, huh?”

“Sure.”

As Pepper goes to the kitchen to get cocoa started, Peter hugs a pillow to his chest and lets his hearing tune in to what’s happening upstairs.

Morgan is still audibly crying as Tony tries to quiet her. Morgan’s bed creaks as Tony sits down.

“You don’t love me anymore,” Morgan hiccups.

“Oh, baby, you know that isn’t true. You know it isn’t.”

“You sp-spend all your time with P-Peter.”

“Momo, I’m with you every day. Peter only comes for four days a month and even then we all play together. Think maybe you’re being a bit dramatic?” Classic Tony. He doesn’t sugarcoat, just tells the truth in his uniquely humorous way.

“No,” Morgan whimpers.

“Morgan,” he hears Tony sigh. Morgan’s sobs quiet down at her dad’s soft tone. There’s the sound of shifting fabric and Peter imagines Tony settling Morgan on his knee.

“Do you remember your fourth birthday?” Tony asks.

Morgan sniffles. “Yeah.”

“What did we do?”

“We had waffles and went to the dinosaur museum and I got to open a bunch of presents,” Morgan says, perking up a little bit.

“That’s right. And I let you eat cake for dinner and I gave you as many hugs and kisses as you wanted,” Tony adds, and Peter can hear the smile in his voice. He hugs the pillow a little closer to his chest.

“Do you know why I did that?” Tony asks.

“Because you love me,” Morgan reluctantly admits.

“Yeah, sweetheart. I love you so, so much.” More shifting, the soft sound of a kiss. “Now, do you remember a few weeks before that, when we went to Peter’s tree and we brought him cake and Legos and we played Spider-Man all day?”

Peter knows about his tree. One that Tony had planted in his honor after the Snap, on the edge of the lake. Tony had taken him there a couple weeks after he was released from the hospital. They’d sat there talking for hours and Tony had held him like he hadn’t wanted to let him go.

“You cried,” Morgan remembers and Peter squeezes his eyes closed.

Tony’s voice is thick when he answers. “Yeah, I did. Do you know why?”

“Because you love him,” Morgan mutters, her voice sullen again.

“Because I love him,” Tony agrees. “And I loved him even when he wasn’t there. I loved him when you were born, and when you said your first word, and two weeks ago when you hurt your ankle and I gave you piggyback rides all day. Does that mean I didn’t love you then?”

Morgan sniffs again. “I don’t know.”

“Of course it doesn’t,” Tony assures her. “Because guess what.”

“What?”

“I love you when I’m helping Peter with his homework. And when we’re watching movies after you’ve gone to bed or working in the lab. You don’t just stop loving something when you can’t see it anymore, baby. When you love something as much as I love you, you love it forever. Nothing will change that.”

Morgan’s little voice is cautiously hopeful as she asks, “Really?”

“Really. The only thing that’s changed is that Peter’s here now, so we don’t have to be sad anymore.”

“I didn’t like it when you cried,” Morgan confesses. “It made me want to cry too.”

Tony’s next breath shudders as he exhales. “Well, we don’t have to cry anymore, either of us. Cause I’ve got you, and Mom, and Peter, and I’m really, really happy.”

“Then I’m happy too,” Morgan says with all the innocence of a child. There’s the sound of another kiss and happy giggles.

“Good. But you’ve still got apologize to Peter, little miss. You hurt his feelings.”

“Ok,” she chirps easily. The floor creaks as if Tony just stood up.

“I love you both with my whole heart, Morgan,” Tony says quietly with a sincerity that’s probably lost on such a little kid, but it makes Peter’s eyes prick with tears.

There’s a pause and then, “You can’t love us both with your whole heart, Daddy. That doesn’t make sense. You can love us with half your heart.”

“Well, maybe dads have extra hearts, huh?” Tony teases, his footsteps coming down the hall. “One for you and one for Peter.”

“Nuh-uh,” Morgan cries.

“Mm-hmm. And one for Mom and then another one for Uncle Rhodey and Uncle Happy and cheeseburgers.”

 Morgan laughs, then pauses. “Really?”

Tony is assuring her that he’s telling the truth as they come down the stairs, Morgan laughing with her head on her dad’s shoulder.

“Alright, baby girl,” Tony says, making eye contact with Peter and coming toward him. “Do you have something to say to your big brother?”

Morgan nods as Tony sets her down in front of Peter. He retreats toward the kitchen, hovering where he can still hear.

Peter stares at Morgan for a minute and she just stares back, her head tilted to one side.

“I’m sorry,” she finally says. “I was mean.”

Peter flounders for half a second, not used to such candor. “Um, I forgive you.”

“Can you teach me how to climb walls?” She asks, once again catching him off guard.

Well, not really, but he can’t tell her that when she’s willingly talking to him for the first time. “... Yes,” he says. He’ll figure something out.

“Cool,” she breathes, then clambers onto the couch next to him.

Pepper and Tony come in just a moment later with cocoa, both smiling as they see their kids. Tony sits down next to Peter, putting an arm around his shoulders.

Peter leans into him, closing his eyes for a second as he savors the warmth.

Tony buries his nose in Peter’s hair and mutters, “Did you hear all that?”

Peter glances up at him, feeling guilty but Tony just chuckles. “Good, that means I don’t have to say it all again.”

Peter snorts. “Love you, too,” he whispers. “So much.”

Tony smiles, welcomes Morgan into his arms as she crawls into his lap. He kisses Peter’s temple.

“I’ve got the best family,” he sighs happily.

Chapter Text

Post-battle pizza was quickly becoming a tradition and, as Peter slouched tiredly away from the smoking design in the middle of street where Thor had just taken the rogue Asgardian back to his realm, he had to say he was really, really looking forward to it. And his customary spot on the insanely soft couch in the Tower living room.

Mr. Stark trailed him as they walked a few blocks away to the hopefully undamaged car. The Asgardian had been crazy strong and erratic, hard to pin down. Not to mention he had magic powers. Peter’s initial enthusiasm and awe had waned as the battle dragged on and now he was just bone-deep tired.

Peter’s pace started lagging even more, letting Tony catch up. He was still in his armor with just the helmet down—one of the shoulder joints was a little messed up, not letting it fully retract. Peter spared a thought to the nanotech prototype sitting on Tony’s workbench, wishing Tony had had that today. It would have been helpful.

Tony’s hand curled around his wrist and Peter looked over at him, humming inquisitively. Tony didn’t answer, just pulled him to a stop on the sidewalk, turning him until he could hold both of Peter’s hands in his own.

Peter frowned behind his mask. This wasn’t Mr. Stark’s normal lecturing stance—he preferred hands on shoulders—and Peter didn’t really think he’d done anything to deserve a lecture, today at least. But he just shrugged internally; Tony got in weird moods sometimes, Peter had learned to just go with the flow.

Tony turned one of Peter’s wrists over, as if checking for an injury, but that was a weird place to be checking. In fact, it was more like he was examining Peter’s webshooters.

“They worked great today,” Peter said. Tony barely glanced up at him. “I think the new web formula—”

He cut off as both of Tony’s gauntleted hands wrapped around the webshooters and squeezed until they broke, sending webbing shooting in all directions in pathetic fountains.

“Mr. Stark!” Peter barked, yanking his wrists back and raising them to look at his now broken tech. “What the—”

Once again, he broke off. But this time it was because of the way Mr. Stark was looking at him.

His eyes were dark, the pupils blown wide. His jaw was set in a hard line, but apart from that, his face looked... blank. Utterly devoid of thought and emotion.

