Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

I. PETER

The first time he invites the kid to the Tower, it’s nearly by accident.

He’d been listening to one of the forwarded voicemails from Happy as he tinkered in the lab. “And I thought, you know, it’s really too hot out to leave your dog in the car, even if it’s just for ten minutes. I read an article the other day about how dogs overheat faster than humans do because they don’t cool themselves as efficiently, and then I kind of had a crisis. Like if I break this window to save the dog, what if the car belongs to some little old lady whose car insurance won’t cover it? So I went into the grocery store and was like ‘Hey, whose blue Toyota Camry is that, I think your dog is overheating,’ but I couldn’t find anyone, so I went back outside and thought, well I can’t just let the dog roast alive in there. But I couldn’t, like, leave a note in case the insurance doesn’t cover it because Spider-Man doesn’t have contact information, and I couldn’t ask Aunt May if I could leave our contact information because she’s in San Francisco and long-distance minutes are expensive, but then the dog was looking at me and panting and so I was like oh screw it and I broke the window and the dog was breathing really heavy so I got it some water from the grocery store and then I Googled how much a broken window would cost and all the sites were like, Call us for a quote, why does no one list their prices up front, Happy? Why do I have to call everyone for a quote, do window repair prices really range that much? Can’t I just get a ballpark? So anyways I just left all the cash I had on me and a note like Sorry, I really didn’t want your dog to die, love Spider-Man-”

Tony, by this point, is laughing so hard he’s set his screwdriver down and removed his glasses. God, this kid is something else, he thinks, wiping a tear from the corner of his eye. He’s glad the kid’s brush with highly dangerous alien weapons-dealing hasn’t changed him much. At first Happy had just updated him on particularly funny tidbits of Parker’s misadventures, but now he’s started to listen to the messages himself, because there’s nothing quite like hearing the stories told in the kid’s own excitable torrent of words. The voicemails make for great background noise while he’s working.

“Woah, wait, back up,” he mutters to himself, gesturing for F.R.I.D.A.Y. to rewind. She does so obligingly. “F.R.I.D.A.Y., call Happy.”

“Yes?”

“Happy. The kid’s home alone.”

“Yeah, so?”

“He’s thirteen. Isn’t that illegal?”

Happy sighs, heavily, on the other end of the line. “He’s fifteen. It’s not illegal.”

“Hot Aunt May just...went to San Francisco for whatever reason and left him to rot in his own teenage filth. The apartment’s probably a biohazard by now. What if the kid comes home with a stab wound or something, and there’s no Sexy Nurse May to patch him up? What if he’s having girls over unsupervised? May, how could you?”

“I don’t think you have to worry about him having girls over,” Happy grumbles, but Tony’s not listening.

“Pick him up from school tomorrow and bring him over here. We can...uh...bond, or something. Do a bit of a reset on the mentor thing, after I kind of let a building fall on him. And a plane.”

“Boss, really-”

“Tomorrow. After school. End call,” he says. “F.R.I.D.A.Y., call Pepper.”

“Yes, Tony?” Pepper’s pinched voice tells him he’s possibly interrupted her during something important. He scans back in his memory. Oh, yes - a fundraising event for the September Foundation, one that he probably should’ve made an appearance at.

“Pep, the kid is coming here. Tomorrow.”

“Kid?”

“You know. The kid.”

“Oh, Peter Parker,” she says, her tone warming a little. “What’s the occasion?”

“I’m an idiot, that’s what the occasion is. I was listening to one of his frankly hilarious voicemails - I mean, he doesn’t know I listen to them per se, but then again he must know because he knows that I know that he quit band practice-”

“Tony-”

“Okay. Yeah. So May just abandoned him to go gallivanting off to San Francisco and the kid’s festering in their apartment by himself and I felt like, if he starves to death or has a bad trip during a house party and drowns in the toilet that’s kind of on me, isn’t it? As one of the two adults in his life who understand his, uh, unique genetic circumstances - actually I don’t think I do understand, really, who knows what happens if he takes LSD? Can spiders absorb LSD?”

Pepper is clearly amused. “So you’re making sure he’s okay.”

