Work Text:
Is this what Steve wants?
An outline, albeit briefly:
He is no longer a war criminal, or a fugitive, or a traitor to his country.
He is no longer on Tony's relatively short shit-list, just an added bonus.
His best friend is still currently in cryo very, very far away from him, but he is safe and he's going to be alright, so Steve feels...just okay about leaving Bucky in the capable hands of T'Challa for the time being. He can be trusted.
He is standing next to Clint, looking at this...thing Tony's made and feeling, well, a little impressed.
“Damn,” Clint mutters, giving a low whistle. “That's something. I could bring my kids here. This is...”
“It's solid,” Steve finishes.
“Yeah. Yeah, word good choice, boss.” Clint leans down and touches the grass. “Spare no expense.”
“Jesus, Barton, are you feeling up my landscaping?” Tony practically materializes in front of them, his eyes glued to his phone for another minute or two before he looks at them. “You enjoying the place? See your rooms yet?”
Clint whistles again. “We have rooms.”
“Technically, Barton, you have a small wing. Didn't want you to feel like you couldn't bring the fam.”
“Fam.”
“I've been spending time with the youth of America, sue me.” He gestures for them to follow. “Bruce is still on campus if you wanted to see him. He's just playing with some protein structures.” Tony pauses to push the front door open. “I'm...glad you're both here, you know.”
“We can talk later, Tony.”
“I'd like to talk now, but, I get it.” He sniffs. “I'm sorry, for what it's worth after the umpteenth time.”
Steve puts a hand on Stark's shoulder, forces him to look. Tony seems so...small, standing there, this entire facility basically hanging over him. Like, I did this. And maybe I did it for us. All of us.
Weren't the Avengers family, once? Wasn't that how Steve imagined it? Wasn't that supposed to be what all this was about? Taking care of the world, doing it together.
“We're all sorry,” Steve says.
And that seems to be the best response. For now, anyway.
“Perfect.” Tony shrugs him off. “Time for the tour.”
They're having beers in what Steve might call the backyard if he could actually suss out exactly where the front of the building is when Friday tells Tony that Mr. Parker has arrived.
“Eh, decent timing,” he says, draining his beer and tossing it into a can. It makes a whirring noise, which gives Steve hives. “Got someone you two need to meet. For real this time,” he adds.
“I love it when you're cryptic,” Clint says dryly. “You're so good at building the suspense.”
“Don't be a dick.” Tony shoulders open the door, leading them back outside.
Happy is there, hauling out a cardboard box from a trunk, listening to a rather bright, incredibly young sounding voice say something that honestly sounds like, “And then I got hit by a truck, which wasn't as bad as I thought it was.”
Happy leans around the side of the car. “Are you hearing this?”
“How many trucks?” Tony asks.
The voice has a face, and that face is as young as Steve suspected – a teenager, looking rather pleased with himself. “Just the one,” he says. “I mean it was huge, but it was just one.”
“Do me a favor,” Tony says, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Please try to stop walking into moving traffic for five minutes. What was it last week, Hap?”
“Two taxis.”
“Jesus, Parker.”
The boy shrugs, taking the box from Happy and heading toward them. “I can't make any, uh...any promises.” His voice trails off, face going rather pale. “Oh shit.”
“Language.”
“Oh snickerdoodle,” he says. “You didn't even mention--”
“It was a surprise.”
“I told you I'm not into surprises.”
Tony peeks into the box. “Did you make something?”
“No, these are photos. May wanted you to see them.” The boy looks at Steve, now. “Is he mad at me?”
“For what? Taking your shield?”
Steve frowns. “When did he--”
Tony holds up a hand. “Sorry, sorry. Introductions. Steve, this is Peter. Peter, this is Steve. And also Clint.” Clint waves. “Peter is...Spider-Man.”
“...Spider-Man.”
“Man, you brought Spider-Man here and didn't tell me? My kids are obsessed,” Clint mutters. He pulls Peter's hand off one end of the box and shakes it vigorously. “We'll talk birthday parties later.”
