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Steve ducks to the side, just barely dodging a creature that hurtles toward him with a loud, piercing shriek.  Slams his shield into the ugly reptilian mug even as it snaps its sharp teeth at him, screeching its anger.

It’s the second Chitauri attack this week.  Tenth one this month if he counts the one that the Avengers weren’t present for in full force. 

That first attack had been brutal.  Steve remembers watching the news report in Wakanda: fire and chaos, people running down the streets in sheer panic as the metal chariots swooped down from the sky, blasting at them with their powerful weapons. 

Tony had stepped up then with what was left of the team (as well he should have, since he was pretty much the only one who could at that point thanks to those ridiculous Accords), coordinating their efforts (rather admirably, Steve was forced to admit) with the local troops and the police.  They managed to eliminate the alien threat then, but it had been a very close call.  Uncomfortably so.  

Steve wasn’t at all surprised, therefore, when the news of their official pardon was delivered to Wakanda not even a day later.  Tony has always been a smart guy – he knew when he was beat, when things became too much even for his ego to handle alone.  It was only natural that he reached out to his old team for help.  Just as it was only natural that Steve and the others responded (just as he had promised in his letter to Tony that he would).

Their welcome wasn’t quite what Steve had been expecting.  Tony was cold and distant, rejecting any and all of Steve’s attempts at breaching the ice that had formed between them in Siberia.  He kept conversation with them to a minimum.  Left the room the first chance he got.  The others present in the Tower (Rhodes, who was walking now thanks to Tony’s latest contraption, that Spider Kid – Peter and Vision) weren’t much better.  Plus they glared at Steve and his team like they were some sort of criminals.  It was awkward as hell, it kept Steve’s team on edge.  Made Clint even snappier than usual.  Made Wanda twitchy and Sam glum.  Worst of all, it made Bucky nervous, and that alone was enough to set Steve’s teeth on edge.  Because Bucky of all people did not deserve this – this cold hostility nonsense, this childish avoidance. Bucky did not need this for his recovery.  And Steve had half a mind to go tell Tony everything he thought about this attitude of his. 

Bucky wouldn’t let him.  Told him to let it go, that he would talk to Tony himself.  And he did.  And whatever it is they talked about, it seemed to have helped because Tony’s attitude thawed quite a bit – toward Bucky at least.  And even if Tony still shunned Steve and the rest of his old team, at least Bucky no longer seemed as uncomfortable in Tony’s presence, and Steve supposed that would have to be enough.  They had to make it work, after all.  For Earth’s sake.  

Tony told them the day they got back that he was expecting more attacks.  That there was someone out there in the great big cosmos, who wants to wipe Earth clean of human presence.  And these Chitauri he’s sending are mere scouts, a way to test the waters, to see how much it would take for us to crumble, how strong our resolve is to resist. That he will keep sending them until he sees that we can fight no more, and then he will come himself and he will finish the job.

It sounded paranoid to Steve – no different than Tony’s Ultron talk (and look what that had led to).  But the Chitauri did keep coming, just as Tony predicted they would, and Steve pushed his reservations aside (for the time being at least) and focused on what he did best – being a leader.

Didn’t mean he was gonna stop keeping an eye on Tony.  …Just in case.

“Heads up, Captain,” Iron Man’s voice comes through the comms, pulling him out of his thoughts.  “There are two more heading your way.”

And he looks up just in time to see a Chitauri chariot zooming down toward him, the driver scowling in anticipation of victory as the foot soldier behind him aims his monstrosity of a gun Steve’s way.

He ducks and rolls, mentally giving Tony a grudging thanks for the timely warning.  Throws his shield at the driver as the chariot begins to turn to give its passenger another shot at him. 

The hit is solid.  The driver jolts and crumples under the force of it, hands wrenched away from the controls, and the chariot veers sharply to the right, knocking its passenger off and slamming hard into the nearby building.  The chariot explodes on impact, but Steve is no longer paying it any heed, focused instead on the passenger who’s now trying to pick himself up from the rubble-covered ground, the weapon still clutched in his claw-like hand.

His shield once again back in his hands, Steve tackles him back down to the ground, drives the shield into the exposed vulnerable part of the neck not covered by the armor with all of his might.  He hears something snap and the alien twitches and grows limp underneath him, his struggles stilling. 

Steve sags backwards onto the rubble, heaving out a sigh – a mixture of exhaustion and relief.  He’s tired of this.  So, so very tired.  Of these constant attacks that seem to grow more intense as they get closer together. Of Tony’s attitude.  Of the lingering worry for Bucky.  Of the constant tension within the team that he can’t seem to be able to fix, no matter how hard he tries.  He would like nothing more than to drop everything and get away from this mess, if only for a few hours.   