“Ugh,” Tony groans.

“I think it’s a good idea,” she says gently. “We can have him over for dinner, at least make sure he gets a good meal in him.”

“It’s not a good idea and I regret it already,” Tony argues. “What the hell am I supposed to do with a thirteen-year-old for an entire evening? Let alone a freaky...enhanced...wall-crawling thirteen-year-old?”

“He’s fifteen, Tony,” Pepper chides. “Just talk to him. Spend time with him,” she says, and he wants to ask how she knows anything about thirteen-year-olds then remembers that Pepper knows everything. “Show him your lab, I bet he’d be thrilled.” She makes a quick kissing noise into the phone and promptly hangs up on him.

“Fuck,” Tony says into the quiet of the lab. Language, he can almost hear Steve echo back.

-

For once, the kid’s mouth is shut.

Well, not shut. It’s hanging open. There’s just no sound coming out of it. He’s stuck to Happy’s side like glue, clutching his backpack in front of him with both arms, eyes boggled.

“This is the kitchen,” Tony gestures. “Espresso machine’s over there. Don’t touch that, you’re too young for coffee. Don’t touch the yoghurt in the fridge either, that’s Nat’s and she could have your skinny mutant ass laid out in a second flat.”

“N-nat? As in, Natasha Romanoff, as in Black Widow?” Tony didn’t think it was possible for the kid’s ridiculous cartoon eyes to open any wider, but there they go.

And he’s proven wrong again when they reach Tony’s lab.

“Please don’t cry,” Tony begs the kid, seeing a tell-tale shine in his eye. “Other people’s tears give me heartburn.”

“Okay, Mr. Stark,” the kid chokes. “It’s just...so beautiful.”

Tony bites back a laugh, and raises his eyebrow. “Yeah, it’s okay. Shall we take a look at your suit?”

Parker reverently places his backpack on a stool, for some inexplicable reason takes his shoes off and lays them neatly by the door, and then crouches down next to DUM-E.

“Hi,” he breathes, “I’m Peter.”

Tony does not successfully bite his laugh back this time, but manages to turn it into a sort of choking cough. Happy raises an eyebrow at him.

“Can I leave you two alone now, or...”

“Yeah, I think I can take it from here,” Tony says, and is surprised to find he means it.

A couple questions about Parker’s experimental web fluid formulas sets the motor mouth off again, and the kid doesn’t slow down until Pepper comes in at dinnertime and breaks up a debate on compromising the effectiveness of the web fluid solvent for more fire retardancy in the webs themselves. At that point Parker is forced to choose between shoveling lobster bisque into his mouth and arguing with Tony about the likelihood of a secured perp accidentally catching on fire whilst trapped in webbing (which Iron Man doesn’t see the problem with, really, but Spider-Man is a pacifist at heart.) Pepper, in that graceful way she has, manages to overcome the kid’s total awe of her and gets him chatting easily on the topic of his friends and extracurriculars.

“So, how long is your aunt out of town for, Peter?” Pepper asks, refilling his glass of iced tea.

“Thanks, Ms. Potts, I hope I’m not eating too much soup, this is delicious. She went to the International Conference on Family Nursing & Health Care - you know, she wants to transition out of OR, maybe become a home care nurse - and when her hospital offered up this conference in San Francisco like, all expenses paid, in the exact field she wants I was like ‘May, you gotta go, you gotta go,’” here he puts on an Aunt May voice, “and she was like ‘But what are you gonna do by yourself for a week?’ and I’m like ‘No May, it’s cool, all I have to do is feed myself right?’ Totally cool. I can feed myself for a week. Ned’s mom won’t let him come over though because there’s no adults around and she’s really strict. I get it, so I just go patrolling most nights and -”

“Slow your roll, Spiderling,” Tony says, holding up a hand. “You’re looking out for yourself out there, right? No unnecessary risks without your on-call nurse, you got it?”

“Yes, Mr. Stark,” Peter says, respectfully, but Tony can hear a hint of eyeroll in his tone. Pepper grins at him over the rim of her wine glass, which he pretends not to notice.

