Archive of Our Own ^beta

Anthony doesn’t even have a chance to knock on the balcony door before it’s flying open. Peter’s form is half blurred as he darts across his shoebox apartment, tugging a ratty hoodie on while simultaneously picking discarded laundry off the floor with his feet. Anthony presses the metal space on his chest that hides the reactor from view, sending the pieces of the suit into storage and resetting any surrounding security cameras in the same motion.

“Hey kiddo,” Peter says, voice muffled by grey fabric. “Is it Tuesday already?” 

“Nope,” Anthony makes sure to pop the last syllable as he saunters through the apartment. It’s almost eight at night, but his mentor seems to just be waking up—not unusual, with Spider-Man’s erratic patrol schedule. Peter’s arm shoots out to stop him as he rushes by, grasping the back of his head and dropping a quick kiss on top his unruly waves. Before the blood can so much as rush to his cheeks—an annoying side effect of the unbridled affection that he can never quite shake— Peter is gone again, disappearing into his bedroom. 

Grumbling under his breath while knowing full well Peter can hear ever put-upon word, Anthony makes his way into the crammed little kitchen. “Don’t even think about looking for coffee. I found your little stash in the box of peppermint tea. You’ve both got a problem, and it has to stop.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, old man. I’d hate to stunt my growth,” he calls back, but he’s already pulling the red step-stool into the pantry—‘MJ! Are you serious? I’m not four.’ ‘I know, I know. You’re four and a half, a true big boy. They just grow up so fast.’—and climbing on top. The peppermint tea was a red herring anyways. They both know that Peter won’t go near it, and that his aversion would make it the perfect hiding spot for all the expensive, imported coffee pods that Anthony hates, and that MJ won’t touch on principle. The true prize is the cheap dollar-store powder that they hide in the empty box of veggie crackers on the highest shelf. 

By the time he’s sipping coffee from the novelty, collectors edition Spider-Man mug he’d bought the man as a joke, Peter is stumbling out of his bedroom and collapsing on the couch. Scowling, Peter tips his head back to stare at him. “Are you kidding me? Where were you hiding that, Ant?”

“Hiding what?” Ant chugs the rest of his coffee before dropping the mug into the sink. He stalks towards the couch, planting himself on the edge farthest from his mentor. 

“I don’t know, aren’t you the boy-genius here?” Peter answers, eyebrows raised.

“It’s not gonna kill me.” He rolls his eyes.

“I know,” Peter hums, but something in the way his eyes flicker to the space just above his heart says otherwise. Before he can say anything in response, Peter’s hand is grasping his upper arm, and with one smooth, super-strength infused tug, Ant is collapsing into his side. He doesn’t bother fighting it like he usually would have, just presses his face into Peter’s chest and closes his eyes.

“What time do you have to work?” He grumbles, voice strained. It’s late, but Jameson isn’t known for his reasonable hours. Every once in a while, he’ll ask Peter to come in at three am.

“It’s my day off today, actually,” Peter says cheerily, tilting his head to rest on top of Ant’s.

“What’s with the manic rush, then?” He presses. It isn’t unheard of for Peter to skip meetings if he thinks Ant needs him. Get shot at a few times, and suddenly your hero is less awesome and more overbearing. Peter will get fired if he keeps it up. There’s only so much leeway being Spider-Man’s best photographer can earn him in Jameson’s beady eyes.

“MJ’s calling in a few minutes. She wants proof that I’m a responsible adult and can handle being away from my wife without getting stabbed or burning our apartment building to the ground. Can you believe that?” Peter scoffs, flinging up the arm not currently resting on Ant’s shoulders.

“Yes,” he deadpans.

“Traitor,” his mentor grouches, but squeezes Ant tighter to his side anyway. “Are you hurt?” He adds, like someone else might’ve asked Ant about his grades or the weather.

“No,” Ant sighs.

“Is your arc reactor bothering you?” Peter says, in that same nonchalant tone.

“Not any more than usual.” Ant brings a hand up to trace the hard metal, feeling the grooves and ridges even through the two black undershirts and dark dress-shirt. It’s just enough to hide the outline of the device, and more than able to keep the ghostly glow smothered and dimmed.

“You should get one of your shirt’s from your room. It might help.”

“Later, maybe.” The shirt’s do help. Maybe not to ease the pain—not really—but they make Ant feel like less of an imposter in his own skin. He’d watched Peter make them, carefully cutting the shirts to form around his reactor, and hand-stitching the edges of the holes so they won’t fray. Each shirt is just tight and breathable enough to press the raw skin surrounding the reactor into place, instead of pulling painfully away from the metal. The Parkers bought him one in every colour he could’ve imagined, and MJ takes great delight in seeing him wear the neon orange atrocity she’d picked for him herself. Still—he can’t wait to be twenty-five and strong, old enough to crack his chest open one more time and pull the shrapnel from his veins.

“Ok,” Peter hums, bringing his hand up to pass through Ant’s dark hair. 

The words are on the tip of his tongue, screaming and vulnerable. He wants to tell Peter that it wasn’t his fault—that without him Ant would’ve been long dead and forgotten. He wants to write scientific papers on how the man makes him feel safe and valuable and so seen, in a way that no-one else ever had—ever does. Except for maybe the memories of Jarvis, perfectly immortalized but still somehow wispy and static-ridden. Sometimes, Ant isn’t even sure that he’s so much as thanked Peter. He can’t bring himself to ask, can’t force even one of the words spinning through his mind to light.

Ant is slipping and weightless between the early, thin stretches of sleep when the first blaring notes of The Legally Blond Remix blare from Peter’s ancient iPhone. “MJ,” Ant grumbles, lazily turning his head to get a glimpse of the screen.

“Tony,” MJ grins. She looks like she’s just stepped out of the courtroom, black blazer buttoned up, and dark hair pulled into a low, curly bun.

“Peter,” Peter deadpans. “I’m here too, you know,” he pouts. “Your handsome, adoring husband?” 

MJ tilts her head, squinting. “Did you hit your head, Tiger? I don’t know where you pulled handsome from. Do we need to get your eyes checked?”

“His eyes are fine. I think he’s just senile,” Ant grunts. He has to hold back a gasp of laughter when Peter pokes him in the side, almost sending him flying off the couch.

Settling reluctantly back in place, he let his eyes drift shut again, entertained by the sound of light-hearted, familiar banter.

“Bye Tiger, I’ll be home early tomorrow morning,” MJ promises. “Tony, you should stay tonight. It’s late in New York. Peter will make breakfast.” Peter sighs, but doesn’t argue. “Love you, boys.” A little thrill rushes down his spine at the plural. Ant knows full well that MJ never says anything she doesn’t mean.

Peter tosses his phone back down on the couch, giving Ant’s bleary eyes a glimpse of his home-screen. It never stays the same for long—but today it’s a photo of Ant, hair stuck up one one side, face smudged with grease and grime, and goggles pushed up over his forehead. His eyes are scrunched closed in laughter, a wide grin plastered across his lips. The reactor in his chest is on full display. 

