Chapter Text
It had, as a matter of fact, been a particularly long day. Peter had barely slept in seventy-two hours; his body was freshly adapted to being 70% spider DNA; he’d fought the (mind-controlled) Hand; he saved Jean Grey; and he had almost died.
Then, just to put the cherry on top, Steve came back to life. And then, to set the entire sundae on fire, Tony came back too.
Tony Stark.
Alive.
Peter was barely holding it together.
And to make matters worse, the car Frank had stolen (which had apparently originally been stolen by none other than Stark himself) got towed.
So, there they were. The Punisher. Captain America. Spider-Man. Ironman. All four shoved together, tight as sardines, in the back of a cab that could probably barely fit two on its best day.
The driver’d glanced at them in the mirror a few times, looking as bewildered as Peter felt, before slowly sliding the plastic divider shut while avoiding eye contact.
The cab lurched forward, suspension groaning under the weight of four, relatively buff, men who absolutely did not fit.
Peter was wedged between Frank and Steve, Tony was pressed against the opposite door. Knees were knocking, and shoulders jammed with every turn. There was no air, there was no space.
Peter was just trying to focus on his breathing, but it was coming shallow. Every inhale hurt.
Tony cleared his throat. “So…this is cozy.”
Frank didn’t look at him. “Shut up.”
Steve sighed.
“So, what’s your backstory, huh? How do you know the spiderling?” Tony asked.
“Can you just shut the fuck up?” Frank replied.
Tony blinked. “You know, you’re incredibly quick to anger. You seem like the kind of guy who needs a stress ball.”
“Tony,” Steve huffed.
Tony scoffed. “I’m allowed to talk, I just came back from the dead.”
Peter’s grip tightened around his ribs, of course, Tony was already making jokes about his resurrection. Didn’t seem too funny to him.
Frank’s jaw flexed. “Doesn’t make what you have to say interesting.”
“You know, for a guy with a nice name like Frank, you’re not very friendly.”
Frank gave him a slow, sideways glance. “Friendly isn’t in my job description.”
“And what is your job description? To be as brooding as humanly possible? Because, if so, phew, you’re acing it.”
“My job description is killing people.”
Tony didn’t miss a beat. “Okay, you see, that’s exactly the kind of thing that makes me think you do need a stress ball.”
Steve rubbed his forehead, his biceps looking particularly large and bulging in the small space. “Frank, please don’t threaten people in the cab.”
“I didn’t threaten him, I stated a fact.”
Tony threw his hands up, at least as much as the cramped space would allow. “Oh, great, he’s a philosopher now.”
“If you keep talking like that, Stark, I’ll show you a philosophy.”
“Is that supposed to be intimidating? Because it sounds like you’re about to read me a poem.”
Frank’s hand twitched. “I don’t do poems”
“It’d probably do you well, you need a hobby.”
Steve sighed again, louder this time. “Guys, can we not-”
Frank and Tony spoke in perfect unison, “No.”
Peter’s head shook involuntarily as he let out a shaky breath, his arm wrapped around his chest, pressing harder. “I swear to god, if you two don’t shut up.”
Peter didn’t look at anything but the floor as silence immediately fell, he just continued breathing shallowly, trying to keep the world from tilting sideways.
“Okay, yeah. Shutting up.” Tony said.
Frank nodded once. “Fine.”
The cab lurched over a pothole, jostling all four of them. A breath hissed between Peter’s teeth, it wasn't just his bullet wound that was hurting, it was more like his entire body. The primary issue, however, was how exhausted he was. He knew, the second he set foot in his shabby attic apartment, that he’d crash.
But he wouldn’t be alone, no, he’d have Frank, Steve, and, of course, Tony Stark, in tow.
“Remind me why I can’t go see my wife and child?” Tony’s voice chimed as the taxi began rolling to a stop.
“Because if someone brought you back to life for a nefarious reason, that’s the first place they’d expect you to go. Best for them to assume you’re still dead until we know what happened.”
“This is insane,” Peter said, echoing his earlier sentiment.
The cab rolled to a stop at the curb.
“Peter,” Tony said after he’d escaped the car, knocking a glance back as the other three crawled out of the cab, looking much like a circus clown car, “Did I seriously not leave you enough money for a nicer place?”
And, in his defense, it’s not like Peter lived in a nice area. He lived in the cheapest area. Which meant trash on the street, graffiti on the walls, and broken windows.
“You actually left me no money,” Peter replied, leading the group through the building’s front doors.
Tony stopped dead in his tracks. “No money? Zero? Nothing?”
Frank brushed past him. “You left him a lot of issues. That counts.”
Steve sighed, following right behind Peter. “Let’s just get upstairs.”
Tony was trailing behind, still sputtering, “I didn’t leave you money? Can’t be right. I’m generous. Famously generous.”
Frank scoffed, “You’re famously dead.”
“I’m famously alive now, thanks.” Tony shot back.
Peter didn’t turn around, he didn’t have the energy. The one thing Tony had left him were his glasses, E.D.I.T.H., and his drones. Which had led to nothing but anguish. Not exactly a topic he wanted to breach tonight.
The wait for the elevator was comically awkward, and Peter spent the time ignoring Tony and Frank’s bickering and praying that the elevator wasn’t broken. He didn’t feel like he could handle the stairs tonight.
The weight upon his shoulders lifted a little when the elevator’s doors, shockingly, slid open.
It was a brief ride up to the attic floor.
The door to Peter’s apartment was unlocked, as it usually was, most people didn’t even know someone lived up there.
The lights flickered to life after he’d jiggled the switch a few times. The ceiling slanted above them, the floor creaked loudly below. It was large, but still felt cramped. Barely furnished aside from two chairs that had obviously been grabbed from the side of the road, a desk with three monitors that looked like Peter had dumpster-dived for, and a twin bed in the far corner across from the empty kitchen.
