Archive of Our Own

Tony has memorized Peter’s heartbeat in these past few hours.

God, he feels like he just strut out of a Hallmark movie admitting to it, but it’s true.

It wasn’t a conscious thing at first, and honestly, it really isn’t now, either. But when you’re sitting in an otherwise quiet hospital room with the steady, mechanic beeping of the heart monitor as the only thing filling the silence, you don’t really have a choice other than becoming intimately familiar with the pattern. It’s more burned into his brain than anything else.

So, now, Tony knows exactly when each beep is coming, and he taps out the beats on the edge of the bed with his index finger in a way that’s half conscious and half mindless. It’s cheesy and he knows it, but he’s kind of reluctantly glad for the distraction, even if said distraction is the one of the most shamelessly soft things he can ever remember doing. It gives his mind something to focus on that isn’t the events of the day.

He’s already thought about those enough by now.

The soft tapping of his finger against Peter’s sheet in time with the beeps doesn’t falter as his gaze flickers over the kid it’s in sync with, quietly taking stock again even if nothing’s really changed in these past few hours. Rhodey stands at the back of the room, quietly scrolling through something or another on his phone, and Tony’s eyes steady on Peter’s face, shamelessly watchful.

Peter has woken up a few times already, but never for long and never really lucidly, and he hadn’t done more than open his eyes and blink blearily once or twice before passing out again. So, for the moment, he’s still mostly knocked out with his face pale and midsection heavily bandaged. An oxygen cannula is threaded under his nose and countless tubes are snaking out from under the blankets, wires reading out vitals and machines humming softly in the background. With all the shit like machines and equipment crowded in here, it’s like the room in its entirety is centered around this one point, everything coming down to a stupidly self-sacrificing kid in a hospital bed.

Tony’s mind is kind of in a similar state, especially the centered around the stupid kid part.

It’s been a long few hours.

Tony is kind of torn between wanting the kid up and talking and wanting him to stay out for as long as possible; on one hand, seeing him awake would be serious relief, but on the other, as soon as he comes back to consciousness, he’ll have to deal with the pain and Tony will have to deal with spilling all.

Honestly, Tony doesn’t know what he’s going to do with the whole mind-blowing confession thing yet. He’s got to tell Peter at some point, obviously. But the questions of when, what, and how are still up in the air.

Geez, even the idea still sounds unreal, and not really in a good way.

You would think that, with so much time to sit and contemplate, Tony would have at least some vague acceptance of the issue at hand by now or, at the very least, that he’d be slightly less freaked out by the concept. And, while he did do a lot of sitting and contemplating over these past few hours, he still honestly isn’t totally sure that he completely buys all of this, and there’s still an irrational yet still very prominant spike of panic that shoots through his system every time his thoughts wander in the direction of the conversation he had earlier with Helen Cho.

Tony’s gaze absently traces the line of Peter’s jaw, and something in him both softens and tenses at how scarily familar it is to him. You’d also think that he’s gotten used to that feeling by now. He hasn’t.

In the beginning, he alternated pretty regularly between disbelief, denial, and flat out panic, but more recently, there’s been a relatively steady, dull sense of something vaguely resembling almost acceptance instead, even if it seems a little too flightly for comfort. He actually has begun processing all of it to some degree too, figuring out how it would have been possible (seventeen years ago, a fuzzy night in a dark bar in the heart of New York, featuring a pretty young woman with curly brown hair and a fast smile by the name of Mary Fitzpatrick) among other things, like why Peter struggles in the exact same areas Tony always had while he was in school and why Peter’s laugh has always slightly irked him, like he recognized it but couldn’t figure out where from.

That’s about as far as he got into the whole processing thing, though.

Any more past that and his mind just seems to halt like a stubborn pony. It’s inconvenient to say in the least, but Tony doesn’t really know if he’s ready to think past that yet anyway. He’s gotta take this on in small steps.

So, for now, he just sits in the crappily padded chair by Peter’s bedside, matching the steady beeps of the heart monitor in soft taps against the edge of the mattress, and waits for the kid to wake up, hopefully this time for more than just a few muddled moments.

Coincidentally, that’s when the heart monitor begins to speed up just slightly, and Tony, with his suddenly interrupted tapping, is the first to notice. He straightens up from where he’s been slumped over these past few hours, studying Peter closely, waiting for any other sign of actually returning consciousness with sharp, hesitantly expectant intensity. And then Peter turns his head just slightly, the movement barely there but enough, and Tony wonders if he should start to get his hopes up.

He glances at Rhodey with wide eyes, half breathlessly hopeful and half terribly dreading. “You think it’s legitimate this time?” he asks, and he isn’t sure what response he’s hoping to hear. If Peter’s actually coming back to full consciousness, then they’re finally gonna see him awake again, which would be a giant win. But, that would also mean that Tony’s gonna have to deal with figuring out the whole hey, I’m your dad, kid! shebang plans sooner than he wants to consider, which isn’t nearly as much of a perk.

But Rhodey’s already left his station at the wall and started towards the foot of the hospital bed, his phone already back in his pocket. “This time seems different, somehow,” he says, in a way that’s both carefully expectant and hopefully controlled. “I’m pretty sure he’s coming to.”

Tony does his best to hide his expression of simultaneous relief and horror, but Rhodey catches it anyway. “Oh, woah, hey,” he says sharply, gentle but firm. “You’re okay, Tony. Don’t freak out yet.”

And then Peter lets out a groan that sounds half pained and half disgruntled, and Tony’s attention snaps back to the matter at hand.