He can’t bring himself to complain to Peter about what a risk it is—what it would mean if someone saw it. He knows full well that Peter would never let that happen—and well, it’s a bit of a thrill to see himself on display there. In the last half year it’s been him alone, or him and MJ together. They’re always in increasingly embarrassing photos that Ant would’ve made anyone else delete—before throwing their phone away for good measure. A part of him had wondered if Peter changed it on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays when he knew Ant would be dropping by and would be there to tease—but it was Sunday afternoon.

“What’s wrong, Tony?”

Moving out from under Peter’s arm, Ant scowls. “I already told you, I didn’t do anything!” 

Peter only calls him Tony when he’s angry with him. It doesn’t happen often, in fact he can probably count the amount of times it’s happened on less than one hand. The first, and the most memorable was his first night as Iron-Man, shooting over Manhattan like a dying star. Spider-Man had found him sitting on a rooftop, staring over the moonlit city in his red and gold armour. 

Peter had been furious, and Ant had never seen that anger directed at him before. He would’ve taken off if not for the way Peter had demanded he stay put, calling him Tony and not Ant—but not Anthony either. The man’s voice had been hard and stern as he’d demanded to know what on Earth was going through his head. ‘You’re fourteen! Fourteen, Tony.’ He’d been surprised Peter even knew that, because last time he’d seen the man was almost a month before his birthday.

"You were fifteen, Spider-Man. I can do rocket science and you don’t think I understand basic math?"

"You’re right. I was fifteen, and that’s why I can’t let you do this. I can’t, Tony." His measured scolding had gotten louder and louder, hands flying in the air as he paced and practically vibrated with exhaustive rage. But he never invaded Tony’s space, didn’t scream at him or demean him, didn’t raise so much as raise his whirlwind hands in Tony’s direction. 

Tony had felt small and infantilized. The feeling was familiar— comforting in a strange, twisted way. So Tony had done what he always wanted to, and yelled back. "If you actually cared, you’d have been here before this!”

All at once the fire had died out. “I tried, Ant, I promise you I tried. I went to the mansion, I called. I couldn’t reach you, but I haven’t stopped trying,"  Peter had promised, something strange and desperate in his voice.

Tony scoffed. "You don’t have to lie to me. I’m not a child. I don’t even care, and I don’t know why you’re pretending to!" The lies had tasted bitter on his tongue, but his voice hadn’t wavered, even unsupported by the voice modulator. He’d been glad that the faceplate was down, that Peter couldn’t see the tears in his eyes.

"I’m not lying! I found your phone number kid, I’ve been calling every day," And that had made Ant falter, because his phone wasn’t supposed to get calls from unknown numbers, and yet there had been calls—from a wide variety of different numbers, sometimes more than three times a day. Ant thought that his number had hit a telemarketer’s list or been leaked to the press—and he wasn’t about to ask his Father to figure out how the calls were leaking through. He could’ve done it himself, but a part of him liked the deviation from monotony, the anticipation and surprise that came from a stupid unknown caller that he’d never pick up for anyways. It was pathetic, really. 

The thought that it could’ve been Peter had never so much as crossed his mind. He’d done everything he could top avoid thinking of the man, about how he’d almost been happier in tortured captivity than he’d been in years, all because of him. It had hurt to much to think that the second Peter wasn’t forced to be there, he’d chosen to leave and not look back.

Gaping uselessly underneath his helmet, Ant floundered. “Oh kid,” Peter had sighed, sounding so, so fond, before stepping closer and pulling Tony—suit and all-into a bone crushing, desperate hug. Even in the suit, Ant still didn’t brush Peter’s chin, easily engulfed by his arms. 

Ant is still Iron-Man, but he's safer. Afternoons are filled with time in Peter’s makeshift workshop, programming AIs and making gauntlets, while evenings are spent stopping muggings and bank robberies and dodging Peter’s frantic, worried calls—at least until Spider-Man shows up to get him out of trouble, ruthlessly efficient and unusually quip-less and silent. The in-between time, without Peter or Iron-Man and a summer induced lack of school, feels lacklustre and dull. The emptiness is suffocating, leaving Ant fuelled only by restless, all-encompassing longing and anticipation for those three days a week where he can feel something other than caffeine jitters and mind-melting sleep-deprivation.

He’s tempted by his parents’ untouched, overflowing alcohol stashes once or twice—when the empty mansion feels looming and suffocating, almost claustrophobic despite being so, so empty and vast. He’d told MJ that once—casual and thoughtless as they chatted over coffee, not quite waiting, but still wishing for Peter to come home—that big empty spaces left something in him tense and unsettled. She’d looked at him over the rim of her mug, dark eyes a little sad, and said that it was normal. That lot’s of people had agoraphobia. The way she’d given it a name so easily had settled something inside him, something unsure and afraid—but he hadn’t touched a drop of liquor, and the one time he had, Peter had found him. Ant still didn’t quite know how.

Some primal, buried parts of him crave the buzz. In the uncertain, shaky before it had been a new thing, a budding addiction. He’d gone to exactly one party, just the night before everything happened, and he drowned in the vibrating, drunk freedom. Ant knows that it probably would’ve consumed him, sooner or later. If it hadn’t happened, or if Peter hadn’t been there, and Tony had somehow survived anyway, or if his nightmares had come true, and his hero forgot all about him. 

He’d only given in once, but the devastated look on Peter’s face as he’d held Ant’s hair off his forehead and traced circles over his shoulder blades had stopped him from doing it again. Every time he looked at a bottle, all he could think of was the smoky memories of Peter lifting him off the bathroom floor, and tucking him into his bed in the Parker apartment. Flashes of Peter pressing a light kiss to his forehead before settling down beside him to keep watch, sorting through his unruly curls. 

It’s pathetic how much he craves the affection, but at the end of the day he also wants Peter’s pride. Look at you go, Mr. Mechanic. The grin he supplies whenever Ant offers his newest invention up for him to appraise, or even helps make an edible supper to appease MJ’s wrath over whatever shenanigan they’d been up to that day. Drinking wouldn’t get him that, so was it really worth it? 

Instead, he squeezes himself under belly of cars in Howard’s garage and methodically takes them apart and pieces them back together. He steps into his suit, relishing in the enclosed darkness—a new cage of his own design, a prison he can control. He goes to the cramped apartment, tucks himself into small spaces—his favourite being the one at Peter’s side that sometimes feels molded just for him.

The sound of Peter’s low, unbothered voice brings him back to reality. “I know, buddy. I’m asking you what’s got you so upset,” he soothes, reaching out to cup the side of Ant’s face in his smooth hand. Peter can’t get callouses or scars—not like Ant does. To his horror, tears flood his eyes, forcing him to blink them back rapidly.

“Nothing,” Ant snaps. Pulling his cheek from Peter’s gentle grasp. “You’re so fu—,” Ant falters, “You’re so paranoid.”

“Weaponized anxiety,” Peter sings, voice straining with the faux cheer. “It’s accurate, though,” he adds, prodding.

“Can’t you just trust me?” His voice comes out more begging than intended. Please, just believe me. Let me pretend for a while. Please. I can’t loose this, not yet. Not ever.