The three men behind Peter were quiet, aside from a snort from Frank.
“Okay, well, there’s probably at least, like, an apple in the kitchen you three can fight over,” Peter said, sliding his stolen green sweater from over his head as he walked towards his bed.
The sweater peeled away, exposing his bloodied and bandaged back, chest, and arms. Bruises bloomed over dark ribs. There were a multitude of cuts stitched and taped, his skin was mottled with exhaustion.
“You can…figure out whatever you need to figure out,” Peter said, his voice thinning. “Just do it quietly. I’m beat.”
He sat down on the edge of the twin bed, shoulders slumping, as he reached toward his nightstand, which was really just a cardboard box, and grabbed his phone. He lay back slowly, wincing as the mattress dipped under him.
He fell asleep in less than two seconds.
Some things never change; the kid was always quick to fall asleep.
Tony watched him for a long moment, something tight and familiar twisting in his chest.
Tony remembered the first time Peter had been in trouble and needed his help. Tony had been in a different country, halfway through a meeting, and when the alert hit his phone- one that said that Peter’s suit was submerged, his heart rate spiking, then slowing- Tony had launched a satellite suit without thinking. Controlling it in real time as it tore through boroughs to reach the kid.
He remembered that image of Peter, limp, half-drowned, pulled from the pond by the suit's hands. The way he’d clung to consciousness afterwards. He was shivering, soaked, and terrified. All he’d wanted to do was talk, to make sense of what had happened.
Tony had played the parent. He’d lectured him, activated the suit’s heater, checked his vitals. Made sure he was safe. He grounded him, reassured him, whatever the kid needed.
Now, Tony didn’t move. He wasn’t sure that Peter wanted him close. Not tonight, after four years of getting over his death.
Soon, Steve was lying on one of the mottled couches, one of Peter’s sweatshirts draped over him in lieu of a blanket. It looked like an adult cuddled underneath an American Girl Doll sweater, but whatever, if it made him feel comfortable.
Tony couldn’t sleep.
He kept looking over at Peter.
He looked a whole lot younger in his sleep, a lot more like his old self. The way his nose scrunched up. The way the edges of his lips would quirk upwards. At least it seemed like he was having a good dream, the kid deserved one.
It took only thirty minutes of lying opposite Steve on that stinky couch, looking over at Peter, before Tony gave up entirely on sleeping.
He sat up, quietly, rubbing a hand over his face.
Frank’s voice came from the shadows, “Shut the fuck up.”
Tony jumped. “Jesus, that’s accusatory-what’re you even doing here still?”
“Needed to keep an eye on things. Now, shut the fuck up.”
“Do you sleep with your eyes open?”
“Sometimes.”
Steve shifted under the tiny sweatshirt, mumbling, “Frank, don’t be weird.”
“I’m not being weird.” Frank retorted.
Tony rolled his eyes and stood, stretching stiffly, “I’m going to look at his computers.”
Steve cracked an eye open. “Tony, don’t touch anything.”
“I’m not touching anything,” Tony said, walking towards the desk. “I’m observing.”
Tony leaned over the desk, his eyes catching on each piece of equipment. The mismatched monitors, those dangerously frayed cables, the tower that looked like it’d been assembled from scrap metal.
“He built this out of trash.”
“He’s broke.” Frank’s voice was flat.
Steve sighed into the sweatshirt. “He makes it work.”
Tony slid Peter’s desk chair back and took a seat.
“Tony, don’t touch anything,” Steve muttered again.
Tony was already typing before Steve had finished the sentence. Steve groaned.
“You aren’t curious to know what we missed?” Tony asked.
“I already did that whole song and dance in the hospital with Frank’s phone.” Steve replied, his voice tight, laced with sleep, “Just go to sleep for tonight.”
Tony typed in ‘Pepper Potts.’
Pepper Potts creates a memorial for Tony Stark, Pepper Potts is now Times’ number 1 most influential woman, Pepper Potts speaks out against the fake news spiral, Pepper Potts…
He clicked on images.
She looked good. No, that was an understatement, she looked beautiful as ever. A radiant woman, no matter how much time had passed.
‘Morgan Stark,’ was keyed in much slower.
There weren’t many results, but one stuck out. Pepper Potts on Why She’s Shielding Daughter, 8, Morgan Stark from Media Attention.
Tony clicked on the article.
He didn’t read it all at once, his eyes kept snagging phrases, "shielding her daughter, ongoing grief, privacy concerns, protective mother". There was nothing sensational, or cruel, or seemingly untrue. Just life. Life that had gone on without him.
Frank’s voice drifted from the shadows. “Bad idea.”
“She’s my kid.”
“Still a bad idea.”
Steve shifted from under the sweatshirt again, sitting up a little, “Tony, maybe wait until morning.”
Tony shook his head, staring at the screen, hoping it’d rearrange itself into something a little less painful. “She’s eight.” He looked down, “She was four. She was just four. Peter was just seventeen. It was yesterday for me. And now…” He looked back up at the screen, his eyes sticking to a photo. One of Pepper holding Morgan close, shielding her from flashing cameras.
Tony let his head fall into his hands. “She looks taller.” Tony murmured.
Steve’s voice was soft, “Kids do that.”
The attic creaked around them, old wood, old nails, old air. Peter slept on the twin bed across the room, snoring softly, entirely oblivious to the world around him.
Tony looked up and jumped, his heart skipping a beat as he saw that Frank was suddenly leaning against the wall in front of him.
“You’re shockingly stealthy for a man so buff-”
“You’re here now.” He said, crossing his arms. “You coulda stayed dead.”
Tony looked at the picture of his wife, his daughter, and then looked to Peter.
“Yeah. I guess.”