In the end, Pepper sends him home with a backpack full of food and Tony sends him home with slightly more fire-retardant web fluid. Spider-Man wins this time, he thinks.

Later that night, while skimming through Baby Monitor Protocol footage from the past week, he gets a text.

(Scary Aunt May) 22:03
You’re still an egomaniac asshole, but thanks for feeding Peter.

(TS) 22:05
Are you hitting on me?

She never responds, but it’s the first time she’s used his number since he gave it to her after the Moving Day incident.

(TS) 22:29
Tell the kid he’s coming over again after decathlon practice next Friday.

(HAP-E) 23:14
Tell him yourself.

(TS) 23:15
That would mean he would have my number.

(TS) 23:16
I’m maintaining professional boundaries.

(HAP-E) 23:17
Whatever you say.

-

The eighth time Tony invites the kid to the tower, it’s sort of become something resembling a routine. Every Friday after decathlon practice, with May’s reluctant acquiescence, the kid drops by for a couple hours of lab work and then dinner with Tony and Pepper. Rhodey joins them a few times after physical therapy - he loves to cook and the kid inhales everything in front him with absolute relish, so they get along well right away (after Peter gets over his speechless, bug-eyed I’m eating roast pork sandwiches made by War Machine stupor.)

After dinner, while they’re both elbows-deep in yet another fabric test for the Spider-Suit, Peter is uncharacteristically subdued.

“What’s up, kid? It’s so quiet in here that it’s creeping me out. F.R.I.D.A.Y., can we get some background music going if the kid’s not going to talk? Smooth jazz?”

“I’m, uh, concentrating, Mr. Stark.”

“That’s not true. You’re incapable of silent reflection. We both know your mouth directly powers your brain, like a wind-up motor.”

Peter’s ears redden and his lips do that funny thing where he looks like he’s trying to swallow a live frog. Tony lets him do the frog thing for a couple minutes. He’s learned over the years that silence following a question is a shockingly effective interrogation tactic.

“Mr. Stark, what’s gonna happen when my suit doesn’t need any more upgrades?”

“Good question. I guess when your suit is powerful enough you could fly to space, track down Thor, and challenge him to a punching contest for dominion over Asgard.”

“That’s not what I meant,” the kid says peevishly.

“What did you mean, then? Jesus, kid, you can always upgrade your gear.” Tony gestures to the Iron Man MK. 87 prototype in the corner.

“I guess.” Peter bends his head back down to his work, and makes a valiant attempt to act normally from that point on, although Tony can tell his heart isn’t in it.

It hits him a couple hours after the kid goes back home.

Well...it’s not that it hits him out of the blue, per se. It’s moreso that Pepper sighs fondly at him, tells him what it is, and then presses a kiss to his temple before rolling over and nestling under the covers. Tony digs his phone out from under his pillow.

(TS) 00:08
What would you think about coming over again tomorrow? Watch a movie or something?

(Sticky Fingers McGee) 00:08
who is this?

(Sticky Fingers McGee) 00:14
mr. Stark????

(TS) 00:15
Implied by the ‘again.’ Don’t put me in your phone under a stupid contact name.

(Sticky Fingers McGee) 00:16
i would never sir

(Sticky Fingers McGee) 00:16
you wont put me under anything embarrassing either right :)))

(TS) 00:18
Wouldn’t dream of it. You in tomorrow? Yes/no?

(Sticky Fingers McGee) 00:18
yes

(Sticky Fingers McGee) 00:18
:smile: :thumbs-up: :sunglasses: :COOL: :up-arrow: :100: :rocket:

(TS) 00:25
:robot:

-

They stick to the Friday schedule, for the most part, but every now and again they take a break from the lab. Sometimes they’ll pick a movie, always Tony’s choice. (“This is not a democracy, kid. This is a dictatorship, and in my dictatorship it’s a literal crime that you haven’t seen The Goonies.”) Sometimes they’ll sit in the kitchen and Peter will work on homework while Tony taps away on his StarkPad.