“Of course I trust you,” Peter sighs. “Just not when it comes to taking care of yourself.” 

Scoffing, Tony makes to stand up. This wasn’t what he’d wanted. He’d wanted normalcy, and naivety and a false sense of security. “That’s rich, coming from you,” he spits. Maybe this is the way to do it? Shatter the fantasy, cut the ties on his own terms. Ant might be a mechanic, but Anthony Stark had always been better at breaking things than fixing them. 

“Ant.” The softness in Peter’s voice stalls the vitriol building on his tongue. His mentor doesn’t deserve it. Anthony can scream and curse and lie all he wants, but in the end the only person that it would help—that it would hurt—is himself.  Deep down, Peter would be glad to be rid of him either way.

“I’m leaving!” He shouts, moving in quick strides towards the door. He doesn’t have to look back to know that he’s being followed.

“Ant.” Peter’s voice is stuck somewhere between pleading and stern, that awkward line he always seems to toe when Tony’s acting like this. Suddenly, all Ant can think about is the image of himself on Peter’s lock-screen, the version of him that had never met a problem Peter couldn’t solve. A part of him wonders if Peter can fix this too, even when everything else tells him it’s impossible. 

As if reading his mind, “We’ll fix it bud,” Peter pleads. “You just gotta talk to me.” What should’ve sounded comforting coming from Peter, who is always so earnest—so sincere, instead feels condescending and ridiculing. 

The bitter, bleeding parts of him want to prove Peter wrong—want to be right when everything else is so far out of his control. It’s that feeling that makes him stop, and whirl to look up at his mentor. His chest is heaving like he’s run a marathon, eyes stinging with unshed, angry tears. 

“I’m going to MIT,” Anthony says, voice flat.

“Ok…” Peter’s brows furrow. “Is that not something you want for yourself? Because that’s alright, bud. University isn’t the end-all-be-all, and you’ve got lots of time to decide—“

“—No,” he interrupts, steely. “I mean—I’m going to MIT. First semester starts Thursday.”

He watches Peter falter, watches him blink in surprise. It’s usually easy to see his mind work, to watch the wheels behind his eyes grind and turn at a speed Ant can only dream of. There’s none of that in the moment, Peter’s face is entirely blank. “You’re kidding?” 

“Dad says it’s about time I got off my ass and make something of myself. He told me two hours ago, apparently the one-way ticket to Massachusetts has been booked for months,” he adds, searching Peter’s face for any kind of reaction. 

“Massachusetts,” Peter echoes. “What?  But—Ant, you’re fourteen. Fourteen! You can’t—can’t go to—what?” Peter’s face scrunches, before the careful blankness gave way to devastation. The sight is so unexpected that it steals the breath from his lungs, suffocating him on the spot. When he opens his mouth to try and breathe he can only manage a gasping, guttural sob. That’s all it takes for the man to surge forward, leaving Ant falling apart in his arms.

The first time Peter had held him, Ant had known that the safest place in the world was the man’s embrace. He’d shelved it with all the other irrefutable facts and figures stored in his mind. His cool touch had eased the mind-melting fever, had staved off the threat of bullets and fresh-water torture and darkness. Being held by him made Ant feel protected, shielded, invincible. He’d drowned in the feeling for three months, and when it was over he’d craved it like a drug. 

He’d built Mark 2 because Stark men are made of iron. He’d built it because he wanted to be invincible again.

His Mother hadn’t bothered to come home from her latest island vacation while he was gone. She’d spent his disappearance making headlines at celebrity birthday parties and sparking cheating scandals, as if she wasn’t married—wasn’t a mother to a kidnapped and ransomed child. When he’d returned home, she’d had her secretary send him a note. She hadn’t bothered to dictate it either, because it arrived to Ant’s hospital bed written in English, no trace of his Mother’s native Italian. He hadn’t seen or heard his Mother in close to six years now, if you didn’t count the gossip channels relaying her every move—hiding from Howard in plain sight. Hiding from Ant too. It was easier to live in the eidetic memories of Italian lullabies and the time when he was still tiny and doll-like, something his mother could deem worth her time.

He’s wondered, sometimes—absently—what it would’ve been like if his Father had been taken with him. If instead of one of the many photographers at the Stark Expo, it had been Howard that had pulled him from the shrapnel-covered wreckage of the stage, if it had been him who had held Ant together, refused to let him go even in the face of guns and terrorists. Him that bargained his way along, with promises of medical knowledge—learned from nights spent in boredom, consuming textbook after textbook of random topics in attempts to quiet the endless thirst for stimulation. Him who’d performed open heart surgery on Ant in the back of a transport truck and in the cement basement of an abandoned warehouse in the middle of nowhere. Howard who’d done it with nothing but knowledge of outdated med-school diagrams, and makeshift tools. If it had been him that hooked Ant up to a car battery, then moved to soothe him when he cried, delirious with pain and terrified.

On some level, Ant knows he would’ve died if it had been Howard—that his Father’s mind is limited to machines and long-dead super soldiers, leaving room for nothing else, not even curiosity. Not even Anthony. If the shrapnel hadn’t killed him, it would’ve been the hopelessness, the lonely agony. Peter had hugged him and comforted without even knowing him, easily and freely and whole-heartedly. He’d fought to keep him safe, shielded him with his own body, learned a language overnight with the goal of communicating with their captors, of bargaining for Ant’s safety. He’d helped build Iron-Man, helped him shape the arc reactor—he had been proud of it. 

Howard hadn’t even hugged him when he’d returned. He’d patted his shoulder once when he’d arrived at the mansion after the lonely week in the hospital. That hand had retracted as if burned when he’d spotted the reactor in Ant’s chest. He’d scowled and scoffed. Can’t you do anything for yourself, boy? Cover that atrocity up, I don’t want to see it again. Never-mind that Anthony had revolutionized the arc, made it small and portable and affordable. Had done it from half-glimpses of his Father’s blueprints and ramblings. His Father had left the mansion an hour later, jetting out on his latest expedition in search of Captain Steven Rogers.

So Ant’s wondering shifted from Howard to Peter. Captivity had been one thing. Maybe his Father would’ve been proud if he’d been trapped too, would’ve hugged him under the full, high-definition pressure of the circumstances. Maybe Peter would be more like Howard if Ant saw him again, in freedom. Slow to pride and even slower to offer scraps of detached affection. 

That had been proven wrong easily. The man had been furious with him, but he’d still been gentle, and kind and caring. It had shattered Ant’s worldview—because if Peter, the greatest man he’d ever met, the one he wanted to grow up to be, twenty-five and strong—treated Ant like something worth his time, where did that leave Howard? Because Howard wasn’t better than Peter—nobody was. And that meant that there had to be something wrong with him—not Ant—or at least not Ant alone. Not if Peter could care about him so easily, even if Ant was far from perfect.