It was such a strange thing to see. Tony had never been indifferent to him before—even when they’d just met Tony listened to Peter’s stammering with intense focus, with undisguised curiosity. Slowly that developed into amusement and interest, then into concern laced with unbridled affection.

“Mr. Stark,” Peter said again, the hair on the back of his neck standing up.

Tony took a step forward, and despite his spider sense telling him to back away, Peter stood his ground.

It’s Tony, he told himself. There’s nothing to be afraid of.

“What’s going on?”

Tony answered by sucker-punching him right in the stomach.

Peter bent double, wheezing. Tony still had the Iron Man suit on, making him faster and stronger. Strong enough to hurt even Spider-Man.

Tony took another step forward and Peter finally gave in, stumbling back and nearly tripping over the curb. He held out the one hand not wrapped around his stomach toward Tony placatingly.

“Woah, ok,” he huffed. “Chill out, Terminator.”

Tony didn’t laugh. Peter bit his lip before trying again.

“Alright, clearly Mr. Stark is taking a little vacation. Who am I talking to, then? Hodr? That you? Sorry if I said your name wrong,” Peter rambled. It made sense—they fight a magical Asgardian warrior and suddenly Tony is attacking Peter? He knew it wasn’t Tony doing that. He knew it.

Tony’s gauntlet creaked as Tony clenched his fist, giving Peter just enough time to dodge the next swing, aimed right for his head.

“Mr. Stark,” Peter gasped out, backpeddling until he hit the brick wall behind him. “Mr. Stark, you still in there somewhere? Can you hear me?”

Tony raised his hand, palm out and gauntlet powering up. Peter instinctively raised his own hand, aiming a web before remembering that his shooters were broken. The second he’d taken cost him—the blast hit his shoulder.

Peter gave a cry of pain, his vision fizzing out for a second. Tony leapt at the opportunity that provided him, darting forward and ramming his armored shoulder into Peter’s solar plexus, completely winding him.

Peter stuck one hand to the wall behind him, levering himself a few feet off the ground. His other hand scrabbled at Tony, half shoving him back and half trying to shake him out of this.

“Mr. Stark, snap out of it.” His hand grasped the back of Tony’s neck, looking him in the eye. Tony stared blankly back, his eyes dark and empty and wrong. “Please, wake up.”

He drove a fist into Peter’s ribs. There was an audible crack. Peter shrank back against the brick as much as he could, using his feet to push Tony away. He yanked his mask off with his free hand, gasping out a whimper as he tasted metallic blood and spat it out. The respite lasted only a second before Tony was diving forward again.

“Tony!” Peter cried before a fist connected with his jaw, snapping his head back and into the brick.

Blinking stars out of his vision, Peter hiccupped a small sob.

“Tony, please, it’s me, it’s Peter.” It had always been almost a magic word between them. Peter’s name had always instantly garnered all of Tony’s attention, all of his focus, all of his care. It meant “this is important, this is serious.”

It didn’t work. Tony stepped back just enough to raise his hand, his gauntlet charging again.

Peter seized his moment—if reasoning wasn’t going to work, he was going to run. He twisted against the wall, jumping up until his toes connected and stuck. His shoulder screamed as he pulled himself up, but he went as fast as he could.

A hand seized his ankle and pulled. Peter’s gloves tore as he was ripped unceremoniously backward.

“No!” Peter shouted, twisting and, purely by instinct, kicking out and down.

Tony yelled as his nose snapped, blood beginning to pour over his lips. He still didn’t let go of Peter’s ankle, tugging him until he was once again on the sidewalk, Tony looming over him.

His face was still blank, masklike. He barely even looked human as he stood with blood dripping off his chin and his eyes completely lifeless. It was like a wax figurine of Tony Stark had been animated and sent to beat Peter to a pulp.

Maybe that was why, he wondered later, he wound his fist back and socked Tony in the jaw.

The man’s head snapped to the side and Peter reached forward again. This time, his hands went to the Iron Man suit, clawing at the little hidden failsafes and latches. He knew this suit better than anyone apart from Tony himself and he wasn’t going to stand here and let whoever was controlling Tony kill him with it.

Tony grabbed his wrist again, quickly and efficiently spraining it, but not before Peter managed to tear half the chest plate off, leaving the left arm hanging awkwardly, hindering him. Tony snarled and ripped it all the way off, tossing it carelessly to the side.

In training, Tony had always told him not to think. just act. They’d drilled maneuvers again and again until Peter could do them by muscle memory alone.

It would save his life someday, Tony said.

When Tony reached for Peter throat, it was instinct that made his hand shoot up, grab Tony by the elbow and twist until his shoulder dislocated. It was muscle memory to use his own weight against him, spinning him until Peter could pin him against the brick wall. There wasn’t time to think, there was just survival mode, pure adrenaline. Fight or die.

Peter wasn’t thinking when he pulled his fist back and drove it into Tony’s cheek.

Tony crumpled, the Iron Man armor awkward and ungainly as he slid to the ground.

Peter stumbled backward, tripped when the curb dropped off, and sat down hard in the street, sending white hot agony through every inch of his body. His broken ribs screamed in pain and his head swam.

He looked at the bloodied body of the man he loved as a father in front of him, then at his rapidly bruising knuckles, and vomited into the gutter.

He had to carry Tony into an alley. People were starting to leave the safety of their homes now that the battle had ended. He couldn’t let anyone find them like this, especially with his mask still off.

He settled Tony as carefully as he could against one wall, then curled up against the other, his sprained wrist holding his broken ribs still. He could taste blood in his mouth and thought something might have ruptured.

Happy found them like that, twenty minutes after Peter’s hiccupped call. Tony was still unconscious. Peter was crying.

Dr. Cho almost put them in the same room in the Medbay, but Peter asked to be moved. She’d frowned, but agreed.

Peter got released after a day and a half, once his concussion was fully healed.

Tony had to stay for three more days. Peter didn’t go to see him. Tony had apparently asked about him when he woke up, but after Pepper has assured him that Peter was ok, he hadn’t asked again.

It was raining, loudly enough Peter couldn’t sleep. He’d gone to the gym to try to work himself into exhaustion, but his ribs were still healing, making anything more than a brisk walk impossible. Which is how he ended up in the library, sitting on the floor and staring out the floor to ceiling windows at the pouring rain, at the way they reflected the city lights.

“Peter?”

Peter jumped, twisting around fast enough that his ribs ached and he reached up automatically to brace them.

It was Tony, standing in the doorway with his arm in a sling and his nose bandaged. His eyes were fixed on Peter’s ribs.

They hadn’t seen each other since before that fight, before that Asgardian. Before they had put each other in the hospital.

“I’m sorry,” Tony stammered. “I didn’t meant to—I’m just... um, I’m going to...,” Tony trailed off, gesturing behind himself, and Peter hated it, because Tony never hesitated, never trailed off. He rambled and sometimes made no sense, but he never second guessed himself before this.

“You don’t have to go,” Peter said, turning again to look out the window, trying to subtly take deep breaths to get his heart rate back to normal. He sniffed and hoped Tony didn’t notice.

Tony sucked in a breath. “Ok. Ok.” Peter heard him linger in the doorway for another moment before moving forward. “I’m just going to sit right behind you, alright? So you know where I am but you don’t... you don’t have to look at me.”

When Peter didn’t protest, Tony cautiously sat, pressing his back up against Peter’s. He was warm and solid and Peter’s throat hurt from keeping the tears back.

“If this is too much, just tell me and I’m gone, ok?”

“It isn’t.”