Tony decides, in the name of establishing appropriate, professional mentor/mentee boundaries, that they will only text about logistics. For example, if Peter’s decathlon practice runs late, or if Tony thinks of an improvement to the Spider-Suit that he wants the kid to ponder on before their next lab session.

Or if Karen reports damage to the suit, in which case Tony feels the need to send a text reminding Parker that he’s cavorting around in a multi-million-dollar asset, so please at least make an attempt to avoid lunatics in the park with machetes, healing factor notwithstanding. (Yes, this counts as logistics, as he will inevitably be the one to foot the repair bill.)

(TS) 14:32
Reviewing Karen’s footage from Tues. The hell was that crazy jump backwards off the Citigroup building? I can’t fix your suit if you hit the ground from 50 floors up and liquefy inside it.

(George of the Jungle) 14:33
im in class mr. stark

(TS) 14:33
For god’s sake, pay attention in class, Parker. You’re going to fail Spanish at this rate.

(TS) 14:34
Answer my question.

(George of the Jungle) 14:36
well my spidey senses were going wild and there wasnt time to think so i just kinda yeeted myself off

(George of the Jungle) 14:36
good thing too there was totally a mugging in the alleyway  :100: :thumbs-up:  spidey senses strike again  :star: :heart-eyes:

Tony wants to leave it. He really does. He knows if he asks what yeeted is, he will officially be venturing out of the boundaries of “professional” and into the horrific nihilistic swamp of Gen Z culture.

Tony can’t leave it.

(TS) 15:47
What, pray tell, is “yeeted”

(George of the Jungle) 15:47
past tense of yeet  :nerd-glasses-face:

(George of the Jungle) 15:48
you know. when you yeet something, or someone, or yourself

(George of the Jungle) 15:48
or like when you drop a fire meme and you caption it with #YEET kind of like a mic drop

(TS) 16:28
So is it a verb, or a noun, or what?

(George of the Jungle) 16:28
its a way of life

He can’t help laughing, but he also sort of wants to punch himself in the face. Teenagers are the worst.

From then on the texts escalate, and soon they’re checking in nearly every day. Tony starts texting May more often, too, and for the longest time she ignores him, but he persists. He sends weekly updates on the suit and tidbits from the Baby Monitor footage he thinks she’ll enjoy (like when Peter helps lost old ladies and they pinch his cheeks through the mask). He wears her down and after awhile she sends him a couple texts back, like when Peter makes an A+ on a Calculus quiz after a week of grueling study or when he gets an A+ on a P.E. fitness test because he’s not paying attention and forgets he’s supposed to be a skinny nerd.

Eventually he creates a group chat consisting of himself, Happy, May and Pepper and christens it “Fun-Killing Old Farts.” With admirable restraint, he refrains from nicknaming anyone in the chat. For now.

(Pepper Potts) 19:26
Is he eating more the past few weeks, or is it just me? I thought he was going to choke on his pad thai last night, he was throwing it down so fast.

(May Parker) 20:02
Not just you. RIP, my grocery bill

(Happy Hogan) 21:06
Growing pains? Is that why he was such a little jerk in the car?

(Happy Hogan) 21:07
Told me I drive like a nervous old lady, which is still a hundred times nicer than the boss’s backseat commentary

(Pepper Potts) 21:15
Your driving is impeccable, your boss wouldn’t know good driving if it hit him in the face.

(May Parker) 21:16
Yes, and Peter’s one to talk, he doesn’t even know how to drive

(Tony Stark) 22:04
Good driving wouldn’t hit you in the face, because good drivers don’t hit people. Christ, Pepper. Leave the witticisms to me.

-

Professional boundaries, Tony tells himself with increasing desperation, as he starts to find himself doing increasingly ridiculous things. Adding cereals with awful names like "Double Chocolate Cookie Crisp" and "Marshmallow-Blasted Froot Loops" to the weekly grocery list. Creating a folder on his StarkPhone in which he saves all the stupid memes the kid sends him, even though he doesn’t understand half of them.