Peter half lifts him off the carpeted ground of his apartment’s entranceway, leading them both to towards couch. “It’s ok, you’re ok,” he murmurs, spilling lies and promises into the crown of his head. Ant is half-cradled in his arms, sobbing and shaking, and scrambling to pull at Peter’s clothes, pull himself closer towards safety and away from the end of the world. “I’ll fix it, I’ll fix it Ant,” Peter swears, over and over.

Ant doesn’t believe him, he can’t. Because as much as he wants it to be true—for as often as he wishes it, quietly and secretly, Peter isn’t his Dad. His Father is stubborn and uncaring, the boy can beg and beg and he would never falter. So he hadn’t even tried. His Father had laid down the law, and Anthony had taken it lying down. He’d fled from the mansion the second his father’s supercar pulled out of the drive, almost forgoing the suit and diving off his balcony in his panicked haze. Ant had been on fire, lightheaded and stumbling while he’d shut down the cameras, and stood in place to dawn the suit. 

He’d run to Peter, but he hadn’t been foolish enough to expect him to be able to do anything about it. Howard is rich, and influential. Peter and MJ aren’t poor—she’s a successful mutant and mutate defence lawyer in NYC of all places, so they definitely aren’t struggling. It wouldn’t be enough, though. Nothing ever would be, where Howard is involved.

Hope is a waste of time that Ant would much rather spend soaking in the last stretches of New York, the city he loves—of Peter’s presence. MIT will mean the end of everything, the end of his time with the Parkers, the end of Iron-Man. He can’t take the suit with him, he’d have no place to store it or fix it, no way to build a loading dock to even be able to suit up—not like in the mansion, or the Parker apartment. Even if he could, Iron-Man is already on Howard’s radar, the suit too much of a technological feat and far too expensive to not be. If the hero popped up in Massachusetts, Howard would know his identity in a heartbeat. Ant would be gone for years, he’d come back and be a stranger to the Parker’s all over again.

Eventually, his sobbing tapers off, thinning out into the occasional heaving gasp and unbecoming sniffle. Peter never makes to move away, leaving one hand tangled in his hair, and the other wrapped around his shoulders. The stretches of sleep that had threatened to sweep him away earlier wrap their tendrils around him once again, pulling him deeper and deeper towards the dark—in the way they can never quite seem to when Peter isn’t around. 

The gentle tug of Peter rearranging his limbs brings him closer to the surface, a belligerent whine slipping from between his lips. “You’re ok Ant, go back to sleep,” Peter breaths, scooping him up and off the couch. Ant is barely jostled by the man’s graceful stride through the apartment, leading them towards Ant’s bedroom. Will it still be his when he comes back to New York? He feels himself being lowered onto the soft twin bed and tucked underneath the Spider-Man comforter Peter bought him in retaliation for the mug. 

He thinks he’s dreamt it up when Peter presses a chaste kiss to his forehead, and tucks a loose curl behind his ear. He know’s he’s dreaming when the last thing he hears is a whispered, “I love you, Anthony.”

“Whoo!” Ant shouts, cutting a sharp loop through the air just in time to dodge a spray of bullets. “What are you, a stormtrooper?” Immediately, he hates himself for that comment, “Ew, wait no forget I said that--“ he calls, spinning to fly backwards and fire off a round of repulser blasts at the men. Two of them fall to the ground instantly, knocked clean out, and he clips the arm of a third.

He’d been out for a quick spin to test out his new jet-boots when he’d stumbled—yes, Peter! Stumbled, I didn’t plan this!—on what looked like some sort of weapons transport. There’d been more men than he would’ve expected, around fifteen loading up the back of a truck with piles of STARK brand weapons. Obviously illegally acquired—Howard wouldn’t be getting a cut of this deal—and just the kind of bone Ant liked to pick. 

“Young Sir, your curfew is in twenty minutes. Would you like for me to contact Mister Parker?” Jarvis’s voice spilled from the suit’s earpiece, sending an immediate scowl to his lips.

“Are you kidding me, J? You’re my AI—you should know that I think the whole curfew thing is absolute bull—woah!“ His angry tirade is cut off by a whole-ass missile, exploding a couple meters to his left against the brick wall of the boarded up warehouse. Ant can’t bring himself to be too sad about the damage, personally he’d be glad to see every one of those old buildings demolished. 

“What the hell, guys? Where did you even get those?” His next round of blasts is more targeted, another two drop. Despite his complaints, the threat of yet another grounding—why does he even let Peter do it? It’s not like the man has any actual authority over him—has him less thrilled about the tactical joyride. 

“Might I suggest scanning the area for a clearer understanding of their available weaponry?” Jarvis offers, his voice still a little too lifeless and flat. Peter promised to help him work on it the next day, and the reminder only serves to make his slight irritation stronger. He rolls his eyes, shooting a little higher in the air to dodge the twin missiles heading towards him. 

“You’ve got no sense of adventure. I let you talk to Peter too much—he’s sapped all the fun right out you,” Ant groans, jetting overtop of the men and firing at their backs. He spends the next few minutes playing battleship with them, dodging their aimless attacks and trying to hit them before they duck inside or behind the building and array of armoured trucks. He’s a little peeved with how long it’s taking—what should be quick work made harder by the fact he hasn’t actually slept in close to four days now. 

Ant had finally figured out how Peter was getting access to his vitals—the antique analogue watch Peter had gifted him on a random day in January. The look on his face, somewhat sad and endlessly proud had had Ant accepting the gift with almost no argument—and had swiftly and delightedly disabled the function. He supposes he could’ve simply taken the watch off, but he’d promised Peter he wouldn’t. Ant spent the next few days reaping the benefits, but obviously he’d overdone it.

That fact becomes even more apparent when the power to the boots he’d spent the last few days pouring over cuts out entirely. “Woah!” He gasps, falling half a story before righting himself, using the palms of the suit to keep himself tentatively afloat. His heart is in throat, a new surge of panicked adrenaline flooding his veins. “Jar, divert power from all unnecessary systems. Get the jets going again,” he grunts, barely managing to escape the next missile. 

“Unable to process the command. The boots are disconnected from the power supply entirely,” Jarvis answers.

“How the hell did I screw that up?” Ant yelps, incredulous. “We’re gonna have to land ‘er J, any way we can make it to the roof?” 

“You should be fi—“ Jarvis’ voice cut out all at once, the body of the suit locking up and dimming. Instantly, Ant’s hurtling towards the ground. “Shit! Shit!” He shouts, flailing wildly. It was just his luck that they’d managed to get their hands on an EMP, shorting out the capacitors in his suit in one fell swoop. The loss of his boots is nothing in comparison to a dead suit. “C’mon, c’mon, c’mon!” He begs, praying that the arc reactor would pick up the slack like it’s supposed to. It was probably a dumb idea to have used any other power sources at all—he’d be fixing that ASAP. The fall was too shallow to kill him— but if he landed wrong—well, paralysation might just be worse than death in his case. Maybe he needed a parachute?

He smashes into the ground, splitting the cement and the air with a blood-curdling scream. Lightning bolts of pain run up and down his arm, sending tears to his eyes. He can’t even shift to take the weight off the break—pinned by the deadlocked suit. It’s bad luck, managing to land the exact right way to somehow break bones even inside his gold-titanium alloy cage. What’s even worse is that he’s stuck, waiting for the men he’d been fighting to finish him off. Or—if he’s the good kind of lucky, the suit will finally do what it’s supposed and let the arc reactor power it back up. 