But he can’t. The battle is far from over, and he’s still the leader, still the one responsible for the ultimate outcome of it, for the safety of his team.

Speaking of…

“Iron Man, status!” he barks into the comms as he picks himself back up and leans over to grab the Chitauri weapon (the thing is big and uncomfortable, but it packs quite a destructive punch and extra firepower never hurt anyone).

The comms are silent and he growls the question out again, impatient, scanning the area around him with a narrow gaze.

“Sorry, Cap,” comes a terse reply, and Steve can literally hear the sneer of annoyance in the other man’s voice.  “A little busy here.  Enemy invaders and all.”

“I don’t need the snark from you, Iron Man,” he snaps, stomping his way to higher ground so he can get a better look at the rest of the team.  “Just your eyes.”

“Aww, Cap, and here I thought you cared.”

He grits his teeth at the mocking tone, looks up to where he can see the Iron Man’s suit hovering gracefully above the fray.  But an angry reprimand dies on his lips because Iron Man’s stance changes suddenly from watchful to alarmed, and he turns slightly in the air, arm raised with a kind of hurried urgency that makes the hairs on the back of Steve’s neck stand up.  And then Iron Man fires, again and again, the whine of the repulsor cutting through the noise of the battle as the consecutive beams seek out a target on the ground. 

And Steve feels himself grow cold, because that target is Bucky, his Bucky, who’s standing there alone and defenseless under Tony’s unprovoked deadly barrage. 

Steve doesn’t think.  Steve raises the arm with the Chitauri weapon, aims it at the red and gold traitor.  And he fires.

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Peter hates this.  Hates that these people, the ones who hurt Mr. Stark so badly, are back.  Hates that they act like nothing happened, strutting back into the Tower like they belong there, taking over the space like Mr. Stark owes it to them somehow.  Hates even more what their return has done to Mr. Stark himself. 

Peter doesn’t know all that went on in Siberia between Mr. Stark and Captain America, but he saw the aftermath – the poorly hidden injuries, the haunted look in his mentor’s eyes, the forced smile that never reached his eyes; heard the hushed conversations between Mr. Stark and the Colonel, the gist of which, when he started putting all the puzzle pieces available to him together, made his heart clench in sympathetic anguish and his hands curl into fists at his sides.   He knows… enough.

It took months for some of those scars (both emotional and physical) to begin to fade, for Mr. Stark to begin to resemble the man Peter knew before Siberia.

And then the Avengers came back, and all that progress was wiped out overnight – a troubled shadow once again lurking behind Mr. Stark’s eyes. And Peter. Fucking. Hates it!

He knows the rationale behind their return, he does. Understands Mr. Stark’s reasons for breaking through the red tape to get them back.  Their help was needed, undeniably so.  Peter saw it clearly during the first Chitauri attack about two months ago, when it was just Mr. Stark and Vision taking on the full brunt of the battle with the Colonel (still not quite ready to step back inside the War Machine armor) helping coordinate things on the ground and Peter himself joining in mid-battle despite Mr. Stark’s furious insistence that he wasn’t equipped for it and needed to get out of there and go home.   They lost too many civilians that day despite their best efforts.  Taken on too much damage – their suits barely functional by the end.  And this was only the first attack, the first of many, Mr. Stark claimed (and he was right, he always was).

So, yes, they needed help.  Peter just hates the fact that the Avengers were their only option.

He’s not alone in his feelings either.  He sees the glares the Colonel has been throwing the Avengers’ way, sees the way Vision continues to shun them no matter how many overtures the others attempt to make to converse with him.  And it’s not for nothing that, like himself, both Vision and the Colonel attempt to shadow Mr. Stark whenever possible to make sure the man is never alone with the others. 

He thinks (he knows) it irritates Mr. Stark to no end.  Babying, he calls it, mouth twisting in an unhappy frown.  And he tells them to cut it out.  Tells them not to worry when they bring up the fact that he’s been working himself to the bone fixing and updating theirs and the rogue Avengers’ equipment, while neglecting to do the same with his own; that he looks dead on his feet; that he needs a break. 

“I’m fine,” he keeps insisting.  “I’ll rest when this is all over.  No time for that now.”  And he smiles for their benefit.

But his smiles look strained, and his pallor is more pronounced these days.  And his hands tremble when he hands Rogers back his shield (all shiny and new-looking once more).  And Peter doesn’t imagine the full body flinch when Rogers hefts the shield in front of Mr. Stark, testing its weight; or the way he pales, backing out of the room, one arm splayed protectively over his chest, wide eyes locked on the Captain’s weapon as if expecting to be attacked.  And he definitely doesn’t imagine him getting sick in the bathroom afterwards – he hears it clear as day as he stands outside with his palms planted helplessly against the door, cursing Rogers and his damned shield, cursing his enhanced hearing and his inability to help, cursing the fact that they are stuck in this dreadful situation with no observable way out.