Professional boundaries, Tony thinks with a long sigh, the first time the kid falls asleep at his place. He looks like someone has dropped him onto the couch from very high up, faceplanted into the cushions with his limbs flung akimbo. Against his better judgment, Tony drapes a throw over the gangly body and settles into the armchair opposite, unlocking his StarkPad and settling in to catch up on his news alerts.

“I’m not just sitting here watching him sleep,” he stage-whispers to Pepper, gesturing to his StarkPad, when she walks in the door. “That would be creepy.”

“Of course,” Pepper stage-whispers back. The kid lets out a mighty snore.

Tony kind of hates to wake him and send him home for the night, but he’s also kind of relieved. Pepper has asked him about keeping Peter overnight every now and again but for some reason he’s resistant to the idea.

For some reason.

The reason becomes apparent one night at 2 a.m., when he hears a muffled tapping on the window of his lab. It’s different than the steady patter of the rain that’s been falling since the previous afternoon. Just barely.

He warily gestures to F.R.I.D.A.Y. to remotely unlatch the window as nanotech forms an Iron Man arm around his own, readies a repulsor, and takes aim. There's a beat, then Spider-Man falls in, a tangled, soaked mess of limbs. He lands with a wet splat on the lab floor.

“Kid?” Tony says, when Peter doesn’t move. 

“Kid? ” This time, there’s no keeping the edge of panic out of his voice, but for some reason he can’t bring himself to cross the floor towards that still, huddled form. Something about it makes his stomach roil.

“Mr. Stark,” the kid croaks, and suddenly Tony comes unstuck.

“Lovely, you’re alive,” he says sharply, crossing the room in two quick strides and kneeling down. “So let's rewind a little, and you can explain why the fuck you’re climbing 68 stories at two in the morning in pouring rain.” He grabs Peter roughly by the shoulders as F.R.I.D.A.Y. takes Karen’s diagnostic scan and projects it to Tony’s glasses.

“Um,” the kid says, fighting to keep his eyes from rolling back into his head. There is a rather alarming dark stain spreading across the front of his suit.

“You’re alright,” Tony snaps. “Eyes open, kid.” Shattered ankle, F.R.I.D.A.Y. recites softly into his earpiece. Multiple contusions. Mild concussion. Stab wound, left-side abdomen.

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.

He rolls Peter onto his back and out of the quickly-forming pool of blood, and shrugs out of his hoodie, which he balls up and uses to apply pressure to the knife wound. After a moment he places Peter's hands on the hoodie and presses down firmly, before removing his own hands and staggering over to the first-aid kit he keeps in the corner of the lab. Thank God for Bruce's obsession with lab safety is the ridiculous thing that crosses his mind in that moment.

It takes all of five breaths, one of which he uses to pause and very quietly whisper fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck out into the darkness.

In that few breaths Peter’s face has managed to lose its little remaining color. Tony grits his teeth and sets about cleaning the wound with saline solution. Nothing he can do - he doesn’t have any of Peter’s blood set aside for an emergency transfusion (fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck) and the wound is clotting now anyways. The stab is thankfully shallow and appears to have missed any vital areas. Once the site is clean of visible debris, he slathers it with antiseptic and then covers the whole thing with a sterile gauze. “Parker,” he says, as the kid’s mouth starts to go slack. “Hey.”

“Yeah, sorry,” Peter grumbles, forcing his eyes back open. “I’m awake.”

They sit there for a very long time, Peter splayed across Tony's lap, both covered in blood. A hint of color returns to Peter’s cheeks and the healing factor begins to visibly knit his shattered ankle back together. It seems to be reforming properly, Tony notices with relief, so he won’t have to break the kid’s ankle again and re-set it.

For a very long time the only sound in the room is their breathing - Peter's, slow and shallow; Tony's, rough and ragged - and the rain continuing its unceasing patter against the window.

“So,” Tony finally says, low and dangerous. “Let’s take this from the top, shall we?”

“Mr. Stark,” Peter says, barely keeping the edge out of his voice. “They were going to hurt this guy. Three of them. They’d been following him for blocks.”

“Exactly how did three lowlife jackasses beat the ever-living shit out of you?” Tony demands, resisting the urge to shake Peter by the shoulders. “They’re civilians. You’re enhanced.”