“Peter,” Tony muttered and Peter closed his eyes, trying to shut out the memory of saying that to Tony, of pleading with him. A magic word except for when they really needed it. “It’s ok if you’re afraid of me.”

Peter tensed and Tony echoed it, the muscles in his back going taut. “I’m not,” he snapped.

“Kid, it’s totally normal—”

“I’m not!” Tony’s jaw closed with an audible click. “I have nothing to be afraid of because that wasn’t you. You would never hurt me. Never. I know that.”

“It was me,” Tony growled. “I have the split knuckles to prove it.” His voice was softer when he spoke again. “And logic doesn’t usually apply to trauma, buddy.”

“I’m not traumatized,” Peter insisted. 

He could feel Tony’s heart beating against his back. It was as steady as Tony’s heartbeat ever was, maybe just a little faster than usual. He sighed and it jostled Peter enough to make his mostly healed ribs twinge.

“Then what are you, Peter?”

Peter opened his mouth then closed it again. “I’m... sorry.” He dropped his head backwards, onto Tony’s good shoulder and felt the surprise ripple up Tony’s spine. “I—I’m so freaking sorry, Tony.”

“What on earth are you sorry for?” Tony asked, incredulous. He twisted as if wanting to turn and look at Peter, but then stilled as if afraid of spooking him. Peter exhaled a sharp breath of furious air, like a bull getting ready to charge.

“What am I sorry for? I’m sorry for your dislocated shoulder, your broken nose, your concussion. Should I keep going?” Peter spat, turning his head enough that he could see Tony’s ear in the gray light, the salt-and-pepper scruff around his jaw that he couldn’t shave because of his injuries.

Tony shook his head. “You were defending yourself. You did the right thing.”

Peter’s voice broke as he murmured, “I hurt you.”

Tony shrugged. “I hurt you.” His voice was low and heavy with failure. Like it was the worst crime imaginable.

“No, you didn’t. Hodr hurt me. He did all of it. But I...” Peter closed his eyes, the fight flashing behind his eyelids. He winced and Tony mimicked it in sympathy. “I fought you,” he whispered. “It wasn’t Hodr I was hurting, it was you, and I did it anyway. I made that decision, Tony. It was your blood on my knuckles. I put you in the hospital.”

“Peter.” Tony’s left hand inched backward until it found Peter’s right. He carefully squeezed his fingers, minding his recovering sprain. “It was instinct. It’s... biology, kid. Fight or flight. I’m glad you did. If I had woken up out of whatever brainwashing, puppet crap and found you—Jeez, kid,” Tony sighed, not finishing the thought.

Peter turned his hand over so he could grasp Tony’s fingers in return, callous catching on callous. A twinge of pain shot up Peter’s arm, but he ignored it.

“Then tell me you would have done the same thing,” he pleaded quietly, laying his head back on Tony’s shoulder and staring at the ceiling, eyes swimming with tears. “Tell me you would have fought back.”

Tony took a slow, deep breath. It whistled in and out of his lungs.

“It’s not the same.”

“How?”

“You said you know I would never hurt you,” Tony said. “How do you know?”

Different questions with the same answer. One they’ve been skirting around for over a year and a half.

Peter could feel the strap of Tony’s sling pressed against his shoulder blade. He leaned further back, slumped against Tony, until it hurt his ribs. Tony was warm and solid and he took on Peter’s extra weight like he had been expecting it. Their hands were almost the same size now, but the way Tony curled his fingers around Peter’s palm made him feel small and fragile and safe.

“Because a good parent would never hurt their child,” Peter whispered.

Tony’s heart skipped a beat against Peter’s back.

“Yeah,” Tony said, his voice trembling. “Peter, I—”

Peter didn’t wait for the apology or the question or whatever unnecessary words Tony was about to say. He spun around, his knees bumping gently against Tony’s hip.

Tony turned, too, slower, more painstakingly. His eyes were soft and sad as they looked at Peter, his lips curving up in a crooked smile as Peter stared back. His nose was still bandaged, both eyes still bruised black in the low light. Peter had done that.

“Are you afraid of me?” Peter asked quietly.

Tony smiled more fully, shook his head. “You’re about as frightening as a newborn puppy, Underoos.”

When he held his good arm out, Peter happily fell into the hug, buried his nose against Tony’s pulse point.

“I’m sorry,” he said again, because he was still so sorry it ached.

“Me, too. But we’re going to be ok, kid,” Tony murmured against Peter’s temple. “Nothing could ever make me stop loving you. I promise.”  

Chapter Text

“Hey, Spider-Man,” Tony said, landing heavily on the roof he’d spotted Peter on.

Peter jumped. It was a bad sign he hadn’t heard the thrusters approaching—Tony wondered when the last time he ate was. How well he’d slept curled up in the corner of the rooftop, with what looked like a single blanket to keep him warm in the freezing Chicago wind.

Peter’s eyes were huge as he watched Tony step out of the suit.  

“How did you—you-you weren’t supposed to find me.”

Yeah, Tony knew that. The kid had been so careful as he snuck out of the hospital and onto the top of a greyhound bus. He’d kept his face hidden, he’d stayed in the dark. He hadn’t even gone back to his apartment to get clothes and whatever cash May might have had lying around.

“Why not?” Tony asked, tilting his head and he walked forward. He couldn’t decide if he wanted to shake Peter or hug him.

Peter opened his mouth, then looked away, over his shoulder to his battered backpack. Tony looked at it as well, looked the kid up and down, and decided the conversation could wait.

“You tried the pizza here yet?” Tony asked.

Peter blinked, then shook his head.

“Let’s get some pizza.”

The pizza restaurant Tony picked was empty, which was why he had chosen it.

“Grab a table, kid,” Tony told Peter, then crossed to the bar, knocking on it until someone poked their head out from the kitchen.

After chatting with the chef and owner for a few minutes—and sliding them a couple hundred dollars as incentive to turned the sign on the door to closed, as least until Tony had left—Tony joined Peter at the corner booth he’d chosen. He understood the instinct to have something at your back, to be able to see every entrance, so he didn’t mention the choice, just slid into the green plastic booth.

Peter just watched him, looking apprehensive.

“Are you hurt, kid?”

Peter shook his head.

“Ok. I’m not even going to ask if you’re hungry, cause I’ve met you.”

Peter forced a half-smile. Tony hadn’t seen the kid this nervous since before the Vulture, more than eight months ago now.

While they were waiting for their food, Tony took the opportunity to get a good look at Peter, in the warm light of the pizza parlor.

He was pale, certainly. His cheeks were a little gaunter than Tony liked, and his hair greasier than Tony was used to seeing. Tony wondered if he’d had the chance to shower since he’d left New York.

The chef brought their food over and Tony let himself fuss a little bit, getting Peter a plate and putting his straw in his water for him.

“Don’t eat too fast, you’ll make yourself sick,” he warned, and Peter looked up at him sharply. Tony didn’t know why he was surprised that he had put together that Peter had been living on the streets for the last few days.

Peter ducked his head, slowly eating his way through half the pizza.

Finally, after he put down his fork and knife, Peter cleared his throat.

“Um, thank you, Mr. Stark. Anyway, it was good seeing you and—”

“Peter.”

Peter stilled, closing his eyes.

Tony stirred his water with his straw, sighing.

“Let’s see if I’ve got the story straight,” he finally said, crossing his arms. “You get the call, you rush to the hospital and hear the news. They gave you, what, half an hour with May’s body?”

Peter flinched, sucking in a breath. His eyes were squeezed closed like he was in physical pain. Tony gave him a moment before continuing, his voice softer.