***

Mr. Stark was right, as always – there really was no time.  And here they are – another call to assemble, another Chitauri attack. 

Mr. Stark tells him to stay close, and even if Peter’s suit now has the capability to not only withstand some pretty powerful blasts but also to inflict his own brand of superhero-level damage thanks to the brand new explosive webbing Mr. Stark has added to its array, Peter doesn’t argue.  Because it gives him the opportunity to help out if needed, to watch Mr. Stark’s back when he’s too busy protecting everyone else’s.

He just isn’t expecting an attack to come from one of their own.

***

He screams when he sees Iron Man get hit.  Howls in horrified anguish, drop-swinging after his mentor in a desperate attempt to catch him as the man tumbles gracelessly toward the ground.

He manages, but only just – his webbing latching on to Mr. Stark’s arm enough to slow his descent, to lessen its impact, but too late to stop it altogether.  And when the inevitable crash happens, Peter feels it in his very bones – a violent echo of his failure.

He drops to his knees beside his mentor (still, so still, oh god!), his heart hammering wildly in his chest, his senses going into overdrive.  He can hear Mr. Stark’s heartbeat, albeit erratic and faint, and he knows the man’s alive, he knows that much.  But he can smell blood – so, so much blood, and burnt flesh, and he just, he just…

He gulps convulsively, forcing down the rising nausea, reaches a trembling hand to turn the man over onto his back. 

And nearly retches.

There’s a large hole in the side of the armor – the protective plating that’s already taken on quite a bit of damage in the previous battle (damage Mr. Stark never got around to fixing because he was too busy working on upgrades for everyone else) giving out under this latest assault.  Darkened, still-smoking edges of charred metal, an ugly open wound, partially cauterized by the heat of the weapon’s discharge, the now overpowering stench of burned human tissue – it all beats mercilessly against his heightened senses, threatens to drown him in the horror of it all.

He struggles against it.  Grinds his teeth into the inside of his cheek to jolt himself out of the devastating downward spiral.  Mr. Stark needs him.  Here. Now.

He sucks in a breath.  Short and panicked.  Tries again, slower one this time – in through the nose, out through the mouth.  Another.  Another.  Until the nausea relents, until the maddening rhythm of his heart steadies out a bit.

Reaches for the manual release latch, fumbling for a few precious seconds until he manages to get the suit to open up for him. 

“Mr. Stark?” he pleads, splaying his fingers across the man’s chest – a childish need for physical contact, for reassurance that he’s still alive. Because the way he lies there – deathly pale and unresponsive and still – he looks anything but.  “Mr. Stark?” he tries again, his voice wavering when his second plea is once again met with silence. 

Tears prickle at his eyes and throat, and it’s Uncle Ben all over again, and he can’t go there, he can’t, he can’t.  Mr. Stark… Tony… won’t die here, he won’t. Peter won’t let him. 

He moves to pull the man into his arms, fully prepared to swing back to the Tower with him (it’s only a few blocks from here, he can make it), when he hears the crunch of footsteps behind him and a voice – cursedly familiar – snaps with an air of authority, “Step away from him, kid.”

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He turns his head slowly toward the sound, the masked eyes narrowing when he takes in the guarded, attack-ready stance, the still raised weapon at the man’s side.  A wave of anger washes over him – a barely restrained primal fury that burns and expands inside his chest, spilling forth in a loud, menacing growl.

“Why?”

He doesn’t register his hand moving, fingers curling around a chunk of concrete.  Doesn’t remember standing.  But here he is, upright, advancing at the man with all the ferocity of a savage beast – one hand tingling with the force of the throw.

“Why?” he growls again, and another chunk of concrete is sent flying toward Rogers, the man’s eyes widening in shock as he tries to duck out of the way.  Peter doesn’t give him a chance.  Lets loose a stream of explosive webbing that wraps itself around the rock, splintering it into a myriad of tiny, razor-sharp bits inches away from Rogers’ face.  Feels an insignificantly small amount of satisfaction at seeing a few jagged red lines on the previously unblemished skin where his improvised projectiles hit home.    

“Why!”