The kid’s expression creases in what could be pain and what could be confusion, a line appearing between his eyebrows. He shifts slightly under the thin sheet like he’s trying to get comfortable, but then freezes when the movement tugs on the IVs still threaded in his arms, seeming to recognize the beeps of the heart monitor and the smell of the room. His eyes snap open. There’s immediate tension building up in the lines of his shoulders, the confusion giving way to disorientation and what looks a little like panic, obviously unsure of where he is and what’s going on.

Then, he turns his head and finally sees Tony.

Almost instantly, in a way that’s almost comical in its speed, he relaxes. The tension immediately fades from his expression, and he seems reassured just by Tony’s presence, like whatever had been running through his mind before isn’t so bad now that he knows Tony’s here. The line between his eyebrows melts away. “Oh, hey Mr. Stark,” he says, half drowsy and half breathless.

Something in Tony seems to break a little, like the way cracks shoot through ice when it’s hit with warm water, and Tony kind of feels like like he’s about to fall out his chair.

God, this overwhelming emotion thing is getting old real fast.

Tony smiles, gripping the armrest of his chair to ground himself. “Hey, kid,” he says, attempting a smile and hoping that Peter doesn’t catch the fact that his voice almost break.

The smug little look Rhodey throws his way is enough to tell him that the near voice crack wasn’t completely missed, however. Tony hates how well Rhodey knows him, sometimes.

Peter glances around the room, and catches sight of Rhodey still standing at the foot of the bed. He lifts his hand in some pitiful semblance of a wave. The kid at least gets points for trying. “Hey, Colonel Rhodes,” he says, voice slightly more cheerful.

“How’re you feeling, Peter?” Rhodey just asks in response, a small, gentle smile softening his eyes as he rests one hand on the guardrail. The kid in questions shrugs slightly, then winces at the movement, one hand going to hover over the wound, like that might somehow help the burst of pain fade quicker.

“Fine,” he bullshits, voice tight, but Tony lets it slide for now. Once the grabbing pain eases, he glances down at the bandages layered over his abdomen, hesitantly touching the edges of the gauze with gingerly prodding fingertips. Then he looks up at Tony again, his expression inquisitive but unsurprisingly not all that bothered, even as the drowsy influence of the drugs lingers. “Wait, did I actually get shot this time?” he asks with the tone of someone asking after the weather, more curiosity than concern coloring his voice.

“Nah,” Tony says tightly. Being able to honestly deny that is at least a small win, he supposes.

“Oh,” Peter says, seeming a little relieved by this. He pokes at the edges of the bandages again before looking back up Tony, expression intrigued. “So what actually did happen?”

Tony really wants to blame the drugs for how chill he sounds when literally asking about his violent stab wound, because that would be a more understandable and logical reason that wouldn’t make Tony feel nearly as guilty. However, he reluctantly knows it’s more from experience than anything else, considering Peter’s been in a hospital bed identical to this one more times than Tony wants to think about. The kid’s got the routine down to a science by this point.

Leaning forward, Tony balances his elbows on his thighs, hands hanging between his knees. “Well, let’s see,” he says, voice dry. He starts ticking off fingers as he continues, counting off the series of events he’s listing. “Knife. High guy. High guy with knife. High guy attacks you with knife-”

“You got stabbed,” Rhodey interrupts flatly.

Tony shoots him an empty glare for messing up his rhythm, but when Rhodey just responds with a wry stare, Tony lets it go. “Basically,” he amends with just the slightest note of fake offense in his voice, turning back to Peter. “Sound familiar?”

Peter chuckles sheepishly, the hand with less IVs attached coming up to sweep through his hair. It leaves his curls sticking up at even more ridiculous angles than before. “Maybe a little.”

“Thought so.”

Rhodey, however, just hums softly, his hands slipping into the pockets of his jeans. “How’s the pain?” he asks, not unkindly.

“It’s fine,” Peter says mildly, but Tony knows he’s lying through his teeth. With Peter’s enhanced metabolism, he burns through meds faster than a Cadillac burns through gas, which means that they have to keep him on ridiculously high drug amounts with ridiculously frequent doses to keep him comfortable. But, even then, they have to be careful how much they give him without overdosing, and Peter’s about maxed out at this point.

Peter’s got to be hurting, but he knows his levels, and he’s not complaining.

God, this kid.

Rhodey’s expression creases into a half frown of thinly veiled concern, but doesn’t comment further. Tony’s explained all of this to him before, and Rhodey’s been in Peter’s recovery room often enough to know the drill by now, but Tony knows that he still hates to see the kid in pain. Tony can relate.

“One guy got hurt, right? Is he okay?” Peter asks, and Tony nods.

“Yeah, he got hit in the hand, but it was a pretty minor injury,” he tells him. “You got the brunt of it, kid.”

Rhodey takes that moment to cut in, his hands braced on the guardrail of the bed as he rolls his shoulders, stretching after standing in one position for as long as he had. “I think I’m gonna head down the hall and grab us some more coffee,” he says casually, but he shoots a subtle but meaningful look Tony’s way as he speaks, pushing off of the guardrail as he begins to cross the room. “Want some ice chips while I’m out, Peter?”

Peter nods gratefully, but Tony just sits up and casts a brief look Rhodey’s way, trying to keep the alarm from showing on his face at the announcement. Just the purposeful expression Rhodey’s currently wearing is enough to confirm what he meaning to happen while he’s gone.

He wants Tony to tell Peter now? When Peter’s still in a hospital bed and Tony’s still in a state of denial? No, no, terrible idea. Hell, Peter literally just got stabbed a few hours ago. What happens if the shock sends the kid into cardiac arrest or something? Tony wouldn’t put it past him and his admittedly strange medical tendencies.

Tony doesn’t want to keep this away from the kid for any longer than needed. But, even still, maybe the wait to tell him is needed. Tony still needs time to process, and Peter needs time to heal, and everyone needs time to just take all of this in.