“And then the social services worker came to you and said they needed someone to call, an adult. Or it’d be CPS and a state sponsored grave for May. You panicked and gave them my number, waited until they left, and then you ran, went to the nearest bus station. Put your phone on a bus to D.C., your suit tracker on one to Philly—I got both of those back, by the way—and then came here. Why Chicago?”

Peter gave a one shouldered shrug, picking at a tear in the vinyl gingham tablecloth.

“Who would notice another homeless orphan?” He finally murmured, his voice so quiet Tony almost couldn’t hear him.

Tony clenched his jaw, gave an unhappy hum in response.

“So, what’s next? For you.”

“I got a job,” Peter said, a small gleam of pride in his eyes. Tony felt bad for dousing it, but he needed Peter to understand.

“Like a payroll job or a ‘thanks for helping, here’s ten bucks’ job?”

Peter frowned, his cheeks flushing. “It was fifteen,” he muttered, not looking at him.

Tony rubbed a hand down his face. Fifteen dollars might be enough to feed a single person for a day in a place like Chicago, but not someone with an enhanced metabolism. And who knew when the kid would get another break like that.

“Alright. Our arachnid friend ever gonna make an appearance?”

Peter bit his lip, glancing up at Tony. “I don’t know. There’s a lot of crime to stop, but I... might have to let go of the webs. Too distinct.”

“And when it starts dropping into the negatives, you still gonna be sleeping on that roof?”

Peter ducked his head in humiliation.

“I—I don’t know. I’ll figure it out.”

“Jeez, Parker, I can’t even pretend to be ok with this anymore. If I hear you say one more thing like that I’m going to—I’ll spontaneously combust, I swear. Pete, you don’t have to do this.”

Peter’s jaw clenched and he looked away, out the window.

“What other choice do I have?”

Tony snorted a humorless laugh. “Are you kidding? Me, kid. You called me and I came. I haven’t slept in four freaking days cause I was losing my mind trying to find you, I can’t—I don’t understand. Remotely anything going on in that head of yours.”

Peter sniffed, drew a line in the condensation on his glass.

“I can’t stay in-in Queens. I can’t... I can’t keep the apartment, I can’t afford school. I’m not going into the system, Mr. Stark, I—I refuse.”

“Of course not. You’re coming home with me.”

Peter crumpled his napkin and threw it on the table in a burst of energy that made Tony jump. “I’m not a charity project, Tony!” He snapped.

Tony blinked in shock. “I know you’re—”

“I’m not leaving.”

Tony took a breath, tried to reign in his instinct to tell the kid he didn’t have a choice, to order him to obey. He thought briefly of the guardianship papers he’d filled out at the hospital, of the adoption papers his lawyer was already preparing, and wondered what Peter would say about them if he knew.

“Then neither will I,” he said, trying to diffuse the tension, settling back in the booth and holding his arms out. “I’ll just stay here, following you around like a weirdo. Someone will inevitably call the cops and I’ll get arrested for stalking a minor. I’m rich and famous so I’ll get out no problem, but I’ll be forever known as Stark the Stalker.”

Peter snorted, fighting to keep his scowl in place.

“Stalking Stark. That’s me. Is that what you want?”

“No,” Peter murmured. He seemed embarrassed by his outburst.

“Then come back with me,” Tony pleaded. “Not as a charity project, not because I... pity you, or anything, kid, but because the thought of you here, on your own, makes me—I can’t stand it, Peter.” Even saying it out loud made pain shoot down his left arm and he flexed his hand. Peter eyed him uncertainly, as if not sure he could believe him.

“I can’t go back to New York,” Peter whispered, his bottom lip trembling before he steeled himself.

It was progress, however small. Tony seized on it. “Fine, pick a state. Heck, pick a country. Are you a mountain or ocean person?”

“Tony.”

“The point is,” Tony said, reaching across the table and taking Peter’s hand to get his attention, “your room’s all ready, Pete. Or, if you secretly hate me, I’ll get you your own apartment, get groceries delivered, FRIDAY, the works. Anything. Anywhere. Just not this.”

Peter swallowed, staring down at the vinyl tablecloth.

“I don’t hate you.”

Tony pressed his thumb against the inside of Peter’s wrist.

“And I really don’t hate you. You’re one of the few people I really don’t hate, kid,” Tony said quietly, his mouth quirking up on one side. Peter breathed a short laugh, the plastic bench squeaking as he settled back against it.

Tony watched him chew on his lip for a few moments.

“Peter.”

The kid looked up, his expression equal parts hurting and hoping.

“You called me,” Tony reminded him. That was the part Tony really couldn’t understand: if this had been Peter’s intention the whole time, why would he give the hospital Tony’s number—the one person in the world who would, without a doubt, find him. No matter how long it took.

Peter’s bottom lip trembled and he scrunched his nose like that would successfully keep the tears back.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I—I didn’t mean to use you for your money or anything, I just—I knew you would give her a good funeral.”

The air rushed out of Tony’s lungs in a rush and it was a moment before he could take another breath. He hadn’t been expecting that. He’d thought Peter had just panicked and run without really thinking about it.

“Of course,” he said, trying to sound less surprised than he was. He took a breath, then scooted further down the bench so his and Peter’s shoulders were nearly touching.

“May and I had a lot in common, actually,” he continued softly, reaching a hand out and tipping Peter’s chin up with his knuckle. “We both think the world of Peter Parker.”

The first tear spilled over. Tony sighed, brushing it away, and pushed Peter’s bangs off his forehead. Peter watched him with a cautious yearning in his eyes.  

He thought about what he’d longed to hear when his parents died, when Jarvis went a few years later. He’d never really believed in Karma or divine punishment, but in the dark, alcohol tainted hours of the night, he would wonder if it was his fault.

“You don’t deserve this, buddy.”

Peter sucked in a breath like he’d been slapped. Then his face crumpled, a sob too-long forced down ripping from his throat.

HIs instinct was to curl up, hide his face. He crossed his arms on the sticky table top and went to bury his face in them, hiccupping gasps shaking his frame, but Tony intercepted him.

“Uh-uh. That’s what I’m here for, kiddo,” Tony murmured, pulling Peter into his arms and tucking the boy’s face into his neck. He curled his fingers into the short hair at the base of Peter’s neck and closed his eyes, his heart aching as Peter wept.

He let Peter cry himself out, sure that he hadn’t allowed himself to mourn, too focused on trying to survive. The poor kid had been orphaned, again, run away from the city he knew and loved, and was now sleeping on a rooftop in Chicago with fifteen dollars to his name.

As Peter’s tears began to taper off, Tony’s hand smoothing up and down his back, Tony paused his litany of gentle words to whisper, “Will you come back home, Peter?”

“Please,” Peter hiccupped. “Yes, please. Please.”

Tony clutched Peter to him a little tighter. “You don’t have to do these things on your own, buddy. I know you feel alone right now but you aren’t. I’m here. And I will not leave you.”

“Mr. Stark?” Peter asked, his voice nasally from crying. Tony felt him exhale a shaky breath against his throat.

Tony brushed his thumb along the knob of Peter’s spine in acknowledgment.

“I really don’t like Chicago.”

Tony snorted and pulled away, capturing Peter’s face in his hands, stroking his cheekbone.

“Me neither, kid. Let’s go home.”

Chapter Text

The first Tony said to him when the smoke cleared was:

“My father won’t pay the ransom.”

His voice was about three octaves too high and his head a foot and a half too low.

Peter’s heart was so loud in his ears he could barely hear.

“What?” he rasped.