Rogers stumbles back a step, shield coming up to protect his face as the next chunk of rock sails toward him.  “He was shooting at Bucky!” he defends, standing tall once again when Peter falters, stunned by the absurdity of the accusation.  “He was trying–”

“–to save me.” Barnes has somehow made his way toward them, unnoticed in the heat of the moment, and Peter whips his head toward him, surprised to see an odd mixture of worry and remorse in the other man’s eyes.  “There was a Chitauri behind me.  One that wasn’t quite as dead as I thought.” Barnes’ voice is soft as he speaks, but there’s a frown of disapproval on his face when he looks at Rogers, his lips pursing unhappily as he lets his words sink in.  “If it weren’t for Stark, I would’ve been dead now… punk.”

Rogers doesn’t say a word, just stares open-mouthed at his friend, blinking stupidly as if he can’t understand him, can’t process the information given.

“I… I didn’t…,” he stutters out finally, shaking his head as if in denial, “I couldn’t see… I thought–”

“You thought?” Peter spits out, and he doesn’t realize he’s taken a step forward, doesn’t realize he’s got his arm raised in a fist, until he sees Rogers stiffen, the Chitauri weapon coming up to bear on him.  He barks out a laugh, angry and incredulous, forces his hand to drop back down at his side.  Takes another determined step forward, head cocking in silent, careless challenge.

“You gonna shoot me, too, now… Captain?” he sneers, fury bubbling acid-like in his veins, choking him with the intensity of it.  And he rips the mask off, feeling suddenly like he can’t breathe.  He’s not afraid, he realizes. In fact, he welcomes Rogers to try.

“P-Pete?”

He whirls around at the sound of a familiar voice, strained and paper thin, that cuts through the red haze of anger, pulling him up short.  Feels something catch in his chest at the sight of his mentor struggling to prop himself up on his elbow, his body trembling with effort and pain.

“Mr. Stark…”

But Mr. Stark isn’t looking at him.  The man’s eyes are locked on Rogers instead, and there’s fear in the agony-darkened gaze.  Not for himself, Peter realizes with a jolt, but for him, for Peter.

“Get… get back, Peter… please.”

There’s desperation in Mr. Stark’s voice now, and it breaks something in Peter, drains the rest of the rage away, leaving behind only weariness and overwhelming, crippling worry.  He turns his back on Rogers without a second thought, hurries over to his mentor’s side just in time to catch him as his strength gives out and he begins to collapse back down onto the ground.

“Here, Mr. Stark,” he murmurs, cradling the man’s trembling form even as the latter grabs convulsively for the front of Peter’s suit, dark eyes raking over Peter’s face and body, frantic, searching.  “I’m okay, Mr. Stark, I’m okay.  He didn’t hurt me,” he assures him, his voice catching wetly at the look of sheer relief that crosses the pale, sweat-dotted face at his words. 

“Thank God,” comes the murmured exhale, fainter than the rustle of fallen leaves underfoot, “thank God.”  And Mr. Stark sags limply against him, eyes slipping shut.   

Peter sucks in a breath, wet and harsh like a sob.  Stands up, his precious burden cradled securely in his arms.  Glances back at Rogers, who takes a hesitant step toward them, a look of worried confusion on his face.

“I hate you,” he tells him, gratified to see the man stop in his tracks, flinching at the venom in Peter’s voice.  “I wish you stayed in the ice.”

And then he leaves, hurrying back to the Tower, his sole remaining focus – the unconscious man in his arms.

Chapter Text

He sees the fist coming, but he doesn’t try to dodge it.  Just braces himself for the inevitable, lets it happen. 

His head snaps back from the force of the blow, and he winces at the sting of it, feels the metallic tang of blood on his tongue from a split lip.  Cautiously he raises his hand to rub his smarting jaw, glances warily at the man before him, who sways slightly on his braces as he tries to regain his balance after the powerful hit.

“I’m sorry.”

“Spare me, Captain!” Rhodes’ voice is as sharp and merciless as his fist.  “You told him you were sorry before.  But it wasn’t for beating him to a bloody pulp.  Or for driving your goddamn shield into his chest.  You were sorry he disagreed with you, that he didn’t see things your way.  So what are you sorry for now, huh?  Not having a good enough reason for shooting your teammate out of the sky?”

He blinks at the man, momentarily stunned by the accusation.  “You don’t think I would–”  He shakes his head, words of denial hot on his tongue.  “Rhodes, I swear to you I did not see that Chitauri.  You have to believe me, from where I was standing it looked like he was aiming for Bucky.  I… I never would have fired on him if I saw–”

“You never would have fired on him,” Rhodes interrupts icily, the muscles in his jaw twitching with obvious anger, “if you trusted him.”  The latest charge is spat out at him with such cold, vicious fury that Steve backs up a step, unsettled.  “That’s the problem, isn’t it, Rogers? Trust?”  