And that doesn’t even touch on the actual reveal itself.

Because, if he’s being completely, brutally honest, he still doesn’t even know if he really believe it himself yet.

He has no idea how he’s gonna break the same news to Peter and expect the kid to actually accept it.

Rhodey must catch the hint of panic in Tony’s, face because his expression softens just slightly, but he stays firm nonetheless. “I’ll be back in a few minutes,” he says, clapping a hand on Tony’s shoulder as he passes. The motion is casual, but there’s a reassuring note to it, silently apologizing and offering support in the same action. Then, with a fast squeeze to Tony’s shoulder and a brief smile flashed Peter’s way, he walks out of the room, leaving the door cracked behind him.

“So how bad is it this time?” Peter asks, once they’re alone. “Like, the wound and everything.” Propped up against the pillows and looking paler than the sheet still thrown of his lap, the kid looks absolutely exhausted, but his eyes are remain bright nonetheless. Even if Tony’s pretty sure he’ll be falling back asleep within the next half hour at the very most, he’s obviously trying to keep himself awake now. The subtle way he keeps slightly shifting position is enough an indicator of that- Tony does the exact same thing when he’s trying to fend off sleep, especially when said sleep is more or less drug-fueled. Something inside him clenches so tight that it’s almost painful when he realizes that. “You said I got the worst of the attack.”

“You did,” Tony sighs, leaning forward slightly with his elbows on his knees again. He tries to center himself in the moment and take the unintentional punches as they come, but suddenly, his mind is entirely occupied by how Peter’s casually questioning expression looks so familiar. God, now he’s all nervous again, just with the concept of telling the kid. He hasn’t even done anything yet. “The stab wound was deep. It nicked an artery, and you lost nearly half of your blood volume, kid. Even if you do replenish blood way faster than a normal human, that’s still a lot to lose. It was pretty damn bad.”

Peter has suddenly zeroed in on the gauze still taped to the inside of Tony’s elbow, and he glances up a moment later, a crease appearing between his eyebrows. “Wait, did you donate?”

Tony’s hand goes to cover the gauze instinctively. He forgot to peel it off earlier, apparently. “I did.”

“We have the same blood type?”

“We do,” he says.

Something that looks like half amusement and half awe comes over Peter’s face, and he looks down at his own arm like he might find something different in just the outward appearance, even though the puncture from the transfusion has probably already healed. Then he glances up at Tony again, smiling in the slight way he gets when he thinks of something clever. “So, I technically have Tony Stark’s blood running through my veins right now,” he says wryly.

Tony nearly chokes on his own spit at that, because yes, in ways that are so much more heavily invested and terrifyingly on point than the kid even realizes.

God, if this isn’t the absolute best opportunity to tell Peter about the results of the blood tests, then any better chance would have to walk up and actually slap Tony in the face for him to realize it. It would be the perfect lead in, and now, alone in the quiet hospital room when Peter’s still too weak to punch him and May’s too far away to personally murder him, would be the perfect time and place. He would break the news early, not have to worry about it later, and have the time to explain everything on top of it. Damn it, this is way too perfect.

Tony can’t pass it up.

He makes his decision before he can think better of it, and there’s no going back now. He presses his palms to his thighs before they can start shaking and takes a breath, inwardly cursing Peter’s obliviously flawless set up and trying to suppress the returning panic currently wreaking havoc on his intestinal tract. The low burning nervousness has surged to full out anxiety in these past few seconds, forcing a jitter to his thoughts and a hitch to his breath, and it is not what you might call pleasant.

Adrenaline and anxiety honestly make a kind of horrific emotion cocktail.

Really, it’s only one sentence he needs to say. You’re my son, Peter. He’s delivered a lot of one sentences in his life, those all turned out more or less fine. Hell, he could even make it into a Star Wars reference, if he really wanted to. Maybe that would soften the blow somewhat.

“... Mr. Stark? Is everything alright?”

God, Tony is so fucked.

Tony’s eyes flicker up, attempting a reassuring smile that likely turns out more like a grimace. Peter’s watching him in a way that’s half wary and half concerned, obviously picking up on the tension lining Tony’s shoulders and the distress lining his features. His hair is still sticking up at absolutely ridiculous, gravity-defying angles.

Okay. One sentence. One sentence is all he needs.

God, look at him, freaking out over one quick statement like a teenager freaking out over a homecoming date. Shit, he doesn’t like feeling this nervous.

“Peter…” he starts, and his voice sounds tight even to him. His eyes steady on the kid’s, dark brown meeting terrifyingly identical dark brown, with his hands clasped in his lap and his shoulders stooped forward, leaning his elbows on his thighs. He pauses there, and Peter’s questioning concern only seems to increase. The kid sits there patiently and stares at Tony with his hands folded neatly in his lap, a worried line appearing between his eyebrows, giving Tony all the time he might need like the polite, concerned, sweet, perfect kid he is.

And shit, Tony can’t do this.

In a flash of movement that’s almost violent in its sudden vigority, Tony is out of his chair and across the room before Peter can react. The adrenaline pulsing through his veins pushes him to go faster, harder, quicker, to get out of the situation that’s causing him so much anxiety, to save him self from the mind-numbing panic that’s currently adding an almost frantic note of speed to his movements and a startling sharpness to his vision. “I think I’m gonna go check on Rhodey,” he hears himself say just before he slams the door shut, leaving Peter alone and stunned in the hospital room.

He falls heavily back against the wood the second it’s closed, his breathing ragged and hands trembling so violently it feels like the shocks are spreading all the way up to his shoulders. Predictably, Rhodey is standing directly beside the door, where he’s been waiting and eavesdropping on the conversation ever since he left the room a few minutes before. Tony gasps for breath, his chest heaving and the oxygen not seeming to do anything to help ease his anxiety and oh god he can’t breathe.