Tony’s dark eyes darted around the room, his chest visibly rising and falling with each frantic breath. When he spoke, his voice trembled, but he straightened his shoulders and jutted out his chin like he wasn’t afraid at all.

“My father won’t pay you to get me back. He told me.”

Suddenly Peter’s heart was pounding for a whole different reason.

“He told you?” Peter hissed. Tony flinched and Peter took a step back, taking a deep breath.

He looked around him, at the time travel device he and Tony had been working on. Peter wasn’t sure how it had gone so abysmally wrong. But the evidence was standing in front of him, fidgeting and trying not to cry.

“I didn’t kidnap you,” he said after a long moment.

Tony looked dubious at best.

“I swear I didn’t,” Peter insisted. “I was doing an experiment and it went... wrong.”

Despite himself, Tony glanced back at the device, looking curious. He hesitated, glancing back at Peter, then asked, “What kind of experiment?”

“A complicated one,” Peter hedged, crossing the room to examine the device. Half of it was still smoking slightly, the complicated wiring burned and shriveled. Peter sighed.

“Well, clearly you screwed it up,” little Tony said, crossing his arms over his thin chest with a huff. Peter raised an eyebrow.

“Clearly,” he said, unimpressed. Tony’s eyes darted away again, nervous color on his cheeks. When Peter shifted, Tony automatically flinched away, his eyes flashing to the door like he was considering running.

Peter looked at Tony a little closer. He looked exactly like he did in the pictures Peter had seen, him with his circuit board, his computer, the things he’d built at such impressively young ages. But even without those pictures, Peter would have known instantly who was standing in front of him: His eyes were exactly the same—dark, intelligent, sizing everyone and everything up within seconds.

“How old are you?” Peter asked.

Tony hesitated. “Eight,” he finally said.

Peter took a deep breath, letting his cheeks puff up as he blew it out.

“Um, FRIDAY, let Pepper know. And Bruce.”

“Of course, Peter,” FRIDAY answered, and Tony jumped, looking up at the ceiling with wide eyes.

“That’s FRIDAY,” Peter said, then bit his lip. Could he tell eight-year-old Tony about the AI he would create in thirty-five years, or would that affect the timeline of Tony’s life? Was the Tony standing in front of him a fifty-three year old turned eight? Or had Peter pulled the eight-year-old Tony out of his time and sent the adult Tony back to 1978?

He changed the subject. “Are you hungry?”

Tony shook his head, looking wary, but then his stomach audibly growled. Peter snorted.

“Come on. I make some mean grilled cheese.”

“How do we fix it?” Pepper whispered, glancing back at the child with Tony’s eyes, kicking his feet as he sat at the kitchen island eating a grilled cheese sandwich.

“I... I have a few ideas, but I don’t know for sure,” Peter hissed back, his voice high. Pepper had taken the news rather well—better than Peter, at least, who was panicking more and more with each question.

Bruce rubbed his forehead.

“I’ll take a look at the time-travel device,” Peter stammered. “See if I can reverse the polarity. That might do the trick. Maybe.” He groaned, dropping his head into his hands. “This is all my fault.”

Pepper laughed a little and rubbed his back. “Sweetie, I’ve known Tony way too long to believe he wasn’t at least eighty percent responsible for this little snafu. We have three geniuses living in this building and another four on speed dial. We’ll figure it out.”

Peter gave her a small smile, then glanced back toward Tony, who had finished his sandwich and was now watching them, the hesitance in his expression slightly lessened. He smiled at Tony and got a twitchy little grin in return.

Tony was pouting as he rubbed his arm where Bruce had drawn some blood. Peter steered him out of the medbay with a hand on his narrow shoulder, having overseen the ‘torture’ (as Tony called it, his little voice cracking a little bit when he’d seen Bruce coming toward him with a needle) since Pepper was busy taking care of Morgan and alerting the other residents of the tower about what had happened.

Peter looked down at Tony and rolled his eyes. Tony had apparently always been a drama queen. He led the kid up to the common floor, not quite sure what to do while Bruce was running a few tests, hoping to establish just which Tony they had with them.

A few of the team were there, talking quietly on the couches. Natasha was standing a few feet away, on the phone with Scott, judging by the voice coming from the other end. Tony fell a few steps back, taking in the new space. Peter let him, knowing that the kid was still skittish, unsure if he could actually trust these people.

“Steve?”

Everyone whirled to see Tony, his eyes wide with shock. Peter's heart sank. He turned back to watch as Steve saw who had addressed him, his face falling just a little bit as he looked at the boy. He stood from the couch, coming closer.

“I-I mean, Captain Rogers, sir,” Tony stammered, his hands twisting behind his back.

Steve put on his best Captain America smile.

“You must be Tony,” Steve said, crouching down and offering a hand to shake. Tony took it, his own hand dwarfed by comparison.

“How…” Tony said, looking around. There were tears in his eyes. “My… my dad will be so happy to see you, sir.”

Steve’s smile turned a little pained. “And I would love to see your dad again. But let’s get you taken care of first, ok?”

Tony nodded, still staring at Steve like he was the greatest thing he’d ever seen.

“I’ve gotten the things you listed, Peter,” Bruce said, coming into the room, and Tony’s attention quickly changed over to him. He was a little tightly-wound like that, Peter realized—anything that changed, any new noise or sight immediately attracted his attention and it wasn’t until Tony decided that it was safe that he tuned it out. “We can work on fixing the device tonight.”

“I can help,” Tony said, his young voice confident and eager.

Peter and Bruce shared a glance. Tony seemed to interpret this as doubt, because he huffed and frowned, stopping just shy of sticking his bottom lip out.

“I can. I’m smart. Probably smarter than you.”

Behind Tony, Pepper and Rhodey both bit their lip to keep from laughing.

“We know, Tony, that’s not what we’re worried about,” Bruce quickly soothed. In reality, it was an insanely complicated piece of technology, and while Tony was a genius, he was still eight years old. And any small mistake could make the difference between bringing their Tony back and not. “But having you around the device might set it off, due to the rift in space-time centered around you. You’re an anomaly.”

Peter also had to bite back a smile. That was a good bit of off-the-cuff bluffing.

Tony looked slightly pacified, but his pout was still in place.

“In fact,” Peter said. “I’m not sure I should help either.” He made eye contact with Bruce, telling him to just roll with it. “Since I was in the room when it happened, I might be exposed too. Bruce, maybe Rhodes and Scott can help you and Tony and I will steer clear, so nothing goes wrong.”

“That’s probably for the best,” Bruce agreed.  

“A planetarium?” Tony asked skeptically, looking up at the glass-plated building in front of them.

“Heck yeah!” Peter cheered, holding onto Tony’s hand—to great protestation—as pedestrians pushed passed them. He’d needed something to get Tony out of the tower while Bruce and Rhodey worked, because he kept trying to sneak down to the lab. Lucky for all of them, his babysitter also happened to be Spider-Man and was able to catch him each time. “Think about how much new stuff we’ve learned since 1978, kid.”

Curiosity lit up Tony’s eyes. “Do people live in space now?”

“Come find out,” Peter said, pulling him toward the entrance.

Despite Tony’s original protests, Tony was instantly captivated by everything in the planetarium. He and Peter jumped on the Geiger counter simulator to mimic an earthquake, and they played the little video game to try to land their rockets on the moon. Peter took a picture of Tony walking on the faux-Mars surface and sent it to Pepper to let her know they were ok.

Tony spent nearly 15 full minutes sticking his hands in the cloud synthesizer, letting the water vapor swirl around his hands as he trailed them along, a look of wonder and peace on his face. Peter watched him, wondering how Tony would react if Peter told him that when he was older, he would invent a suit that let him fly amongst the clouds, through the atmosphere and out past the stars.  