Rhodes takes a step closer, eyes blazing.  “He put his life in your hands.  Trusted you to have his back the same way he had yours.  But you never have, have you.  Not in New York.  Not in Sokovia.  And sure as hell not in Leipzig, when he came to you, begging you to reconsider, begging you to let him bring you in peacefully so he could get Ross off your backs.  And if you had any idea what he went through on your behalf, the kind of humiliation he had to endure to keep Ross from issuing the order to shoot your stubborn ass on sight, you would have–”

Rhodes cuts himself off, chest heaving.  Glances behind him at the double glass doors of the medical wing, to where Steve can see the Spider kid, Peter, sitting in a waiting room chair with his knees drawn to his chest, his face buried in his arms.  There’s a heavyset curly-haired man sitting beside him, his round face grim and pale, one arm draped protectively around the kid’s shoulders – shoulders that are shaking with silent sobs, Steve realizes with a jolt. 

Steve doesn’t know what to make of it.  Tony’s still in surgery, as far as he knows.  And Tony was conscious at least briefly.  He knows, he saw it.  He doesn’t think the damage he had inflicted was that great – the Iron Man suit should have protected Tony from the worst of the blast.  Because Steve wasn’t really trying to hurt him, not really.  He just wanted to stop him from hurting Bucky.  That’s all.  So he couldn’t have possibly hurt him that badly.  And yet… looking at those two behind the glass doors, he starts to wonder.

“Tony wanted to bring you, lot, back.” 

Rhodes snaps Steve’s attention away from Peter’s hunched figure, and Steve narrows his gaze in consternation, seeing the same grim worry in Rhodes’ face. 

“He said we needed you.  Said there was no other way.”  Rhodes huffs out a breath, bitter.  Clenches and unclenches his fist.  “I hated the idea.  God knows I did.  But I believed your letter, your words. ‘If you need me, I’ll be there’,” he parrots, lips twisting with disgust.  “I believed them.” 

He squeezes his eyes shut, breathes sharply through his nose.  “You fooled me once, Captain.”  He looks back up and Steve fights the urge to shrink away from the dark intensity of his stare.  “And that’s on you.  But this one here,” Rhodes stabs his thumb over his shoulder toward the medical wing, his face tightening momentarily as if in pain.  “That’s already on me. And it’s on me to fix it.”

Rhodes motions to someone behind Steve, and Steve whips around only to come face to face with two policemen, one of them holding handcuffs at the ready.

“Steven Grant Rogers, you’re under arrest for the attempted murder of Anthony Edward Stark.”

“N-no…”  He staggers back a step, shaking his head in denial.  “No, no, no, you can’t… you can’t do that.  I didn’t–”

“You did,” Rhodes interjects coldly – a solid impenetrable wall at his back, keeping him trapped in place.  “And I can, as the highest ranking officer on this team… and as Tony’s friend.  And if Tony dies…”  Rhodes’ voice gives out – a minute, momentary slip.  “If he dies,” he continues hoarsely, “I will make sure you go down for his murder.”

Steve lets them snap the handcuffs on wrists, too stunned to put up a fight.  He can’t process this, can’t understand how any of this is possible.  How he misjudged things so badly, misjudged Tony, misjudged himself…

“Is Tony… is he really…,” he stutters out, suddenly uncertain, “how bad is it?”

“You blew a hole in his side, Rogers!”

The anguished roar pulls him up short, knocks the air out of his lungs. 

“I…” He closes his mouths, swallows tightly, his gaze flicking once again to the double glass doors behind the Colonel.  “He was awake,” he tries lamely, looking back at Rhodes… for confirmation? refutal? he doesn’t even know.  He thinks of the Spider kid’s face – pale and tear-stained, brown eyes burning with fury too uncharacteristic of someone so young.  Thinks of Tony – slack and unresponsive in the kid’s arms…

“I saw him,” he mumbles again.

Rhodes pushes forward, forcing him to back up a step, growls low in his face.  “Tony’s heart stopped on the way to Medical, you clueless, sanctimonious son of a bitch!  That kid over there,” he jerks his head toward Peter, “he felt it.  Do you get that, Rogers?  He felt Tony die in his arms.”

“Oh god…”  The words tumble past his suddenly numb lips, his own heart stuttering to a stop, and he feels cold all over – a painful, bone-deep cold that seems horrifyingly familiar somehow.  ‘I wish you stayed in the ice,” the kid’s parting words echo accusingly in his mind, and he thinks that maybe he’s back there again, maybe he never left.

A hand grips his bicep, one of the officers urging him along, and he shakes off the momentary stupor, digs in his heels.