It only takes half a glance and half a second for Rhodey to recognize the panic attack.

“Shit,” he swears under his breath, instantly jumping into action as he grabs Tony by the shoulder and gently but efficiently tows him down the hallway, away from Peter’s room and, more importantly, out of range of the kid’s super hearing. Once they round the corner, Rhodey pushes Tony to the wall before forcing him down into a sitting position, so that Tony lands on his ass in the fluorescent lighting of an empty, sterile-looking medbay hallway, nearly wheezing by this point and starting to feel lightheaded from the lack of oxygen.

Rhodey drops down into a crouch in front of him, his leg braces whirring aggressively in protest to the abrupt movement but going ignored in the moment. Moving quickly on more instinct and muscle memory than conscious thought, he catches Tony by the chin, forces him to look at him, and stares him in the eyes with the kind of practiced calm of a man who has done this countless times before.

“Tony, breathe with me,” he says firmly, and Tony’s chest is heaving and his eyes are panicked and he can’t breathe but Rhodey’s there, and Rhodey seems to know what he’s doing, so Tony decides on some distant level that it’s probably a decent idea to listen to him. “Come on, you know the drill. In for 4, hold for 7, out for 8, you got it?”

Rhodey counts out loud, his voice steady and low with his own breathing serving as an example, coaching Tony through inhalations and exhalations and keeping one grounding hand on his shoulder even after he withdraws the one holding his face. Tony tries to ground himself in the contact, in Rhodey’s consistent numbers, and presses his hands to the tile of the floor until they stop shaking. The tile is absolutely freezing under his palms, but it’s distracting because of it. Tony takes what he can get.

Gradually, Tony’s breathing evens out and the clutching panic subsides, until he pushes Rhodey’s hand off his shoulder with muttered words of weary reassurance. His breathing is still synced with Rhodey’s in a way that’s half conscious and half mindless.

Now that his services are no longer as desperately needed, Rhodey thuds down from his crouch as his counting drops off, so that the two of them are sitting about a foot apart on the med bay floor. Tony, pressing his shoulders to the wall behind him with his head bowed, is suddenly struck with the realization of how glad he is that the medbay is as empty as it is. Having to explain what’s going on in the middle of the anxiety attack would have definitely made the entire situation about ten times worse.

Small wins, he guesses.

Tony lets the quiet linger for a moment. Rhodey just sits across from him with one knee propped up with his right arm slung over it, his mouth a thin line of muted worry and forehead just creased enough to be noticeable, not staring at Tony but still carefully watching him in the subtle way he has. He doesn’t speak either, giving Tony the time he needs to pull himself back together before starting the conversation they both know they’ve got to have. Rhodey tends to be good about that kind of shit.

Once he trusts his voice again on at least some distant level, Tony takes a deep breath, triggering Rhodey to glance up automatically. Tony doesn’t look up from the floor, and his voice is hoarse and quiet when he speaks. “Getting us coffee my ass.”

Rhodey scoffs softly. “Yeah, like I’d actually condone you consuming more caffeine after the amount you’ve already had today."

“Caffeine is the fuel of life.”

“Caffeine will give you a heart attack and end your life.”

Tony huffs a laugh, breathy and hoarse and low. He glances up to find Rhodey staring at him, long-established fondness paired with quiet worry in his gaze. Rhodey’s been present for Tony’s panic attacks more times than Tony can count over the years, but he knows that it still worries Rhodey to see him like this, and after the day they’ve had, Rhodey’s already worried about him enough.

God, all of this just sucks flat out.

He still doesn’t push, but the lingering concern is evident in Rhodey’s expression, the silent question of Tony’s well being hovering in the air. Tony sighs, clasps his hands in the lap where he’s sitting Indian style with his back pressed to the wall behind him, and tries on a faint but hopefully reassuring smile aimed Rhodey’s way. “You don’t have to keep staring at me like that,” he says, his voice rasping. “I’m fine.”

“I don’t know if I believe that,” Rhodey returns gently.

“And I don’t know if I do either, but it’s the best I got,” Tony says. He lets his head rest against the wall behind him, and although the occasional tremor still runs through his hands, most of the blinding panic has eased by now. At this point, it’s just the ever present stress and anxiety that’s still sitting in a condensed ball at the base of his stomach, heavy as lead and cold as ice. He glances Rhodey’s way briefly, a small smile twitching at the corner of his mouth. “It’s been a while since we’ve been in this situation, huh? With you talking me through a panic attack with both of us on the floor?”

“It has,” Rhodey agrees in a sigh. “Can’t say I’ve missed it.”

Tony huffs a wry, mirthless chuckle. “Me neither.”

Rhodey takes a breath, looking at Tony in the quietly concerned way he has, but keeps the pity clean out of his expression. Tony’s at least grateful for that. “Was it the whole talking to Peter thing that brought it on, do you think?” he asks carefully, but not hesitantly. That’s another thing Rhodey’s good about; not acting as if Tony will break if he’s too frank with him. He’s got a lot of practice at this, Tony supposes. He knows what to do and what not to do by now.

His eyes slide closed at the question, his lips parting as he lets out a long exhale. “Think so,” he mutters. “You heard the conversation.”

“I did.”

“You heard how perfect the set up was.”

“I did.”

“I just couldn’t do it.”

“I know.”

Tony’s eyes open again to find Rhodey staring at him, his expression neutral even as the mild concern still lingers just behind his eyes. They’re still barely a foot apart, with Tony huddled against the wall and Rhodey plain on the floor in the long, sterile looking hallway, with countless doors lining the sides but without one other person in sight.