Shouts and gasps fill the air, the rounds of bullets going from sporadic to never-ending, but they aren’t firing at him, and that can only mean—“Kid! You’re so grounded, it’s not even funny,” Peter’s voice fills his ears. He’s blind within the inactive suit, but that doesn’t stop him from relaxing and letting out a hysterical laugh. He’s being maneuvered out the crater, somehow both mad and thrilled at Peter’s assistance. He knows that the older man is angrier than his teasing tone is letting on, but that he’ll save the berating for when Anthony isn’t stifling cries of pain. 

“What! Why?” He knows why.

“I’ve got a list. One, you’re out past curfew—“

“I was obviously a little caught up—“

“Two, you knew you were gonna be late, and decided not call me—“

“ I had it under control—“

“Obviously,” And ok, that actually pisses him off a bit.

“Asshole,” he spits.

Peter ignores him. “Three, you disabled the vitals tracker in your watch, and proceeded to avoid sleeping to the point at which you literally can’t function—“

“You are so overbearing, can’t you get off my back for five minutes!?” He shouts, but the last few words are cracked and thinned by a cry of pain.

“And last but not least, you’re hurt, Mr. Man,” Peter’s voice softens. “Piloting the suit is gonna be hard with a broken arm.” And that almost pushes Ant over the edge and into full blown crying, because if he isn’t being Iron Man, does that mean he won’t see Peter? He goes over for suit upgrades and work-shop time three days a week, but if he doesn’t need to be there… He can’t bring himself to respond, too scared of what come out.

He blinks tears away, and when he opens his eyes Peter’s mask is staring back at him, eerie lenses narrowed and soft. The man’s busted the face-plate off, revealing Ant’s face. Peter’s gloved hand cups his cheek for a moment, “You’re ok, bud. We’ll fix it,” and then the suit is opening with a dull hiss, Peter’s managed to get at the manual release switch. He heaves Ant up and out of the suit, and despite his best efforts, Ant’s arm is still jostled by the movement. He muffles a shout, and it’s the straw that finally sends the tears down his face for real. “Sorry kiddo, sorry,” Peter soothes. “We’ll go now, Ned’s almost here. He’ll take the suit home, and you can spend your impending lock-down fixing it, huh?”

It’s reflex by this point, to wrap his arm around Peter’s neck and hide his face from view. This song and dance is more familiar than either of them would like it to be. Swinging through the city with Peter is lightyears away from the Iron-Man suit. It sends his stomach up and down, more roller coaster than rocket, but it’s just as fun. He always gets a little swept up in the blind free-falling, the sharp, short bursts of heart-stopping energy. It’s why it takes him so long to notice that they’re not going the right direction to get to the Parker apartment—and by so long he means that they’re literally climbing through an unfamiliar window. 

“What?!” He whisper yells, a little delirious with pain and panic.

“We’re good bud, just going to see Aunt May,” Peter promises—but the reassurance does absolutely nothing to soothe his anxiety. Instead it ratchets up by two-hundred percent. 

Peter’s Aunt May is practically a fairy-tale, built up by story after story in that place, and even more in the after. MJ and Ned had been similar, but he’d met them so long ago that star-studded imaginings of them are long-since replaced by real people, just as glowing and fantastical—but real nonetheless. May Parker is still a hero in a story. She’d been home when they were gone, waiting for Peter to come back to her. She’d been there for the brief period after—when Ant had been worried that Peter had never been real at all. But she’s a travelling nurse who’d shipped back out for her next position just before Ant finished Mark 2. 

This was just about the worse way Ant could imagine meeting her.

“Peter!” A woman’s voice comes from deeper inside the apartment. She sounds more exasperated than frazzled or surprised—which is probably par the course for a nurse. A short woman with cascading brown hair, streaked with grey rushes into the room. She’s wearing wide, round glasses and a long, bellbottomed jeans. Somehow, she looks both younger and older than Ant had  imagined her. 

“Oh!” Her jaw drops for a second, and suddenly her pace is doubling. “Is this Ant? I told you to bring him to dinner! This is not dinner, Peter,” she chides, stopping just in front of them. Ant blinks at her with wide, curious eyes, flickering between her and his mentor. Peter slides the window closed behind him and tugs his mask from his face.

“Sorry May,” he apologizes, bending down to kiss her cheek. “We’ll do dinner another time. I think Ant’s arm is broken,” he explains, leading Ant through the apartment and settling him down on a worn, brown couch. The apartment is smaller than Peter’s, but just as warm. Photos line the walls, filled with images of a younger Peter, and May. There’s a few with two other men and a woman Ant can’t recognize, but can easily guess the identities of. 

May Parker sighs, mumbling something under her breath before settling beside Ant on the couch. Her smile is soft when she looks at him, the expression on her face closer to the one she wears looking at Peter than the way one might look at a stranger. “Hi, Ant. I’ve been dying to meet you, but Peter—“ she pauses to offer her sheepish nephew a sharp look, “—never quite got around to passing my invite along.”

Hearing her call him Ant should feel wrong and strange in the same way it does when anyone other than Peter calls him that. He much prefers Tony—the name MJ apparently gave him instead of the one Peter had—insists on it even. But for some reason, it doesn’t bother him.

He offers a tentative smile, surprised that she even knows he exists. “Hi, Mrs. Parker,” he says, his voice coming out unusually and pathetically shy. He can feel Peter’s eyes on him, but can’t quite bring himself to look up and see the expression on his face. 

“Call me Aunt May, kiddo,” she laughs, “Or just May, if you’re not comfortable with that,” she adds, absently. She’s not looking at his face as she says it, she’s staring at his arm. Aunt May—May—doesn’t seem bothered by his stunned silence, just keeps talking, lightly and easily in the same way Peter does. 

“Is it alright if I touch your arm?” She asks, gently.

Surprised to be asked at all, Ant offers up a dumb, “oh, yes.” Her hands are gentle and deliberate as she grasps his forearm, carefully and gently maneuvering it and pressing lightly. When he hisses in pain, she hums sympathetically and lowers his arm back down.

“Does it look ok?” Peter’s voice is rushed and anxious. He’s changed out of suit and returned from wherever he’d disappeared—Ant hadn’t even noticed him go—and sits at his side, a hand on the back of his neck. 

“I think it’s just fractured. It shouldn’t even need to be shifted into place,” she assures, meeting his eyes and then Peter’s over his head.

“You sure?” Peter prods.

“Yes,” May sighs, rolling her eyes. “I’ve treated you enough times to know what I’m talking about, even without an X-Ray—though if I can convince you to…” she trails off, seeing the horrified look on Ant’s face. “It’s fine,” she assures, smile soft. “As long as you keep a close eye on it, and let us know about any unusual pain it should heal within two months. You’ll have to wear a brace, but unless it gets infected you’ll be good as new—even without a trip to the hospital.”