“Do they know if… The surgery… Can I at least stay and…”  He frowns at the unequivocal angry shake of the head he gets in response to his fumbled plea.  Licks his lips.  Tries again.  “Please, Rhodes, you gotta at least let me see him.  I need to–”

“No.”  Rhodes’ voice leaves no room for objections.  “The only thing I gotta do is keep my friend safe from people like you.  Something I should have done long ago.”

“I never meant to hurt him, Rhodes, you gotta believe me.  I just… I wanna have a chance to tell him that.  Please!”

The Colonel’s cheek twitches in anger, the corners of his mouth pinching.  “This is not how it works, Rogers,” he responds. grim and implacable.  “You don’t get to appease your conscience here.  Not again.  You wanna live up to what’s left of your reputation, then go with these two officers and face the music.”

He nods to the policemen, and Steve feels an insistent tug on his arm again.

“And my team?” he asks dazedly, his mind still reeling – all of this – too much, too much, too much.  His teammates are all here, he knows.  He passed them on his way through the lobby.  But none of them approached him, none of them even spoke to him as he walked by.  Not even Bucky.  And he doesn’t know what to make of that.

“A team isn’t a team if the trust within it is broken,” Rhodes tells him – a cold statement of fact.  “And we need a strong united front to face what’s coming – unquestionable trust in leadership and in each other.   Your former teammates, including Sergeant Barnes, have expressed a desire to work with us on those terms, and I’m willing to give them another try.” 

Rhodes watches him darkly as if expecting him to say something else, but all Steve can do is blink silently back at him, Rhodes’ words pulling the last of the ground from under his feet.  The Colonel shrugs after a moment, waves to the officers with a parting, “If there’s one good thing that came from your actions, Rogers, it’s that your team has become united in their condemnation of them.  I’m gratified to see that they, at least, understand reason better than you do.”

This time Steve doesn’t resist, follows woodenly as the officers guide him back to the exit door.  There’s no point.  Not anymore.

“I’m sorry,” he says, glancing at Rhodes one last time. 

But Rhodes doesn’t respond to him, looks away, shaking his head with an expression of tired disgust.

Right, Steve thinks mournfully, guilt and despair settling heavily in his bones, making his knees weak with the weight of it all.  Fool me once…

Chapter Text

Carefully she pushes open the door to Tony’s room, throwing a quick hopeful look at the man in bed before looking away, disheartened.  Settles her gaze on the small, hunched over figure at his bedside instead.  The kid.  Peter.  She’s not surprised to see him here.  As far as she knows, he hasn’t left Tony’s side since…

She shakes herself out of the disturbing memories, closes the door behind her with a soft click.  She knows he heard her, sees the telltale tension in his shoulders.  But he doesn’t turn around, remains as he is, slouched awkwardly in a bedside chair, one hand stretched out toward Tony, fingers curled lightly around his wrist, resting on the skin above his pulse point.  Checking, she realizes, her lips curving into a smile, soft and fond.

“Any change?” she asks, knowing the answer even before the kid shakes his head mournfully, his shoulders seeming to sag even more.  She sighs, closing her eyes briefly, swallows past the now ever-present lump of worry.  At least he’s still breathing, she thinks ruefully, at least he’s alive.

She takes a step closer to the bed, placing a hesitant hand on the teen’s hunched back.  “How are you holding up?”

Peter shrugs minutely under her hand.  “I’m fine,” comes the response, and the inflection in his voice is so much like Tony’s, it makes her heart ache.

“Your aunt called,” she tries again.  “She’s worried.  Wanted me to ask you to go home and rest a bit.”

He turns toward her then, cheeks pale, eyes red.  “I’m fine, Ms. Potts, really,” he says, chin wobbling unconvincingly.  “Besides,” he shrugs again, drops his gaze back to where his hand lies curled around Tony’s.  “Colonel Rhodes isn’t here.  You and Mr. Hogan are leaving, too, and I… I don’t want him to wake up alone.”

There’s no judgment in his voice, but she can’t help a flush of guilt that heats her cheeks at his words.  She can’t stay, as much as she would have wanted to (and she does want to, she really, really does).  Because she’s got a multi-billion dollar company to run, Tony’s company, and she was already gone for several days – she can’t afford to be absent any more.  Tony would understand, she knows he would.  But it doesn’t make leaving any easier.

“How could he do this?”

The murmured words snap her out of the self-recriminating downward spiral of her thoughts, and she frowns questioningly at Peter’s downturned face, waiting for him to elaborate.

He does.

“Rogers.”  The teen’s free hand clenches into a fist, the muscles under Pepper’s hand bunching up with tension.  “Mr. Stark was his friend, his teammate.  How could he just fire on him like that for… for no reason?  I don’t… I don’t understand.”