“He's not a party trick, Barton.”
Peter shrugs. “I like birthdays.”
“We'll discuss that later, too.” Tony takes the box. “Come on, the missus ordered pizza.”
Inside, Steve pulls Tony aside, maybe a little too rough, and whispers, “You recruited a teenager.”
“I know.”
“He could die, Tony.”
“I know that, too.”
“That was selfish, and it was stupid--”
“Steve.” Tony pushes back, puts some distance between them. “I know. Believe me. I'm aware of the ramifications. But I needed him. I needed him then and honestly I...need him now.” He looks...small again. Steve's starting to get more than a little unsettled.
“What's going on?”
“It's...complicated.”
“Try me.”
Tony rolls his eyes. “I can't, right now.”
“Tony.”
“Look, the kid's my...” He sighs. “He's my responsibility. Okay? I brought him into this, I made his damn suit, I...I need to make sure he's alright.”
Steve feels his frown deepen. “You're not telling me everything.”
He shrugs, “You're right, I'm not. It's not my everything to tell.” Tony brushes past and heads back into the dining room, leaving Steve feeling...lost, maybe. This entire weekend is starting to feel surreal.
Not for the first time he wonders if he ever came off the ice.
Bruce comes up from the labs, looking rather sheepish until Clint hefts him up into a bear-hug and spins him around, clapping him almost brutally on the shoulder. “You look like hell, man.”
“Looks better than he did when he wandered in here a few months ago.”
Bruce shrugs, settling into the spot next to Peter and nudging his shoulder. “Hey, look who's back. You bring that compound?”
“Yes. I figured we could probably make it last longer if mess around with the timing? Like it's a pretty hefty reaction, and I don't think--”
“You're trying to make your web solution last longer?” Tony asks. “It lasts for two hours, Pete.”
“No, I know, but what if I've got to do some like, seriously long-term holding? And plus I figure if it lasts longer then it needs to be stronger, too, so like with what happened on the ferry--”
“What happened on the ferry isn't happening again,” Tony snaps.
Peter scowls. “You don't know that.”
“Know, I mean the part about you being there. We talked about this.”
“And we talked about this, too,” Peter mutters, shoving the rest of his crust into his mouth. “Anyway--” He chews, swallows. Eats another slice. Is this number seven? Steve's lost track. The kid's a human garbage disposal. “It doesn't hurt to do a little bit of experimenting. For science,” he adds.
Tony makes an audible noise of disapproval.
Peter ignores it.
Pepper joins them in one of the sitting rooms close to eight, and about fifteen minutes in, Peter's asleep.
“Bet that's a first,” Pepper says, smile warm and affectionate.
“We could leave him here,” Tony says, even as he's standing. “Draw on his face.”
“Tony.”
“I know, I know.” He leans over, putting a hand on Peter's shoulder and shaking him gently. “Peter. Hey. Hey, Pete.”
Peter jolts, nearly knocking Tony off his feet. “What?”
“You fell asleep.”
“I didn't.”
“You did. Come on, time for bed.”
“Time is it?”
“Late enough.”
Peter shakes his head, trying to rub sleep from his eyes, but he's dead on his feet. He gives them a half-hearted wave as he heads out of the room and shuffles up the stairs.
Pepper sighs. “Did you tell them?”
“I didn't.” Tony settles back into his chair, toying with the label on his beer bottle. “Suppose I should.” He sniffs. “Peter's not just my responsibility because I brought him to Berlin. He's also my...he's sort of--” Tony flicks the glass. “He's my son, technically speaking.”
Clint snorts. “Technically? Did you build him?”
“How?” Steve asks.
Tony laughs. “Well, Cap, when two people are drinking together at an Advancement in Research and Development conference in Philly, and they find one another attractive, they sometimes go back to a room and--”
“That's not what I meant and you know it.”
“I met Peter's mother at a conference. We...connected. She had a kid. She also had a boyfriend at the time, and she made the incredibly wise decision to not say a damn thing to me, marry Richard Parker, and move on with her life.”