“What’s going on, Tony?” Rhodey finally asks, his voice soft.

“It’s just… Peter has absolutely no idea about any of this shit,” Tony says quietly. He doesn’t bother lying; Rhodey will just see through it anyway. “He’s as innocent and oblivious as I was this morning. Right now, I can almost pretend that none of this happened, and everything will keep going on like it always has. As soon as I tell him, that’s gonna change.” His eyes slide closed again. “It’s all gonna change.”

“It might take Peter a while to… accept this,” Rhodey says slowly, seeming to think about his words as he says them, “but he’ll come around eventually, and you know that. Things might change, but you can’t keep this from him forever, Tony.”

“I know,” Tony murmurs. “God, I know.”

Rhodey pauses for a moment, and Tony’s eyes stay closed, a brief quiet settling between them in the silence of the hallway. Tony moves one of his hands to rest upon the floor, and the tile is still ice cold under his palm. It’s reassuring, grounding, in the insanity of the day he’s just had. There’s not a sound for a long moment.

But then Rhodey sighs, and says, “You two come out of anesthesia the exact same way.”

Tony’s eyes crack open.

Rhodey isn’t looking at him, instead gazing pointlessly gazing at some point in the ground, but he’s definitely talking to Tony, and the meaning layering in his voice is enough to make him listen. “You both start out with some kind of sound when you’re first coming to,” he says, “then you always try to move or shift or something before getting caught up in the wires and tubes and freezing because you figure out you’re in a hospital. You’ve always done it, and Peter does too, the exact same thing. It’s kind of creepy, actually.”

“You’ve never told me this before,” Tony says quietly.

“I know I haven’t,” Rhodey returns, voice pointed. He still keeps his gaze on the floor, his tone more musing than anything else but still carrying that note of importance thrumming just under the words. “That’s why I’m telling you now. Because then your eyes just snap open, and you start looking around kind of frantic like for someone you trust, because you’re freaking out by that point. You usually look for me or Pepper, because we’re probably the two people you trust the most. It makes sense; we’ll give you the honest truth, and if we’re around, then everything’s more or less fine and you’re safe. It’s just instinctive.” He sighs again, quiet and weary and vaguely fondly exasperated, and finally looks up at Tony, meeting his eyes steadily. “But Peter, well, he looked for you, Tony. You were the only person he was trying to find.”

Wow. Tony thought he was getting away from the whole overwhelming emotions thing. Apparently not.

“You’re sure about that?” Tony asks softly.

“You saw it yourself,” Rhodey says. “He calmed down the second he saw you. It’s what he always does.”

“Always? He’s done it before?”

“Every damn time.”

In an act of cruelly terrible timing, that’s when the phone rings.

Tony’s phone, he recognizes instantly from the ringtone, but that doesn’t mean that the abrupt sound doesn’t cause both Rhodey and Tony to jump in alarm when it starts singing. Tony twists awkwardly to pull it out of his jeans pocket, rushing to answer just so he can shut it up more than anything else.

But once its once again exposed to the light of day, he finds that it’s May Parker’s face that’s smiling up from the screen, under the contact name Aunt Hottie.

She already knows that Peter was stabbed; he called here right after the kid got taken back for surgery, while he was standing in the general med bay and waiting for Rhodey to arrive. However, that was before Helen pulled him back into the lab, before he knew about any of this, before he even donated blood, and he hasn’t talked to her since.

She’s been on a business trip since yesterday, and when he called, she was suddenly faced with the task of getting home unexpectantly and quickly to be with Peter. He assumes that she’s been doing just that ever since, and now, it seems, she’s about to arrive.

God, he’s not looking forward to telling her, but she’s probably the next person who needs to know.

“Who is it?” Rhodey asks, looking at the still vibrating phone pointedly from where he’s still sitting about a foot away.

“May,” he says, softly. “I’m gonna tell her to come to the compound. I guess I’ll sit her down and tell her about the blood results then.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Rhodey says. He looks at Tony carefully, a small, grim smile flickering at the corner of his mouth. “You good?”

“I’m good.”

Rhodey smiles, reaches out and uses Tony’s shoulder to steady himself as he gets to his feet. “Alright. I’ll be sitting with the stabbed kid if you need me.”

Tony smiles in spite of himself. “He has a name, Rhodey.”

“Yeah, but stabbed kid sounds cooler.” Rhodey throws him a grin. “Go get ‘em, Stark.”

Still smiling slightly, Tony takes a breath and answers the call. “Hey, May. A certain stabbed kid’s been asking for you, when’re you getting here?”

***

Tony’s seen a lot of scary ass things in his life.

There’s been creepy alien robots, murderous computer overlords, traumatizing wormholes in the sky, and once, accidentally, Clint naked, among other incredibly emotionally scarring things. He has seen it all.

Still, few come close to the absolute wrath that is May Parker when she’s pissed and confused.

And right now, she’s more pissed and confused than he’s ever seen her before, staring at him from where she’s sitting beside him in crappy hospital grade chairs Tony managed to find down the hall from Peter’s room, her long hair hanging past her boobs and her glasses only seeming to accent the fire in her eyes, and Tony is honestly kind of fearing for his life.

“I don’t understand,” she says slowly, but Tony can tell that she understands everything just fine. No, this is an opportunity, a chance she’s graciously giving Tony to change his message. Her eyes dare him to repeat himself.

She arrived about half an hour ago, and had immediately gone to Peter’s room to check on the kid and recount the events of the whole stabbing thing, apologizing profusely for being as late as she was. Tony was perfectly content to sit back and let them have their little reunion, but after Rhodey sent him the third meaningful look in the span of two minutes, Tony finally gave in and asked if he could have a quick word with her.