She bites her lip against an all-too-familiar upsurge of anger, counts to ten in her head, letting that anger fizzle out.  There’s no room for it here, not now, not in this place.  She nods silently to herself, lets her hand slide down from Peter’s shoulder.  Walks slowly around him to stand by Tony’s head.

“Did he ever tell you about a man named Obadiah?” she asks, reaching down to push a stubborn lock of hair off Tony’s forehead.  Rests her fingertips against the cool, pale skin. 

“No.”

She smiles, wistful and knowing. She wasn’t expecting anything else – Tony isn’t the type to talk about the things that trouble him, not until those things become too much for him to handle.  His post-New York nightmares were a great testament to that.  She closes her eyes briefly, inhales, long and deep.

“Obadiah was Tony’s mentor,” she says finally, absently rubbing her thumb back and forth along the skin above Tony’s brow.  “Ever since his parents were… ever since they died,” she stumbles, not quite ready to voice this latest betrayal, “he became like a father to him.”

“What…uh… what happened?” Peter’s attention is on her now, undivided, brown eyes watching her expectantly.

Her lips twitch – a twisted, bitter semblance of a smile.  “He paid a terrorist group to have Tony killed.”

Peter’s eyes widen impossibly, mouth falling open in obvious shock.  “What?”

She nods, looking away, the grainy images of Tony’s torment flickering before her in her mind’s eye – as horrifyingly vivid as when she first saw them over eight years ago.   “Turns out Obadiah was dealing weapons illegally behind Tony’s back, and he needed Tony out of the way so he could take over the company and continue his dealings on a larger scale.  We didn’t know.  Nobody knew.”  She squeezes her eyes shut for a moment, forcing the images away. Her fingers tremble against Tony’s skin and she pulls her hand away, curls it into a fist at her side in an attempt to hide the tremor.

“And then when Tony came back and started going after all those illegal weapons, Obadiah decided to take matters into his own hands.  Quite literally.”  She clasps her hands together, clenches them hard, her nerves getting the better of her.  Takes another breath that feels too shaky to her somehow.  “He wanted Tony to die knowing that his legacy was going to be exactly what he feared, what he despised – a Merchant of Death.  He ripped the arc reactor out of Tony’s chest, while telling him how he planned to use that technology to create a line of iron soldiers, monsters powered by the very thing that was giving Tony life.”

Beside her she hears Peter gasp.  Watches as the teen blinks rapidly, his face growing impossibly white.

“His arc reactor?  He… he took his…?  And then Rogers …with his shield…?” Peter clamps his free hand over his mouth, looking for all the world like he’s about to get sick.

She grasps his shoulders, crouches in front of him to capture the panicked, wide-eyed gaze.  “Breathe,” she orders him softly.  “Come on, Peter, breathe.”

The teen shakes his head furiously, his features crumpling.  Stares back at her, looking so lost, so helpless, that she moves before her conscious mind comprehends her intentions.  Wraps her arms around him, holding him tight as he shivers against her. 

“He… he gave him back that shield after… after this…  He protected him in battle…,” Peter gasps out into her shoulder, and she tightens her hold on him because he’s shivering harder now, undercurrents of anger slipping into his voice.  “Why?”

She huffs mirthlessly, pulls away, waiting until he meets her gaze.  “Would you believe me if I told you he tried to save Obadiah, too?  Even after everything that man has done?”

Peter gapes at her, incredulous, and she sees the exact moment the realization strikes; the moment that disbelief and anger bleed out of those big brown eyes to be replaced with understanding and then acceptance. 

“Yeah,” the kid agrees, hoarse, his gaze drifting over to Tony’s unconscious form.  “Yeah,” he repeats, his voice tinged with a kind of mournful fondness that she herself has felt all too frequently toward Tony, “I would.”

She smiles wistfully at the familiar sentiment displayed so clearly on the teen’s face, at the protectiveness she feels rolling off of him in waves.  Tony was right, she thinks.  He’s a good kid. 

She straightens back up, leans toward him, placing a quick kiss on his cheek.  “Thank you, Peter,” she tells him as he blinks at her, surprised, eyebrows raised in near-comic confusion.  “Tony… he doesn’t have too many people around him that he can trust not to….” She cuts a glance at Tony’s motionless form, a watery veil washing out his slack features.  Presses her lips together, feeling the saltiness of tears against the tip of her tongue.  “…not to break him,” she whispers, swiping a hand across her eyes before meeting Peter’s open, empathetic gaze once more. “Thank you for being one of the few good ones,” she tells him sincerely, and he nods mutely, his own eyes looking suspiciously wet.