“I was fine until the knife. It threw me off my game. I’ve never been...”

Tony knows, logically, that being stabbed is terrifying. It’s on a whole other level than punches, or even bullets or alien death rays. Something about the up-close-and-personal nature of it, the devastating damage that can be inflicted even by a well-placed pocketknife. This does nothing to quell his sudden anger; in fact, it possibly makes it worse.

“Don’t get fucking stabbed, then,” he hears himself say. He’s completely lost control of the situation. “You see a knife, you run. Do you understand me?”

“What the fuck,” Peter says, and it comes out as something resembling a sob. “No. There’s no way I’m going to sit there and do nothing while someone bleeds out again. What is the fucking point of being enhanced, then?”

Again?  Tony wonders dimly, but his attention is diverted as Peter struggles to sit up.

"Hey," he says warningly, but Peter shrugs Tony's hands off his shoulders and crawls over to the wall, carefully adhering himself.

“Thanks for the patch-up, Mr. Stark,” he mutters, heaving himself towards the window. “I’m really sorry about all the blood.”

“What? Where are you going? You are not going back out that window.”

“I’m fine.” Even injured, Peter is faster than Tony, and he's already on the ceiling.

“Parker, you are not going out that fucking window. Peter.”

The use of his given name stops the kid in his tracks. For no discernible reason, Tony's every cell is hit with an awareness that this is an important moment.

He fucks it up anyways.

“Why did you come here?" He hates the words as they're forming on his lips, but they tumble out regardless. "May’s a nurse, she'd be...better at this, wouldn't she?”

The kid’s face takes on a pinched look, weary and childish all at the same time. “It’s because...May...”

Tony is easily able to extrapolate. Knew how to answer his own question before he'd finished speaking it. May loves me too much to see this. May’s heart would break.

Yeah, well, kid, what about mine?

This is why he needs to stop buying cereal and memorizing the kid’s school schedule and Googling Gen Z slang. This is why the kid can’t stay overnight. He needs to be able to handle times like this. He can’t fall apart when Peter crumples in through his window covered in blood and dirt.

Professional boundaries, he thinks, as he watches Peter flip gracefully and silently back out the window. He quells the knot in his stomach that forms as the kid’s silhouette swings away into the distance. Resists the urge to ask F.R.I.D.A.Y. about the efficacy of web fluid in rainy conditions. Sets to the grisly task of mopping up the blood on the floor.

-

That Friday, neither of them directly mentions the reason they’re repairing the suit, treating the long slash in the fabric like an academic problem rather than the physical evidence of violence. They chat easily about tensile strength, and more breathable weaves, and when the food arrives and Pepper calls them up, conversation flows naturally into the weird assemblage of topics that they usually cover over dinner - ranging from third period physics to shareholder meetings.

Tony knows he should leave well enough alone, but he also knows he can’t. Has never once been able to leave well enough alone in his entire life.

“Peter,” he says, testing the name, which startles the kid out of his face-first assault on a bowl of fried rice.

“Yef, Mr. Fark?” Peter manages around a disgustingly large mouthful.

“Want to crash here tonight? It’s getting late, and we’ve got the guest bedroom set up.”

Peter’s eyes light up immediately, in a way that makes Tony feel like he needs an antacid. The kid chews and swallows his bite so fast that Pepper lifts a hand as if she might be called upon to perform the Heimlich maneuver any second now.

“Yeah,” Peter says. “Yeah! Yeah. I’d, uh...yeah, I’d love that, Mr. Stark. I just have to check with May. I mean, only if it isn’t a problem for you. I can sleep on the couch. The couch is really comfortable.”

“We have ten guest bedrooms in the Tower, and zero guests at the moment, so I think we can squeeze you in. I okayed it with May earlier today.”

Peter is predictably over the moon about the guest bedroom, which is “like, the fanciest place I’ve ever slept in, even fancier than that sick hotel room in Berlin” and over the sleepwear laid out for him (“Wow, Stark Industries-branded sweatpants! You know these sell for like, fifty bucks a pop on eBay?”) After brushing his teeth he jumps up on the bed with freakish agility, bounces once, and then hurls himself into the pillows face-first and is out cold minutes later.