So, here they are now, sitting in a pair of crappy chairs after Tony’s spilled everything to her from the surgeon asking for blood to Helen showing him the list of results on his computer screen and everything in between (save for the panic attack, he kept that to himself) to her, and it’s only now occuring to him how incredibly scary May can be when she wants to.

His gaze slides over to her, knowing that he’s walking on eggshells here but unsure of what else he can do. “What don’t you understand?” he asks.

“I get all of the blood samples and results, I do,” she says, starting out slowly with her words carefully chosen. She sits with her hands braced around the armrests of the chair, obviously trying to steady herself as she shoots silent daggers at Tony. “But I really don’t get the timing.”

“The timing?”

May looks a little incredulous, like she can’t believe that Tony has the audacity to act confused. “You really had to break all of this now, when Peter’s stabbed in a hospital bed?” she asks, voice hushed but eyes livid. “What the hell is up with that?”

A moment of confusion flickers over Tony’s expression, but then it clicks, what she’s suggesting. His eyes widen. “You think I knew?” he asks, legitimately surprised.

“You really want to explain why else you took some random kid under your wing, then?”

“I didn’t-“ he starts vehemently, but she cuts him off before he can get more than a few words out.

“Don’t bullshit me, Stark,” she says fiercely, eyes burning and hushed voice fiery. “I don’t believe in coincidences, and you can’t expect me to buy that you just found out about this yourself. Thats some soap opera level shit right there. That’s just not how it works in real life.”

“Well, it’s how it works with us,” Tony says, almost defensively. “I wouldn’t have kept this from Peter for all these months. I had no idea until today, May, I swear to you.”

“So you’re really going to tell me that you just found the kid who just coincidentally happens to be your son on YouTube and that was it?” She lets out a sharp, bitter laugh, sounding like it hurts her. Shaking her head, she sits back in her chair, posture exasperatedly disbelieving. “I might not be the most impressive but I am sure as hell not that gullible.”

“Listen-”

”No, Tony,” May says firmly, and now she’s back to the offensive, her eyes flashing and voice vehement. “You do know that this is going to crush Peter, don’t you? The kid struggles with his self esteem enough already, he really doesn’t need the one thing he’s been actually recognized for to turn out to be fake too. God, I can’t believe you-!”

”Listen to me, May!” Tony almost yells, just to get her to stop. He finds his hand on her knee, which surprises both of them, but it seems to stun her enough that he gets the chance to actually speak. “I promise you, I didn’t know about this until a few hours ago. This is just as much of a shock to me as it is to you.”

She sits back, studies him for a moment, still angry but looking like she’s searching for something in his expression. But then something seems to loosen in her eyes, fury being replaced with something like surprise. “... you really didn’t know?” she asks.

"God, no."

She sits back in her chair, shaking her head. “Then why haven’t you told him about this yet now?”

Tony hesitates. “I’m going to.”

“When?”

“Soon.” He sits back and takes his hand off of her knee, messes with the hem of his shirt, breaks eye contact. “I figured it would be better for you to know first, maybe to help with the aftermath or something.”

There’s a long pause as the two of them seem to just sit there and soak it in, but then May just sighs and says, “Damn, I always knew it was a possibility, but I never expected this.”

Tony’s gaze snaps up. “What?” When she doesn’t respond, he leans forward in his chair, his voice taking on a note of demanding. “A possibility of what?”

May looks somewhat apologetic but more weary, sighing again as she meets Tony’s eyes. “Of Peter not being Richard’s.”

”What? You knew?””

“We didn’t know,” May says, “but Mary just got pregnant so quickly after her and Richard got together, and the dates didn’t quite match up. We never really had much to base it off of, but Ben and I always… wondered, a little.”

Tony leans back in his chair, running a hand over the lower half of his face. “Holy shit,” he mutters.

“I just never thought it would be you, Tony,” she says, and the raw honesty in her voice is enough to make him believe her. “I never had any idea at all.”

Tony laughs mirthlessly, mind feeling stuffed full. “That makes two of us.”

***

It’s about an hour after Tony and May return to Peter’s room that Tony’s phone starts ringing again, vibrating loudly against the counter wedged into one side of the room. Tony glances over at it briefly from where he’s sitting across the room before dismissing it; he can call back whoever’s trying to get a hold of him later on, after Peter’s fallen asleep again and May won’t shoot daggers at him for leaving the kid while he’s conscious.

Besides, if he leaves the room, that will give May yet another opportunity to follow him out and corner him in an empty, witness-free hallway to try and demand that he tells Peter today, and literally no one wants that. He can already see her eyeing him from across Peter’s bed, and he can tell that she’s scheming. Better not risk it.

Peter, however, looks up from where he’s video chatting with Ned on his phone (the conversation had started with something like “hey, guess what? I got stabbed again!” and continued with something like an exasperated “Peter, dear GOD-” before Tony had to muffle his exasperatedly weary laugh with a cough) when the kid hears the phone. He glances in the direction of the counter curiously before looking back at Tony, obviously waiting to be told who it is, the nosy little gremlin. “Shouldn’t you be getting that?” he asks when Tony doesn’t move, one eyebrow lifting slightly.

“I’ll catch whoever it is later,” Tony says dismissively.

Rhodey, however, has already taken it upon himself to walk over there and check the screen, his steps thunking against the tile as he goes. He reads the contact at a glance, then looks up, his gaze directed towards Tony. “It’s Pepper.”

“Ah,” Tony says, suddenly stiffening. Pepper’s been in Seattle for the last week, and although he texted her while Peter was in surgery asking if they could talk, he hasn’t spoken to her since. She’s yet another person who has no idea about any of this yet. As soon as she knows and gets past the shock, she’ll be diving into the financial and legal and public parts of handling this, and Tony honestly isn’t sure if he’s ready to deal with all of that.