Peter hesitated when they got to the stairs leading up to the fourth floor—the one they’d added after the Invasion of New York in 2012. It was all about the discovery of extraterrestrial life and interplanetary travel. And, as the only person on Earth to have travelled through a wormhole and lived to tell the tale, Tony Stark was an important part in that era of science. Would knowing somehow mess up Tony’s life and by extension all the people he didn’t save?

Tony didn’t have any such apprehensions though. He bounded up the stairs before Peter had decided if they were going or not, and Peter was forced to follow, nearly running into Tony where he stood stock still at the top of the stairs.

Tony’s wide eyes looked around at the exhibit signs that read ”The Confirmation of Extraterrestrial Life” and “The Future of Alien-Human Contact” in bold letters.

“Aliens are real?” he asked, nearly breathless. Peter couldn’t tell if all the pictures and videos were interesting or scary to him, but he crouched down anyway so he could talk to Tony without having to speak over the crowd.

“Tony—” Peter started, only to be interrupted by the sound of jeering, pre-pubescent laughter. He turned to see a group of four boys, around 12 or 13, all with mocking expressions. They were looking at Tony.

“Aliens are real?” One mimicked in an exaggeratedly high voice.

“Were you born yesterday?” Another asked, laughing and shoving the shoulder of his friend, egging him on.

“See any family resemblance?” The first one spoke again, his voice breaking slightly as he snorted, gesturing toward a nearby picture of a Chitauri.

Tony took a step back as if in shock. His little shoulders stiffened and his eyes widened before his face set in a poorly constructed mask of indifference. He didn’t say anything, which was so different from the Tony he knew now, who made it his goal to be brasher and louder and snarkier when he was hurt.

Peter stood and even though he was shorter than most his age, he towered over these little pre-teens. He put a hand on Tony’s bony shoulder, holding him close to his side.

“Hey,” he snarled.

All four faces fell in sync, as if just seeing Peter for the first time.

“Get lost,” he snapped at them, glowering, and all four hightailed it down the stairs.

Tony’s mouth was pursed in a thin line, his eyes determinedly dry.

“Tony,” Peter said, crouching down again in front of Tony.

“I want to go,” Tony said imperiously, but his voice was too high to sound natural.

“Hey, no, we don’t have to go. We want to learn about aliens, remember.”

Tony turned his head away but Peter put a hand under his chin and guided it back.

“Don’t worry about them, ok?” Peter told Tony. “You’re smarter than all four of them put together.”

Tony looked a little surprised, then offered a fleeting smile.

“Do you want to stay?” Tony bit his lip, but nodded. When Peter started walking again, Tony stuck just a little closer to him than usual.

Peter hurried a little faster than he had on the previous floors and managed to keep Tony from reading the various quotes and informational signs. He therefore missed his own name be referenced a couple times. They played one last game, stopped off at the cloud simulator again, then stepped out into the bright sunshine, squinting.

They crossed the plaza, teeming with people and Tony looked around in curiosity.

Peter noticed Tony repeatedly glancing at a street vendor selling ice cream and cotton candy.

“Do you want some?” Peter asked. Tony immediately looked straight ahead, his ears red.

“No, sir, I’m sorry.” Peter made a face at being called sir by Tony.

“Well, too bad,” Peter said, and Tony’s shoulders drooped despite Peter’s light tone. “Because I want some, which means you have to help me eat it whether you want any or not.”

Tony perked up, looking up at Peter in surprise, a hesitant smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

It made Peter think of something Tony used to say—when he was his actual age, not eight. Anytime Peter protested to Tony buying him something, Tony would scoff and say, “Are you really going to deny me the chance to see your face light up? That’s mean, Parker.”

Peter grinned, happy to turn the tables, just for a little bit.

“Come on,” Peter urged. Tony happily trotted alongside Peter as they went and bought some blue cotton candy. They sat on the edge of the fountain, tearing off pieces with sticky hands. Peter laughed at the face Tony made with his first bite, his eyes bright with delight as the treat dissolved in his mouth.

They finished their cotton candy, Tony swinging his feet as they dangled a few inches above the ground. Peter washed his sugar coated fingers off in the fountain, and Tony followed suit.

“All right, buddy, we better head on back.”

By the time they’d gotten off the subway, Tony’s sugar high had worn off and he started lagging behind as they walked the last handful of blocks. There was a moment of terror where Peter glanced over his shoulder and couldn’t see Tony. He stopped dead, ignoring the disgruntled looks people threw at him. After a second, where Peter’s heart pounded against his ribs, Tony’s small figure became visible among the crowd. Exhaling heavily, Peter quickly grabbed Tony’s arm and tugged him up against the building.

“You scared me,” he admonished gently.

Tony blinked up at him, a befuddled mixture of confusion and exhaustion. “Sorry.”

Peter just shook his head and crouched down next to him. “Hop on.”

Tony stared at him.

“Come on, piggy back ride.”

Hesitantly, Tony clambered onto Peter’s back, letting out a small laugh as Peter quickly stood, hooking his hands under Tony’s legs.

Tony was a barely noticeable weight to Peter as he started walking again, the tower looming ahead of them. He was warm though, reassuring Peter that he hadn’t actually lost young Tony Stark in the middle of New York.

“What do you want for dinner, buddy?” Peter asked.

“I get to pick?” Tony asked, his bony chin digging into Peter’s shoulder.

“Sure,” Peter said, shrugging and making Tony yelp and grip onto him tighter. Peter smiled to himself.

“Anything I want?”

“Anything,” Peter confirmed. “As long as it isn’t too spicy. Morgan doesn’t like spicy food.”

“Who’s Morgan?” Tony asked, his voice going high with his curiosity.

Right. Peter had forgotten that Tony didn’t know Morgan, just like he didn’t know any of them. It felt so wrong.

“She’s my little sister,” he said simply.

“Oh,” Tony mumbled, then went very quiet, all excitement at the prospect of picking dinner gone.

“What’s up?” Peter asked.

More silence.

“Tony?” Peter craned his neck, looking over his shoulder only to see Tony’s dark curls.

Tony shook his head.

“Don’t make me tickle it out of you,” Peter warned. “In the middle of the street where everyone can hear you squealing.”

Tony’s head shot up. “No!”

“Alright, so tell me,” Peter commanded, bouncing on his toes to make Tony laugh and take any sting out of the order.

Tony’s little arms tightened around Peter’s shoulders.

“I wish you were my brother,” he muttered, burying his face against Peter’s back.

Peter swallowed, his chest warming. It was a little weird hearing his father figure say he wanted Peter for a big brother, but having his father figure be turned into a eight-year-old was a little weird, too. But it was nice to know that regardless of age and history and responsibility, Tony thought of Peter as his family.

“Yeah?” he asked. Tony nodded. “I’ve always wanted a little brother.”

True to most eight-year-olds when given the chance to choose dinner, Tony asked for pizza, which they were happy to oblige him with. His eyes nearly bugged out of his head when he was told they were allowed to eat in the living room while watching a movie. He settled down on the couch wedged next to Peter, his hair still horribly messy from the impromptu wrestling match he’d had with Steve while they waited for dinner. Peter shared a look with Pepper, silently agreeing that he was really freaking adorable.

Peter, who had done the math with Tony’s age and realized that, in Tony’s mind, only one Star Wars movie had been released, eagerly suggested they watch the next one. Tony perked up, looking excited for a second before shrinking in on himself.