She squeezes his shoulder one last time in a gesture of comfort, turns her attention back to Tony.  She hates seeing him like this – so pale, so uncharacteristically still.  Another injury, another close call.  Too close this time around.   She blinks away another stray tear, raises her hand to wipe it off her cheek.  Leans down, brushing her lips across Tony’s temple. 

“You gotta wake up, honey,” she whispers above his ear.  “I really need you to.  We all do.”  She presses her lips to the cool skin once more, squinting against the insistent burn of tears.  “Please.”

***

Peter dreams – a fragmented, disjointed sequence of images, flashes of light and dark.  A memory, but not quite. 

He’s with his Uncle Ben, they’re returning home from a fair, walking down a side street to get to the bus.  Suddenly something emerges from the shadows – a darkness that momentarily obscures the picture before him, and then he’s on his knees on the ground, leaning over Uncle Ben’s body as his life’s blood seeps out of him into the cold, gray stone.  He cries and he pleads for his Uncle not to leave him, but the man disappears before him, his features dissolving, morphing into another, equally familiar, equally dear.  Peter reaches for him, but a large figure inserts itself between him and Mr. Stark.  Pushes Peter out of the way, throws him aside like a weightless rag doll.  And Peter can’t get back on his feet quickly enough, struggles futilely against the sudden heaviness of his limbs that slows his movements to a crawl. And he’s powerless to stop what happens, to prevent that creature from pouncing on Mr. Stark, the sound of metal hitting flesh deafening in the shadowed space.  He screams in rage, strains against his uncooperative muscles, fighting to inch closer. 

He finally makes it, but not before the creature grips the edges of the arc reactor with its claw-like appendage and yanks it out, disappearing into the night. 

“No!”

Mr. Stark gasps in pain, his body jerking upward with the force of the pull before falling limply back onto the ground, eyes slipping closed.  And Peter moans in distress, dropping to his knees beside him. 

“No.”

He pulls the man toward him, tapping his cheek in an attempt to rouse him.  Wraps his arms around him, pleading, pleading for him to wake up.  But he remains silent, still, and the air seems to grow colder and colder and colder.  And he feels the exact moment that the faint, thready beat of Mr. Stark’s heart slowly, inexorably comes to a stop.

“No…”

He jolts awake as the hand he’s been clinging to all this time shifts minutely in his grip.  He raises his head up off the bed, blinks myopically at his surroundings, the harrowing visions from his uneasy slumber still standing before him in his mind’s eye.   And then his wide-eyed, bleary gaze settles on the pale face of his mentor, on the thin sliver of brown that grows wider with each labored flutter of the eyelids, and the last of the sleep-induced haze surrounding his brain leaves him in a rush.

“Mr. Stark!  You’re–”

His lower lip wobbles, and he already feels the tears coming, his emotions too frayed for him to wrestle back under control.  Mr. Stark’s eyes widen in confusion and worry, his hand twisting within Peter’s grasp, fingers scrambling weakly to grasp Peter’s wrist.  That gesture, that feeble attempt at comfort is enough to sever what’s left of the strings holding him up, and Peter crumples forward like a broken marionette, burying his face in his mentor’s chest as tears stream down his face, burning him from the inside out.

He can hear Mr. Stark’s worried calls of his name, can feel the man’s arms, weak and trembling with effort, as they wrap gently if a bit awkwardly around his sob-wracked frame.  Focuses on the steady beat of the heart underneath his ear, strong, reassuring.  Thinks back to those awful minutes when he felt that heart stop, the sudden absence of its faint, halting rhythm dousing his senses with a wave of crushing, bone-chilling cold that froze him mid-swing, nearly made him lose his grip on the webbing as he rushed to get Mr. Stark to safety.  Thinks of the hours spent outside the operating room as he waited, as they all waited to know if Mr. Stark would live or die.  Thinks of the days, days, days of more waiting, of cautious, slowly fading optimism, of regretful, pitying looks thrown his way…

“Hey.” Mr. Stark’s hand shifts, and he feels it ruffle clumsily through his hair, feels the brush of a thumb across his tear-stained cheek.  “I’m okay, kid.  I’m alright.”

He nods at the raspy whisper, burrows deeper into the solid warmth of his mentor’s embrace, letting the tangibility of it soothe his overwrought senses.  Real, he reminds himself, feeling the first huff of genuine, relieved laughter bubble wetly to the surface even as he clings to that reality for dear life.  Real.  Alive.

He doesn’t notice drifting back to sleep, his body, exhausted by too many sleepless, worry-wrought nights, succumbing to its need to rest, to recharge.  But this time there’s a cocoon of safety around him that, he knows, somehow, even in the fog of sleep, won’t let him go, a steady thrum of heartbeat against his ear, and there are no more nightmares.