“Infected!” Peter sounds horrified.

“Not everyone is you,” May reminds, exasperated. To Ant, she says, “He’ll be fine. I’ll go grab the brace I brought home for Peter. I don’t think he’s even used it once, so you’ll be doing my poor thrifty heart a favour!” She singsongs, sliding off the couch and meandering down the hall, but not before squeezing Ant’s hand between both of hers and running her hand over the top of Peter’s head. Ant’s a little dazed, and that feeling easily overshadows the sharp pain.

“She’s great, huh?” Peter whispers, resting his cheek on top of Ant’s head. 

“Yeah,” Ant matches Peter’s reverent tone, at least until he says, “So much better than you. I think she’s tied with MJ for best Parker.”

Peter’s laugh is loud and heartfelt, and it forces laughter from Ant’s chest in response. “Boy genius, I’m telling you,” his mentor breathes. Ant can tell Peter is pleased, but he can’t quite guess why. It certainly wasn’t the insult, as teasing as it obviously was, but he’s feeling too foggy to really think about it.   

May flutters back into the room, carrying a black and red brace and a bottle of Advil in one hand, and a glass of water in the other. “I’ve got ibuprofen, and it should help at least a little. You can take two,” she says, before passing the container to Peter to open and setting the water down on the coffee table.

“Here,” Peter says, dropping two pills into Ant’s hand. He doesn’t bother to lift his chin from where it rests on Ant’s head. Ant usually just swallows painkillers dry—it never quite feels right to wash the pills down with coffee—but he chases them down with the water to be polite.

“I’m gonna put the brace on for you—if that’s ok. I just gotta—switch this around,“ she pauses, picking his wrist up to tap the face of his watch with the pad of her finger. Her smile goes wistful, eyes flicking up to meet his. “You know, Peter’s never been too good at keeping track of his things. He tries—but—well—the only thing he could ever seem to keep in good condition was this.” She traces the leather band of the watch, unstrapping it with lithe, careful fingers. Ant’s holds his breath. He’d known—that Peter probably hadn’t just picked up a random timepiece from a pawn shop—but he’d never told Ant that it had been his.

“Ben was better at that sort of thing—methodical, ordered. He kept our heads on straight,” she laughs, sounding more joyful than sad. “When Peter started wearing his watch—I was a little afraid that—sorry baby, you know how you are—it’d get broken.” She starts to fix the watch onto his other wrist. Ant couldn’t breath if he wanted to. He wants to yell at her to stop, to rip the watch off his wrist and push it into Peter’s chest—rising and falling easily and slowly against the side of Ant’s back—because Peter made a mistake—Ben Parker’s watch doesn’t belong on his—Anthony Stark’s—wrist—there’s no way—he’ll break it—ruin it. Peter has to know that—has to know that he’d screwed up. He’s just too kind to admit it—to take it back. Ant wants him to take it back—because he can’t live up to Peter—even though he’ll spend his whole life trying to—so there’s no way he can ever—ever—live up to Ben.

“Ben bought it randomly one day—out shopping with Richard—pressured right into it when he happened to stare for a little too long. It wasn’t anything special, except that it was his—you know? But—it’s still perfect. Right where it needed to be. And when he told me he’d given it to you—I knew that hadn’t changed.” And he’d stopped crying forever ago, but suddenly the tears are threatening to come back in full force—because he wants her to be right so badly that it hurts. He wants May Parker—Peter’s superhero—to believe in him like that. He wants to be worth her surety.

“Of course it is,” Peter says, the words coming out easy and proud. Ant tilts his chin down, trying to hide the water in his eyes—even though he’d rather tilt his head up to see Peter’s face. “It needs a little maintenance—“ He stresses the word, because it’s not really maintenance when what he wants to ‘fix’ amounts to removing Ant’s perfect new settings, “—but we’ve got lot’s of time this week. Mr. Mechanic here is grounded.”

Ant’s beyond embarrassed to have Peter say that in front of Aunt May, but the way she snorts and mutters about turn tables under her breath eases the sting.

“I’m thinking a month—we’ll fix the suit and the watch in the workshop, but once that’s over you’re stuck in the apartment. No projects at home—or the mansion—so don’t even think about trying it,” Peter warns. 

He’s light-headed with relief—home, home, home—so instead of coming out biting, his, “We’ll see about that,” sounds breathy and light.

He wakes up to silence and pitch black darkness—not unusual in and of itself, but the fact that he actually feels somewhat rested is. Ant’s managed to kick every one of his blankets to the floor in his sleep, leaving his head hanging off the edge of the bed, and the rest of his body sprawled sideways. A groan slips from between his lips. His neck aches in protest as he sits up. 

Yawning, he stumbles over to his dresser, tugging off the day-old jeans and stripping his layers of shirts off. His dark green long-sleeve and black sweats replace them—smelling of scentless detergent and feeling slightly worn against his skin. The hinges of his door squeal in process as he swings it open, padding slowly down the hall. Ant peers inside Peter’s room, not really expecting to find anyone—he’s right—it’s empty, the only sign of life being the perpetually unmade bed. 

At the end of the hall, he can just barely glimpse the dim light radiating from the kitchen, mingling with the glow of his arc reactor. MJ is leaning against the counter, sipping a cup of coffee and thumbing through a novel. Her hair is falling in a wild halo around her head and dark bags hang under her eyes—she looks exhausted. She never sleeps well during flights. A seed of guilt plants itself in his stomach—because he knows why she’s still awake. 

She spots him lurking, but doesn’t so much as blink in surprise. Her smile is wry and amused. “Good morning, Trouble. Want some coffee?” The nickname feels less ironic than usual—when he’s the reason her husband is nowhere to be found in the middle of the night—why she’s not sound asleep in their bed. What he’s thinking must show on his face, because her eyes go soft and sad. 

“C’mere,” she instructs, gently. Ant obeys—because its MJ—crossing the room and moving to stand beside her at the island. When her gaze narrows, he tilts his head to fall on her shoulder. Her hand comes up to rest on his crown She’s still using the other to flip through the pages of her book.

“Morning. Where’s Peter?” He asks, after a few long minutes of peaceful silence. He knows Peter’s told her what’s happening—that she knows full well where he is.

“Out and about. You know him, the man can’t stay put,” she answers, unblinking. His heart drops lower into his stomach—he knew, he knew it—but. 

“He won’t be able to fix it,” he whispers. It feels wrong to say out loud—Peter’s pulled off the impossible before, but this time—

MJ hums, but doesn’t argue. “You don’t need to feel guilty about it.”

“I know,” he groans, “But I just want him to—“

“No,” she says gently. “You don’t need to feel guilty about not wanting to go.” He blinks, confused, because that isn’t—he doesn’t think that’s it.

“I don’t.” No response. “I don’t!” He insists, lifting his head to meet her eyes. She’s not looking at him, her eyes still tracing the words of her newest hyper-fixation.

“You do. Otherwise you’d be right out there with him—fixing it. The dream team.” Her words sting, but she says them without judgment. Facts are just facts with MJ. 

“Do you think I should go?” He’s not quite as good as her at keeping his tone steady and it shows.