Meanwhile Tony stays up late into the night. He contemplates professional boundaries and the look on the kid’s face as he flipped out the window and “while someone bleeds out again.” Resists the urge to poke his head in and check on Peter as he passes the guest room on his way to bed, finally, at three in the morning.

He wakes up after too little sleep and wanders into the kitchen. Peter is there, slumped over the kitchen island, slowly cramming spoonfuls of Double Chocolate Cookie Crisp into his mouth, hair tousled and sticking up every which way, and Tony realizes with sudden clarity that he’s fighting a losing battle. Maybe not today, maybe he can put it off for a while, but someday he’s just going to have to give up and love this stupid kid and take the hit of gory patch jobs every now and again so that May doesn’t have to. She deserves that much, at least, and so does Peter, and Tony will happily pay that price if it means he gets to wake up every now and again to a grumpy stinky teenager splashing milk and sugary cereal all over his nice counters.

“Good morning, you filthy animal,” Tony says, and he can’t even begin to disguise the fondness in his tone.

Chapter Text

II. NED

“Peter, I know we’ve talked about eating upside-down,” Tony sighs.

“Oh, right,” the kid says through a mouth full of Funyuns. He drops the bag on the counter and obligingly peels himself off the ceiling, landing lightly on the kitchen stool like an overgrown cat.

“It’s not like I’m worried about you choking or anything,” Tony continues, though he knows the kid is barely listening. “Well, that’s a lie, I worry about you choking every time I watch you eat dinner, but that ship has sailed. Anyways, it’s about the crumbs. They get everywhere.”

Peter continues to chew loudly, staring into space.

“I mean, if you wanted to eat an apple or a banana upside-down, like a low-mess sort of food, I’m sure we could come to an agreement,” Tony muses. “But you, like most vile creatures your age, seem to be in a phase where your diet consists entirely of dry crumbly things coated in greasy flavoured dust. You know, the fruit in the fridge isn’t off-limits. I was joking about the yoghurt, too, I haven’t seen Nat in months. My God, should I be forcing you to eat fruit? Does May force you to eat fruit at home?”

He digs through the fridge and finds one of Pepper’s apples, then whips around and hurls it directly at Peter’s head. The kid’s hand snaps up at lightning-speed and catches it, but his eyes remain glassy and unfocused.

“Thanks, Mr. Stark,” he says absently, abandoning the Funyuns and taking a bite of fruit.

“So, what’s the plan for tonight? Lab? Movie? I’m sure we could talk Pepper into another round of Cards Against Humanity. I’ve known her for long enough to know that when she says ‘never again’ she really just means she needs to be bribed. Back rub, glass of Chardonnay, one of those horrible chocolate bars she likes with 85% cacao.”

This gets a laugh out of Peter and seems to bring him back into the land of the living. “Yeah, I’d love to Mr. Stark, but I have a ton to get done tonight.”

Tony pours Peter a glass of orange juice, slides it across the kitchen island, and then starts to wipe the surface between them with a dishrag. “Tell old barkeep your troubles, sonny,” he says, putting on a gravelly voice, which makes Peter laugh again.

“Is this a screwdriver?”

“Yes. A non-alcoholic screwdriver. Now, out with it, I have a bar to keep.”

“It’s not that much, I guess,” Peter says absently, taking a sip of juice. “I’m in charge of the PowerPoint for our group presentation in Spanish class, and I have an English quiz to study for, and a couple worksheets for Bio, and then a Physics project and some Calculus problems. I haven’t done the assigned reading for English yet, so I guess I’ll do that, tackle some Bio, and then come back and study for the quiz once the readings have sunk in a bit.”

“First off, you insufferable nerd, it’s Friday night. No one does homework on Friday nights.”

“Not doing homework on Friday nights is how you flunk out of school and end up serving screwdrivers to minors in an unlicensed penthouse bar.”