“Dad says it’s a stupid movie. Space doesn’t work like that.”

Every adult in the room frowned, but Peter did one better.

“Has your dad been to space?” he asked, one eyebrow raised.

Tony shook his head.

“Then what does he know?”

Tony’s jaw dropped, his eyes lighting up with impish delight at the insouciant remark.

“So, Star Wars?” Peter suggested again. Tony nodded so hard he looked like a bobble-head.

By the end of the movie, Morgan was asleep in Peter’s lap and Tony was barely conscious, leaning against Peter’s side. Pepper almost melted into a puddle when she looked over at them and dutifully snapped a picture while Peter rolled his eyes, blushing.

“I’ll take this one,” she whispered, carefully lifting Morgan into her arms while nodding at Tony, “if you take him.”

“Yeah, I’ve got him. Goodnight.”

Pepper leaned over and kissed the top of Peter’s head, then Tony’s, who stirred slightly. Then she disappeared into the hallway.

“Petey?” Tony slurred as Peter picked him up. Peter smiled a little at the nickname Tony had adopted as soon as he heard it from Morgan.

Peter took Tony to Rhodey’s currently unused room, since it was closer to him and Pepper than the usual guest rooms. When he tried to set Tony down, however, Tony clung to his t-shirt.

“Tony?” he whispered. He was shocked to see tears clinging to Tony’s dark eyelashes. He sat on the bed, settling Tony against the pillows, the boy still clutching his sleeve.

“Don’t send me back,” Tony pleaded, his words thick and heavy with sleep.

Peter’s gut twisted, his mouth parting in surprise. He’d known Tony had had a rough childhood; Tony was doing better about being honest about that, about his unhappy relationship with his father. But to want to stay here, with strangers, rather than go back to his parents and his home and everything he knew? It must have been worse than he thought.

What should he say to that? How could he tell Tony “I like you, but I want my grown up Tony back now, sorry?” Would explaining that Tony was actually meant to be fifty-three help or hurt? He didn't know.

Luckily, he was spared from having to say anything, because when he looked down again, Tony was asleep.

Sighing heavily, Peter gently pried Tony's hand from his sleeve and laid it on the bed. He pulled the covers up to Tony's chin, then left, shutting the door silently behind him. He'd deal with that later. Right now, he had a time machine to build.

Peter woke up late, having only gone to bed at four AM when Bruce had tricked him into going and getting snacks and he’d come back to find that FRIDAY had locked him out of the lab. The machine was coming along fairly well—they assumed, considering the blood results had been unable to determine exactly which Tony they had with them right now.

Peter headed to the kitchen and grinned when he saw Tony and Morgan both already there, Morgan regaling Tony with a very longwinded and very elaborate story about the trip to the zoo she’d taken a few weeks ago. Tony seemed more interested in his pancakes than the story, but he nodded along diligently between bites.

“Peter!” Morgan cheered as he walked in, which always made him feel pretty good. Tony looked up and smiled too, perking up a little bit.

“Hey, squirt,” he said, ruffling Tony’s hair. “Good morning, Momo.” He tickled her side and she squealed in delight.

Peter piled his own plate with slightly cold pancakes from the tray left on the counter, sitting across from Tony at the table before drowning them in syrup.

“Petey, when is Daddy coming back?” Morgan asked suddenly. Peter froze, his fork halfway to his mouth.

“Back?” he repeated stupidly.

Morgan nodded, pouting. “Mommy said there was an emergency he had to fix, but shouldn’t it be fixed by now? I miss him.”

Peter glanced over at Tony, who was watching them from under his lashes, like he was pretending he wasn’t listening.

“Well, sometimes emergencies take a while to fix, M.” Peter paused, looking at Tony again, who looked back up at him, his eyebrows drawn down in a miniaturized version of Tony’s scowl. “I’m sure he’ll be back soon.”

Tony’s mouth twisted into a frown and he suddenly jumped off his chair, leaving the room. Peter sighed, then stood too, following him out.

Tony was sitting in the living room, on the same couch he’d fallen asleep on last night. His toes barely scraped the floor.

Tony jutted his chin out when he saw Peter, his thin arms crossed over his chest.

Even at eight, Tony was a genius. He clenched his jaw, looking straight at Peter with a furious pout that didn’t quite hide the way his bottom lip trembled.

“Am I—” he started, his high voice breaking. “Morgan’s dad, that’s gone, I...”

Peter sighed, then came and sat on the coffee table in front of Tony.

“You were building a time travel device,” Tony said.

“Yeah.”

“And it went wrong.” Peter nodded.

Tony sniffed, then demanded: “Am I your dad?”

Well, not technically, Peter thought, but he wasn’t going to get into that complication with an already distressed eight-year-old.

“Yeah,” Peter said softly.

Tony hiccupped, wiped his nose with his hand.

“Do... do you like me?” He asked, quietly like he didn’t actually want Peter to hear.

Peter’s first instinct was to assure Tony that he loved him, but he remembered Tony talking about how he loved his dad almost as much as he hated him and realized that to Tony, an abused, neglected kid who had spent most of his life thinking he could never be a father, liking and loving were very, very different things.

Peter knelt on the carpet in front of Tony and smiled. “You’re my best friend,” he said honestly.

Tony’s eyes went huge, filling instantly with tears. Peter held his arms open and Tony threw himself into them, burying his face against Peter’s shoulder as his little body shook.

Peter rubbed his back until Tony calmed down, sniffling only a little bit as he sat back in Peter’s arms.

“I’m supposed to be 53?” he asked in disgust. Peter nodded with forced solemnity. Tony’s nose wrinkled. “That’s so old.”

“I know. You have gray hair and everything,” Peter agreed, wrinkling his nose to match Tony’s, making the kid giggle.

“Do I groan every time I stand up? Jarvis does that cause he’s ancient.”

“Every time,” Peter whispered, like it was a secret. “And you fall asleep watching TV.”

“No,” Tony gasped, looking so horrified Peter couldn’t help but laugh.

“Peter.” Peter turned and found Bruce watching them with an almost sad half-smile on his face. “It’s done.”

Tony’s smile dropped and he looked at Peter with wide eyes.

“It’s ok,” Peter assured him.

“Am I... am I going to remember?” Tony asked.

Peter sighed, standing and taking Tony’s hand. “I don’t know, kiddo.”

Tony paused as they passed the kitchen, where Morgan was still sitting at the table, playing with her stuffed Spider-Man toy.

“Ok.”

“Ok,” Peter echoed.

They went down to the lab, where Rhodey and Pepper were waiting. They both gave Tony a hug while Bruce set up the machine. Tony gave Peter another long hug as well, then dutifully stood where Bruce told him to.

There was a flash, some smoke, and eight-year-old Tony was gone. In his place stood the Tony Peter knew so well, with his crows feet and gray hair and reading glasses.

Tony blinked, looking around. “Pep, when did you get here? Bruce? What happened?”

Peter stepped forward and hugged him. He’d liked young Tony but he’d missed his Tony every minute. He liked being the one to bury his face in Tony’s shoulder, having Tony cup the back of his neck and hold him there.

“Kid? You ok?”

“Yeah,” Peter sighed. He could hear the others making a tactical retreat behind him, but still didn’t pull away from Tony, and Tony didn’t make him. He’d learned to appreciate Peter’s clinginess.

“Hey, are you and Pepper going to have more kids?” Peter blurted.

Tony did pull away now, a look of surprise on his face. “Where did that come from?”

Peter shrugged, tucking himself under Tony’s arm as they made their way out of the lab. “I’ve always wanted a little brother.”