She finally looks up at that—raising a brow. “You know, I have a hard time believing that IQ test sometimes.”

Ant snorts, “me too.” It comes out more self-depreciating than he wants it to. 

“You know what I do think, though?” She says, abandoning the book to cup his face between both her hands.” I think you believe that you need to do this. That you want to make Howard proud—and you want to be grateful for the opportunities he hands to you—the ones that other kids might never get.” She pauses. 

“Tony, I think that you want—you want him to love you the way Peter does.” He tries to pull away from her hands as if burned, but her touch doesn’t relent. He settles for looking away, like the lack of eye contact will hide the truth. Because maybe he feels guilty for that too—guilty that he can’t be content with just his Father, that he’s placed that pressure on his mentor and somehow still wants more from both of them. 

“But I know, that Peter is out there fighting for you, because he loves you, and that he wants you to fight for yourself too. If your Father really, honestly loves you, he’ll stop trying to show it in all the wrong ways. He’ll listen to you—“ her tone lightens, “besides,” her nose scrunches, “MIT isn’t going anywhere, and we all know that it was your plan anyway.”

That has him bursting into tears, sobbing and sniffing and trying to hide his face with in her hands. MJ doesn’t let him, just swipes his tears away with her thumbs. 

“Sorry—“ he chokes. “Sorry—I shouldn’t be—I haven’t stopped crying all day,” he grunts.

“That’s okay. Remember how much Peter cried during our nature documentary marathon? I was worried he’d drown,” she remarks.

He ignores her. “But I shouldn’t—“

“Why not?” 

“Because—because—“ He doesn’t have to say it for her to know what he’s thinking.

“Stark men might be made of iron,” she tilts his head up, her eyes searching his. She moves to press the gently place pads of her fingertips against the centre of his arc reactor. “But Parkers are all heart.”

And before he can process that—what it means— she’s returned to her book. MJ guides his head back into the nook between her head and shoulder. He buries his nose into her hair, hiding the beginnings of a blinding smile. “If you’re leaving today, you should still come back for dinner. We’ll be missing our promised breakfast, so Peter’s making your favourite.” He raises his brows, because Peter probably doesn’t know that yet.

Eventually, they move to spend the next few hours on the couch. He’s curled up beside her like a moody cat, watching the sun rise through half-hooded eyes. When it’s time for him to go—Peter’s still not back—he lets the suit assemble around him. Ant stifles his laughter when MJ takes the hard cover of the book she’s just taken off the shelf and taps it against the forehead of suit. “Supper, Trouble. Don’t be late.”

There’s a heart attack waiting for him back at the mansion. The pieces of the suit have just barely slotted themselves into their compartments when his bedroom door flys open, nearly coming right off its hinges. It hits the wall with a loud bang that has Ant flinching away. The heady scent of alcohol invades his senses, flooding the room—the liquor cabinet isn’t so untouched anymore. His Father is standing in the doorway, shoulders heaving and eyes wild. Howard’s suit jacket is rumpled, his white shirt stained with wine-red droplets—the same colour as the angry vessels in his eyes. He’s not holding a bottle—but it must be somewhere—just out of view. He prays its out of reach too. 

Ant forces the memories back—the ones from before—from when he was nine and his chest was unblemished—when Jarvis was more than a comforting ghost, and his parents at least pretended to present. He’d never thought that Howard would’ve come back to the mansion. Ant figured he’d be jet-setting across the world, already single-mindedly focused on searching for Mr. Rogers. He’d even wondered how he was going to get to the airport if his Father didn’t remember to send a chauffeur. Obviously—he was wrong to worry about that. There were much for pressing things to be fearful of.

“Anthony Edward—Stark—Where—where have—you—you been,” Howard slurs, eyes never quite focusing on Anthony. He bites his lip, trying to quell the sudden dryness of his mouth. His Father isn’t a messy drunk, he can play sober with the best of them, it just takes a second for him reset in front of an audience.

“I was—“ Anthony starts.

“And what the hell do you think you’re wearing?” His Father demands—buffering period over. He stomps forwards to press a hard finger into Anthony’s arc reactor, and it makes him wince with the phantom streaks of pain. It must show on his face, because his Father’s get’s redder, veins throbbing in his neck.

He’s about to answer, struggling to keep his shoulders back and meet Howard’s eyes when, “Cover that up.” 

Ant obeys. 

He buttons a black dress-shirt with deft, quick fingers. He forces them not to shake. “The watch too—godawful thing.” 

Anthony hesitates.

“Hurry!”

Anthony obeys.

He barely manages to set it on the bedside table before a large, calloused hand wraps itself around his wrist, sending him stumbling forward. Howard is storming out of his sterile, white room and into equally minimalist halls. He can feel bruises blooming along his skin. The suit’s repulsers are just a few steps away, lying in wait. Iron-Man isn’t afraid of anything—Iron-Man could fight this. But Anthony Stark isn’t Iron-Man. 

“I’m sorry, Father. I was—I was,” Anthony doesn’t mean to stutter, but his hip slams into the sharp edge of a decorative table. He nearly trips again when a vase tilts off the edge of it, forcing him to catch it and follow Howard in the same motion.

“Quiet,” Howard demands, voice hard and loud. This time there’s no employees to stand still and watch Anthony’s mouth slam shut, pink blotches of humiliation rising in his cheeks. It burns a little less that way. 

They stop in the kitchen—all glinting stainless steel and marble countertops. Nothing beyond the microwave, fridge, or freezer has been used in years—the chef’s cook in a separate one when they’re over—but there’s two bottles of red wine open on the counter. One crystal glass is stained pink, while its twin is still spotless and glittering under the chandelier lights. It looks presentable—neat even. Wine can’t be the only thing his Father’s drunk today, but none of that belongs in the classy display.

“Sit,” Howard orders, releasing Anthony and stepping forward to settle onto a backless leather barstool—posture, Anthony—he follows. He sits, leaving one stool between himself and his Father. Howard rolls up his sleeves, smoothes his hair back, and reaches forward for the bottle of expensive aged wine. He pours himself a glass that’s almost overflowing, and to Ant’s surprise, pours another with just as much. Something twists in his stomach, tight and coiled. He slides the glass towards Anthony before grabbing his own and swirling it carefully, bring it up to scent. He looks blankly at his own glass, then at his Father.

“Our last expedition ended quite disappointingly,” he muses, as if he they were business partners—not Father and son. As if Anthony isn’t the boy he just finished dragging through the halls and berating. “There were six casualties—which would’ve been worth it if anything were yielded from the journey, but oh well,” he sighs. 

Six more lives lost in the name of a hero who’d never asked for it.

“That’s—I’m sure the next one will go better,” Anthony amends, sitting rigid and still, not daring to look away from his Father—eye contact, Anthony—

“Yes, well—it’s really no matter. There’s always next time,” he says, nonchalant. At least until his eyes lock on Anthony’s untouched glass and narrow. “Drink it, boy. You’re more than old enough for a celebratory glass.” 

Ant, you’re fourteen.