Plus, he’d rather not relive the reveal again. He’s done enough of that today.

Rhodey gives him a meaningful look, picking up the phone as it continues to ring. “You really should take it,” he says, voice apologetic but firm. “She needs to know what’s going on.”

Peter probably thinks Rhodey’s referring to the whole stabbed thing with that, but Tony knows better.

Unfortunately, he also knows that Rhodey’s right.

“Yeah, okay,” he gives in, pushing himself out of the chair he’d claimed at Peter’s bedside and walking over to retrieve the phone from Rhodey. Pepper’s contact photo grins up at him from the screen, and he flashes a quick, sure smile at the room at whole as he starts towards the door, trying to reassure himself as well within the motion. “Be right back.”

He waits until he’s down the hall before he answers, picking a spot near where he and Rhodey were earlier and leaning back against the wall there. He looks at the phone for a minute, bracing himself, then accepts the call.

“Hey, Ms. Potts.”

”Tony,” Pepper greets him, her voice light-hearted and bright. Seattle is three hours behind New York, so Tony assumes she’s on her lunch break now and enjoying her time off from meetings. She sounds so cheerful and happy and terribly oblivious to everything that’s gone down today, and Tony feels terrible when he realizes that he’s about to basically explode her bubble. ”How are you, how is everybody? Everyone still in one piece since I’ve been gone?”

Tony laughs, but it sounds a little forced even to him. “Uh, well, for the most part,” he says, not unhonestly.

The brightness in her voice has instantaneously dropped, being replaced with careful wariness, perfected from years of practice at reacting to Tony’s countless mistakes. He kind of wishes she does’t have it down as well as she does. ”What do you mean by that?”

“Peter may or may not have gotten stabbed by a high psycho during out coffee date,” Tony says in one breath, then clenches his jaw, waiting for the fall out.

”Again?” Pepper asks, exasperated.

“Hey, he’s only gotten stabbed with me one other time, and that was at least four months ago,” Tony protests. “And it was basically a paper cut to the thigh, too, he didn’t even need stitches.”

There’s a sigh, sounding half weary and half worried. ”Well, how bad is it this time?” she asks, and she sounds endlessly less bubbly than she did just a few minutes ago, concern bleeding into her voice to take its place. ”Is he okay?

“He’s fine,” Tony says, and there’s another sigh, this one of relief. “It was a kitchen knife to the stomach, and he lost a ton of blood, but he’s fine. Or he’s gonna be, once his healing factor’s gotten the chance to take care of it”

”Thank god.”

He lets his head fall back against the wall behind him, his free arm wrapped loosely around his waist, the hallway empty and silent save for the sound of his voice. “I donated blood to him, actually,” he says half-heartedly.

”Peter has type A positive too?”

“Apparently.” He presses his shoulders to the wall, bracing himself, trying to mentally plan out how he’s going to do this. He needs to tell her, and he knows that, but he doesn’t want to go through this all again.

Plus, the same goes for Pepper as it goes for Peter. The longer they don’t know, the longer he can go along pretending that it doesn’t exist. He can almost forget about all of it in the light of normalcy. The second he tells them is the second that all of his attempts to keep everything as normal as possible go out the window.

Still, he’s got to tell her.

Damn, this is so much harder than it sounds.

He shuts his eyes and, before he can think better of it, says, “And, well, they had to test my blood and Peter’s blood and everything to make sure we were compatible and everything, and they kind of found something weird.”

”... Weird?” Pepper echoes carefully, the question balanced in her voice.

Tony takes a breath, and spills the entire story.

Pepper sits quietly and listens through the entire thing, interrupting him occasionally to ask a question or make a soft sound of agreement or surprise but mostly letting him tell her exactly what happened. By the time he’s finished, he sitting on the floor again, his legs stretched out across the floor and his free hand mindlessly playing with the zipper of his jacket.

“So, there’s that,” he finally says, laughing weakly and without mirth and waiting for the reaction.

There’s a pause, but then Pepper just exhales softly, like she’s aching to make this better but doesn’t know how. ”Oh, Tony.”

“Yeah,” Tony mutters.

”Are you okay?”

“Um, not exactly,” he says, and it’s a little scary how true it rings. He’s still leaning against the wall, his ass planted on the freezing tile, but his mind just feels distant, so repeatedly stunned by this shit that it’s finally just given up for the time being. He doesn’t know how he’s supposed to feel anymore. “There was kind of a panic attack earlier.”

”Was Rhodey there?”

“Luckily, yeah, he was.”

”Good,” she sighs, voice soft. There’s a quiet rustle of movement, as if she’s running a hand through her hair like she does when she gets especially worried. ”Thank him for me.”

Tony sighs, his head resting against the wall behind him, chin up and shoulders slumped. “Yeah.”

There’s a moment of quiet on both ends. Tony can’t be sure what Pepper’s thinking, because he isn’t even sure what he’s thinking at the moment. How would he react if she came out and told him that she had a kid neither of them knew was hers for the first sixteen years of the kid’s life? Especially if Tony actually knew and liked the kid beforehand?

Would he be pissed?

Is she pissed?

Quietly, he clears his throat. “Are you upset?” he asks.

”Oh, no, Tony,” she says immediately, and the genuineness her voice is actually really comforting. She means what she’s saying, thank god. “No, I’m not upset. I’m just… surprised, but at the same time, less shocked than I thought I’d be.”

His eyebrows raise slightly, even if he knows she can’t see him. “Really?”

She exhales again, the sound half apologetic and half vaguely fond, soft affection mingling with quiet resignation. ”He really does have your eyes, Tony,” she says. ”You two are more similar than I think you even realize. I just never recognized the similarities for what they are until now.”