“She made a smart choice,” Bruce mutters. “Richard Parker was a genius.”
“They both were.”
“Where are they?” Steve asks, already knowing the answer.
“Dead. When Peter was five.”
“Shit,” Clint mutters. “Poor kid.”
“So you recruited your son to--”
“I didn't know until after,” Tony snaps. “Would you just...get off my fucking back about this? I know it wasn't my best moment, alright? But I was...I was mad and I was desperate and however much I want to protect this kid from the crazy shit I know the world is gonna throw at him, he's good. Okay? Like he's strong and he's solid and he was raised right and he's made of good stuff and the last thing I want to do is be the reason he's not, but I'm here and that's...that's that.” Tony loosens his grip on the bottle.
He looks at Steve. “I'm trying to do the...the right thing. I am.”
Steve nods. “I believe it, Tony. I really do.”
Steve doesn't sleep well in his new room. It's not small, it's big because Tony knows him better than he'll ever admit, but sleeping under Stark's roof, trying to make play at being a team again – it gives him...something. Something he can't just walk off. He heads downstairs, finds the gym, and shoulders the door open.
Peter is there, going at it with the sandbag, headphones in his ears. Steve's pretty impressed, if he's honest with himself. The kid's strong, if the way the bag swings in a solid arc over the ground is any indication. His breathing's a little labored, and whatever he's listening to is loud, but Steve figures it's as good a time as any to make himself know.
Normally he'd be able to take a solid gut punch, but usually he's expecting it.
He's not expecting it.
It doesn't knock him off his feet, but he stumbles back when Peter visibly jumps, then socks him one.
“Oh shit. Shit, Captain Rogers, I'm...I'm so sorry.” He rips his headphones out and fumbles over himself. “Are you okay? What am I even saying, of course you're okay, I didn't like, kill you, but oh man. Oh man, I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry.”
Steve rubs his gut. “Don't worry, son.”
“No, I'm serious. I'm really sorry. Do you need, like, an ice pack, or a chair?”
“No, no. I'm good, really.”
“Swear.”
Steve looks at him, at the genuine fear and worry and stress in his eyes, and wonders why a sixteen year old needs to be hitting the bag at four-thirty in the morning.
“I swear.”
Peter nods. “Okay. Okay, cool.” He sniffs, realizes his headphones are still blaring in the now-quiet of the room and nods. “Uh, you're up early.”
“So are you.”
“I'm always up early,” he says, flapping his hand through the air, as if the gesture explains it all. “Well, actually I don't sleep much.”
“You're too young to not be sleeping.”
“God, you sound like my Aunt May.” He pauses. “And Tony.”
“They're just looking out for you.”
Peter sniffs, nods. “Yeah. Yeah, I know.” He looks at his shoes. “Tony tell you?”
“Yes.”
“Good. So we don't...have to talk about it then, right?”
“If that's what you want.”
Peter nods again. Then: “Sorry about your shield.”
“It's alright. Don't beat yourself up about it.”
“Kinda my thing,” he admits, glancing around. “I'll...leave you alone.”
Steve shakes his head. “If you're going to stay awake, stay here.”
“Nah, I don't wanna bug you.”
“Not an issue.” Steve steps toward the sparring ring in the middle of the room and points. “Best two out of three?”
“It's seven in the morning what the hell are the two of you doing?”
Peter looks up from his spot face down on the mat and grins at Tony. “Best nineteen out of twenty,” he says brightly.
“Steve.”
“He's fine.” Steve offers him a hand. “I think we're done, though.”
“No, come on, I could go at least another three rounds.”
“Maybe tomorrow,” Steve says. “Breakfast first, at least.”
Peter falls asleep at the breakfast table. No one wants to wake him.
Clint carries him to the sofa, covers him with a blanket.
“Seems like a good kid,” he says, putting a hand on Tony's shoulder.
Steve watches Tony's body turn inward, then sort of...swell. Pride? Maybe. Steve's recently adopted the perspective of brains more analytical than his own – this will require further study.
“Yeah. He is.”