He swallows hard, slowly reaching out and carefully bringing it towards his lips for a sip of the sweet poison. The way Howard’s eyes soften makes him do it again. One glass is nothing anyway—he won’t even feel the buzz. So while his Father waxes poetic and bemoans his—well, not short-comings. Howard doesn’t fall short of anything—Anthony coaxes the rest of the liquid down his throat as the afternoon slips away. When it’s empty—Howard fills it again—just as dangerously close to the rim as the last. 

Anxiety roars inside him, battled by the slight haze of alcohol. Smooth hands holding his hair back—the press of lips against his forehead. Howard’s attention comes quickly, his smirk even faster. Affection versus pride. He looks proud.

And who is Anthony meant to obey? The Father that created him, or the one that can never really be his? 

His lips are stained red. Glass three is easier swallowed than the two that came before it. 

Ant isn’t sure what time it is—the room they’re in has no clock or windows. That’s ok though, it’s been a good day. The kind that he wouldn’t mind lasting a little bit longer. He feels floaty and light—and it’s not like flying, but it’s still good. He’s giggling, face buried in his arms. Ant looks over every few second—peers at the laughing man beside him. He looks just as happy as Ant feels. A hand rests on his shoulder, squeezing once, twice before releasing him to run fingers through the his own ruffled curls.

“Kid!” He exclaims, chest bouncing up and down, up and down. His shirt is red—their favourite colour. His eyes are filled with moisture that he swipes away, looking sideways. Brown eyes meet brown, joyous and glittering like crystal. Peter looks happy. Peter looks proud. Peter’s looking at him like he loves him. 

A Father that he chose—a Father that chose him right back.

“I love you,” he says, a little breathless—beaming. He’s never said it before.

Peter doesn’t answer, but that’s ok, he doesn’t have to. Ant knows its reciprocated.

It sours so quickly—

“I don’t want to go to MIT,” he begs.  “I don’t want to lose—“

“What did you just say?” 

Ant blinks. He’s never heard Peter’s voice sound so cold before. It races down his spine—icy and cutting.

“I—” 

“You’re ungratefuL, you know. I do everything for you, I’ve given you everything,” Peter spits. He stands to loom over Ant, spilling his glass as he goes. Red pools on the stone. Drip, drip, drip.

“Peter?—What? What’s going on? What did I do?!” He begs, desperate. Peter’s upset. He’s disappointed. He wants Ant to go.

“What did you just call me?! I’m your Father!” Peter roars—there’s an explosion of glass behind his head, showering him in glinting vermillion. 

A calloused hand wraps itself around his throat—rough and violent. He’s forced to the ground—head cracking against the tile. Red, red, red. There’s hot breath in his face. Something stings his cheek when he turns his head to escape it—escape Peter? Not Peter—he wouldn’t—Peter wouldn’t—so who?

Clarity comes sharp and sudden—all at once. What did he do—what did he just do!

The pressure on his throat eases for a moment—he had half a second to choke on a breath before it returns, slamming his head back onto place. A cry forces its way out from deep in his chest—nauseous bile rising up his throat. The pink streaks of watery acid slip down his chin. 

Glass one. 

Glass two.

The hand retracts—he braces himself for a blow that never comes. 

Anthony is left alone—curled up amongst the glittering scarlet.

Glass three is so much harder to bring back up than it was to ease down.

He’s late to dinner. 

Trouble.

He doesn’t quite know how he got here, standing in front of the hardwood door to the Parker apartment. He certainly didn’t take the suit—too scared that he’d meet Howard in the hall—terrified at the thought of passing by his office. So—no suit. He’d have to make the signal stronger. If it had been stronger—if he’d been stronger—it could’ve found him—in the kitchen—outside the mansion.

The sun was just setting when he’d left. It was dark now. He’d crossed Manhattan, somehow. He’s in Queen’s now.

He didn’t get kidnapped.

He’s late to dinner. 

The door is flying open before he can bring himself to knock.

“You’re la—“ MJ’s teasing voice cuts off with a sharp gasp. “Tony—Tony what—Peter!” She yells, guiding him into the apartment.

He’s laughing. He thinks he’s used up all his tears—

“Ant!” Peter sounds wrecked, his hair is a wild mess of curls. He doesn’t bother too smooth it down, too busy running through the apartment to meet them, hands fluttering uselessly through the air. He looks scared.

“What—what happened?”

Ant just laughs. Peter’s eyes are wide and unsettled. Half of Ant’s weight is slumped against MJ. He’s floating.

He thinks he’s dying.

He knows he’s not. If he was going to die he’d have done it in the kitchen. Alone and glittering. Going out in a blaze of fiery red glory. 

“Peter. We’ll fix it. You’ll fix it,” the voice comes from somewhere he can’t see. Black dots cloud his vision, swirling and dancing and drunk. 

Or maybe Ant’s the one who’s drunk.

He doesn’t remember.

They’re leading him through the apartment—winding and maze-like and endless.

He’s gone.

The feeling of warm water in his hair brings him back. He blinks at the sharp sting and pull of tweezers at his cheek. He’s slumped against the porcelain of the bathtub. There’s a crick in his neck. He’s cold. Maybe he’s kicked his blankets off again?

Peter is running his hands through Ant’s hair, gently rinsing away the red until it runs pink like bile. MJ is plucking crystal from his face—from the skin above his eye. Her hands are steady. Her eyes are steely. They’re iron.

He’s not iron. 

He’s something else—something he can’t remember. 

Something hot and wet runs down his cheek—thick rivulets of copper—trails of salt.

Peter’s looking at him—holding his face. Holding Ant’s hand to his rapidly beating heart. 

And—oh. Maybe he didn’t run out of tears after-all. 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” someone is saying, over and over and over. He wishes they would be quiet. Each time they repeat themselves Peter’s face falls further and further.

Ant can’t bear to watch Peter fall.

“Please. Please don’t fall—please don’t leave me—Peter—please—I’m sorry,” the person is gasping. He’s gasping—drowning. 

Peter is crying. 

Ant reaches his hand up, it’s shaking and uncoordinated, but he manages to find Peter’s cheek—clumsily wiping the tears away. “I didn’t mean to—I didn’t want to“ he explains, desperate, pleading, begging. “He looked so proud—he looked—he looked like you—“ 

Ant is falling.

Peter catches him. 

He’s being carried—saved—lifted. 

He’s not iron, he’s something else.

He’s broken?

He’s drunk.

The bed is soft. He’s drowning. He’s floating.

MJ’s hand is on his left shoulder. 

She reading?

She’s holding Peter’s hand, resting right over the arc.

She’s an anchor.

Peter’s on his right.

A Father he chose.

“MJ—he’s not. I can’t—we can’t. He’s never going back there.”

“We’ll fix it, Peter,” a choked sob. “We’ve got you Tony, we’re not letting you fall. Never. Never.”

Silent tears. 

His face is being guided—forced onto stone, onto glass—tilted towards someone.

“I love you, Ant. We love you.”

He’s not iron. He can’t be. 

Iron doesn’t bleed. 

He’s something else. 

Parkers are all heart.