Tony sighs, gulping as he runs his free hand over his face, trying to steady himself, trying to keep himself grounded. “God, I’m gonna be such a shit dad,” he mutters.

”Hey, none of that,” Pepper says instantly, her voice immediately soothing and reassuring, sure as hell in what she’s saying. “Let’s face the facts here, really- you’ve been parenting Peter for as long as you’ve known him, and he still absolutely adores you. You’ve been a pretty great dad to him so far, and now it’s just an upgrade to… the actual title, instead of just the role, I suppose.”

Tony takes a shaky breath, and he’s stunned to realize how close he is to breaking, as if that simple confession was the catalyst to breaking in all entirety. “Pepper, I don’t know what I’m going to do,” he says, his voice almost a whisper.

“You’ll figure it out,” she tells him. “And even if you don’t, we’ll be there to help, me and Rhodey and May and Happy and even Peter himself, okay? You aren’t alone with this. You’re never alone, Tony.”

Tony just sits there, slumped against the wall of the empty med bay hallway, white washed and sterile and silent, and nods like its all he can do. “Okay,” he whispers.

Pepper stays on the phone with him until her lunch break is over. They don’t say anything more, but the soft sound of her breathing across the line is enough to keep him grounded, and he clings to it, the cold of the tile below him and the florescent lights shining above him and with Tony himself caught in the middle in far too many ways to count, but there’s Pepper’s breathing and Pepper’s presence, and that’s all he can focus on for now.

He’ll buy her some of that fancy chocolate she likes as a thank you when she gets home, but for now, he he thinks that she knows how grateful he is anyway.

Somehow, she always knows.

***

By the time Peter gets out of med bay the next morning, Tony still hasn’t told him.

He really did mean to, and there were plenty of opportunities, but he chickened out each and every time he got close. The kid would get those big questioning eyes and slightly furrowed eyebrows with the innocent, slightly concerned expectancy in his expression literally seconds after Tony got his attention to start talking, and Tony would be done for. He’d find himself asking something meaningless or telling some stupid story instead in a desperate and almost instinctive attempt to dodge the actual topic he was supposed to be tackling, time after time.

Peter’s a perceptive kid, and Tony knows that Peter knows that something’s up, but the kid hasn’t figured it out yet and still hasn’t gotten to the point of asking what’s going on outright.

Tony will tell him soon, he knows he will.

He just doesn’t know how at this point.

Happy knows now, and for once, Pepper told him instead of Tony. So, Happy was just spontaneously something like both pissed at and concerned for Tony without Tony having to relive all of it first, which was a nice change in the routine. Also, it’s kind of nice just to have someone else to talk to about it too, honestly, especially with Happy being as old and trusted of a friend as he is.

The only thing that is decidedly not nice about Happy knowing is how insanely protective he is of the kid, and how insanely dedicated he is to making Tony fess up.

“He needs to know,” he tells Tony in a low voice while they’re waiting for Peter to finish up changing into normal person clothes to go home, standing outside his hospital room beside the door and speaking quietly enough that he shouldn’t be able to hear them through the wall. Happy’s going to drive Peter home, and Tony is just here to see the kid off. Rhodey had to leave earlier today, and May had to go back into work, so it’s only the three of them in the med bay now.

Unfortunately, that just gives Happy even more opportunities to badger Tony about this shit.

“I’m going to tell him,” Tony responds, the response almost automatic now after all the times he’s used it over these past two days. He’s holding Peter’s bag in front of him with both hands, expression set as he glances over at Happy. “You know I will. I’m just waiting for a good time.”

“There isn’t going to be a good time,” Happy all but growls. He keeps his voice low but intense, proddingly firm. “I know you’re trying to hide from the truth and all that, but the kid deserves to know, Tony.”

Tony just sighs, half annoyed and half weary, but Happy’s already continued on. “You can’t keep this from him forever.

“And I’m not going to,” Tony says, voice sharper than what he means for it to be. He turns to face Happy, his hands stuffed in the pockets of his jeans and eyebrows raised in a way that’s both resigned and warning. “I’m going to tell him. I’m just giving it time before I throw this on the poor kid, make sure he doesn’t have to deal with a stab wound and a heritage confession at the same time. It’s common human decency.”

Happy scoffs under his breath. For aggressive as Happy’s being with this, Tony really does know that he’s just worried about the kid and what this means for him, but still, he really doesn’t want to deal with this extra pressure right now, and the irritation is just building more by the minute.

“Sure, let’s go with that,” Happy mutters.

Tony clears his throat, tries to keep himself from yelling at Happy in the middle of the hallway in the way that he suddenly wants to. “Happy,” he says, voice level. “Seriously. Peter is going to walk out of that room any minute now, and I’d rather not be still talking about this when he does.”

“I’m just saying that you shouldn’t keep putting this off,” Happy says. “Both because I think Peter will be better off the sooner he knows, and that I know it’s destroying you keeping this away from him. You’ve gotta tell him, Tony.”

“And I will,” Tony says, struggling to keep his tone steady.

“I’m sorry, but you’re just sure as hell taking your time with actually telling the kid that he’s your son-”

“For god’s sake, Happy,” Tony snaps. He’s finally about reaching his limit, tired and upset and angry for no good reason, and Happy just need to back off. He will do this on his own time, and no matter how many people badger him about it in the meantime, he’s going to stick to that. “I’ll tell Peter that I’m his father soon, and that’s-”

There’s the abrupt sound of glass shattering behind him, and Tony whirls.

Peter stands in the open doorway, the glass of water he must have been holding now exploded over the tile of the med bay, his hand still in front of him like he hasn’t yet realized that he dropped it. His face is absolutely drained of color, and Tony instantly knows exactly how much he heard.

Fuck.