Tony snorted. “I already have two absolutely terrible children, I can’t handle a third.”

“Hey.”

Tony shook his head, tightening his arm around Peter’s shoulders. “I guess you never know, kiddo. Life is full of surprises.”

Peter huffed a laugh, thinking about the last day he’d spent with a miniaturized Tony. “Don’t I know it.”

Chapter Text

Peter peeks his head over the edge of the roof, looking down at the mass of people below him. He’s there for security reasons—not that anyone had asked him to be there, but having this many important people in one place usually meant someone with a grudge was going to be there too. He’s had a bad feeling all morning.

There are three different news stations out front, a couple dozen reporters, and, behind the taped-off barricade, even more teeming public with their phone cameras aimed at the doors of the United Nations headquarters.

“We’re here live in front of the UN Headquarters,” Peter can hear one news reporter saying over the dull roar of the crowd, the microphone held close to her mouth to be heard. “Representatives of nearly one hundred nations are inside along with billionaire Tony Stark, the leader of the Avengers, to ratify the altered Sokovia Accords. Secretary Ro—”

He loses track of her voice as the murmur of the crowd grows into a melee of shouting for attention. The doors open, a couple security guards walk out, followed by Tony Stark, dressed in a three-piece suit and already shoving sunglasses onto his face. Peter snorts as he watches Happy glare at anyone that shouts at Tony too loudly or seems too eager with their camera flash.

Tony seems relaxed enough, even though he keeps his head ducked and doesn’t answer any questions. Peter is familiar enough with the man by now to notice that a lot of the tension that’s been building in his shoulders for the last several weeks is gone now. The Accords must have passed then. Peter smiled behind his mask. He knew they would.

His smile falls as a prickle races up his spine, making the hair on the back of his neck stand on end.

Peter jumps to his feet, trying to see anyone suspicious, anyone with a hand in their jacket. He can’t see, there are too many people and too much noise and all he knows is that Tony’s in danger.

He jumps from the roof, swinging a web out to get to Tony. He lands in a roll then springs up, ignoring Tony’s confused, “Spidey?” behind him as he sticks his hand out on instinct and catches the rock that is about to make contact with Tony’s head.

The crowd falls silent except for the rapid fire clicking of camera shutters.

Tony looks at Peter, looks at the rock in his hand, and says, “Huh.” He sounds almost amused, but Peter isn’t.

Peter bounces the rock between both hands. It’s big, about the size of a baseball, and smooth. Probably from the manicured gardens that line the UN plaza.

It almost hit Tony in the temple. At the right angle, at the right speed...

“Are you alright, Mr. Stark?” he asks quietly. The reporters lean in closer.

“Fine, Spidey,” Tony says, shrugging, as if people throwing rocks at him isn’t that unusual. “Thanks for the save. You know you could have come to the actual signing, right? You did get my invitation, I assume?”

A murmur ripples through the crowd.

“I’d look ridiculous wearing a suit over my suit,” Peter forces out, attempting to play the part of bantering, light-hearted Spider-Man while his head still spins because he can’t believe that someone would... At Tony? When he’s unprotected, when he’s not even looking?

“Get him in the car, Happy,” Peter finally says, peering up at the crowd, scanning the faces, listening to the mass of heartbeats.

“Kid,” Tony says, but Happy takes his elbow and marches him forward. Peter waits until he hears the car door close, then he turns to the commotion happening as a man tries to push desperately through the crowd, a man with a pale face and sweaty forehead, with a too fast heartbeat and with people looking at him in shocked surprise.

Peter slings a web, leaps, and lands in front of him just as he reaches open sidewalk.

He stops short, his eyes wide, glancing around him to try to find an escape.

“This yours?” Peter asks casually, tossing the rock between his hands. The man shakes his head. People shift closer, holding phones out as far as their arms will reach to catch the conversation.

“If you had planned this, you would have brought a gun,” Peter says, tilting his head. “Heat of the moment? Saw an opportunity?”

The man swallows. He’s taller than Peter but that doesn’t matter. Peter could take him with both hands tied behind his back and they both know it. He doesn’t try to run again.

“He deserved it,” the man snaps, but his voice shakes. “He’s a coward. He claims to be a superhero but when has he actually helped anyone?”

“Are you from New York?” Peter asks, incredulous.

The man blinks in surprise. “Yeah.”

“Ok, so when Tony Stark spent hours fighting aliens in the streets, that wasn’t helping?” Peter says, raising his voice so the cameras and reporters that have inched toward them can hear. “When he personally paid for buildings to be repaired and streets to be cleared, that wasn’t helping? When he flew a nuclear bomb into a wormhole—thinking he was going to die—to save Manhattan, that wasn’t helping?”  

The man opens his mouth, but Peter plows forward, taking a step closer. “You would be dead if it weren’t for him. Your family would be dead. And this is how you repay him?” Peter asks, gesturing with the rock he still has clenched in his hand. “Throwing a rock at his head when he isn’t even looking? You could have killed him. And who is the world going to turn to the next time something like the Battle of Manhattan happens, or the Mandarin, or Sokovia? You?”

The man blanches, looking terrified at the very thought.

“That’s what I thought,” Peter hisses. He hasn’t been this angry in a long time. His heart is pounding in his ears and he thinks if he wasn’t being filmed right now, he might actually punch the guy in the face. “I’ve been in battles with Tony. I’ve fought with him. I’ve seen him get out of that suit covered in blood and bruises from getting thrown around and still look after every one of his teammates before himself.”

Peter looks at the faces of the rest of the people, listening intently. Peter doesn’t do speeches, ever, but Spider-Man is different. Spider-Man is listened to, and for Tony’s sake, he has something to say right now.

“I love New York, every part of it. Even the dirty streets and outrageous prices.” A chuckle ripples through the crowd. “But I want nothing to do with a New York that isn’t grateful to Tony Stark. He’s saved the whole world, sure, but he’s saved us more times than most of you probably know. He just saved it again with the Accords and I personally saw how hard he worked, how much he cared. So the next time some coward with a rock or a bad headline comes around thinking they’re going to hurt Iron Man, I’ll be ready to protect him. And I hope the rest of you will too.”

Peter looks at the man in front of him again, who shrinks back just a little as Peter raises the rock in his hand. Then he turns, reels his hand back, and chucks it as hard as he can against the concrete side of the building, where it shatters into powder.

The man turns so white Peter honestly thinks he might faint, but he doesn’t find out because Happy pulls up next to him at that moment.

“Get in, Spider-Man,” he says and Peter quickly complies as the reporters begin shouting questions again, at him this time. 

He slides into the back so quickly he bumps into Tony, tries to pull away, then bumps into him again as Happy peels away from the curb.

“Sorry,” Peter says, but Tony just laughs, puts a hand on his shoulder to still him as he tries to scramble away and put on his seatbelt at the same time.

“It’s fine, kid. Actually, I think I should probably be thanking you for that little speech there, kiddo,” Tony says, ducking his head and taking his sunglasses off.

“No, you don’t—”

“Pete, there’s a lot of reasons someone might hate me. I was not a good person for a long time before you met me and—”

“I don’t care, Mr. Stark,” Peter interrupts, pulling his mask off and scowling at Tony. “You’ve more than made up for it. You’ve... you’ve saved all of us a dozen times over!” His voice drops. “You’ve saved me.”

Tony gives a half smile. “Peter—”

“No, Mr. Stark. You deserve better than—than being called a coward and selfish. You deserve so much better,” Peter murmurs.

Tony’s smile softens as he looks at Peter.

“I’ve got better, kid. I’ve got you.”