“Hey. I didn’t flunk out of school. I had a midlife crisis and decided to abandon my multiple Master’s degrees in favour of a quieter life, where I could disregard liquor legislation in peace.”

“Noted.”

“Second, how did you get into a weekend homework pileup like this anyways? It’s unlike you. Do you need to cut down on patrolling time?”

“God, you sound like Aunt May. No. I’ve only been doing a couple hours a day.”

Tony knows this is true, because while he doesn’t watch much of the Baby Monitor Protocol footage (he doesn’t have remotely that amount of free time, especially right now with revisions to the Sokovia Accords sending him into record amounts of overtime) he does get a weekly rundown from Karen on notable injuries, total amount of time spent in the suit, and other highlights.

“Very well then, young buck,” he says, slipping back into his gravelly barkeeper voice. “Ol’ Tony advises staying the night, so you can stay up as late as you want and maybe get some help with your Physics project.”

Peter grins. “Thanks, Ol’ Tony.”

“That’s Mr. Stark to you.”

[Fun-Killing Old Farts]

(May Parker) 23:21
Is he in bed yet? Don’t let him stay up all night doing homework, Tony

(Tony Stark) 23:24
God, May, your kid is lame, that is the lamest text anyone has ever sent about a fifteen year old.

(Tony Stark) 23:25
How do you know we’re not at a rave or a strip club or something? Let’s pretend for the sake of Peter’s reputation that we are.

(May Parker) 23:47
Do not make me ask you again old man

(Happy Hogan) 23:51
Kid fell asleep mid-sentence in the car today

(Happy Hogan) 23:51
Not that i’m complaining

(Tony Stark) 23:55
Okay. Taking Peter home from the strip club now, before Nurse May comes at me with a scalpel.

The next morning Peter is upside-down in the kitchen again. He’s not eating this time, just dangling on a string of web attached to the ceiling, spinning in very slow circles.

“Jesus fuck that is creepy,” Tony says by way of greeting. “Get down from there, this is like a scene from The Exorcist.”

Peter yawns and drops down onto the floor, sprawling on his back. He has yet to change out of his in his SI sweatpants and NASA t-shirt. “Guess what, Mr. Stark. I had the weirdest dream last night. Okay, get this,” here he yawns again, “I dreamed that I was trying to practice my clarinet but then this guy kept talking over me going like, ‘You killed my father, now prepare to die,’ and I was super mad because I was trying to concentrate, right?”

Peter doesn’t really need much acknowledgement to keep him talking, so Tony throws an ‘uh-huh’ over his shoulder as he starts some bacon frying in the pan and sticks frozen waffles in the toaster.

“And the song I was practicing was that new Taylor Swift cover we’re doing in marching band, it’s so freaking catchy, I knew it would show up in my dreams eventually, you know the one Mr. Stark,” here he tunelessly hums a bar and throws an arm over his eyes, continuing through another yawn - “so I had to stop and be like, ‘Dude, I don’t even know who your father is,’ and the guy’s like, ‘My father’s the Green Goblin, and you killed him,’ and it didn’t make any sense because I’ve never killed anyone much less a goblin, you know?”

“Yes, of course,” Tony says, knowingly, as he sets a breakfast plate on the floor in front of Peter. The kid rolls over onto his stomach and digs in immediately, at first talking between mouthfuls (“I mean I’ve killed orcs, but only in D&D, because I play an Elf Paladin and elves are kind of racist against orcs”), but his rambling quickly starts to drop off and eventually ends in uncharacteristic silence.

Tony is torn, then. He actually really doesn’t want to kick off another ten minutes of Taylor Swift and the history of elven racism. On the other hand, it’s a little disturbing how the kid has neglected to finish a story for possibly the first time in his life. He’s just staring into space, chewing. Like a dead-eyed, waffle-chewing zombie.

“Pete, you’re a little quiet lately,” Tony ventures after a few minutes. “Something up?”

“Ugh. Nooooo.” The kid rolls onto his back again and flings his arms out wide in a stunning display of teenage dramatics. “You really sound like May now. Are you taking May lessons? The world only needs one May.”

Fucking right you are, Tony thinks, but out loud he says “You’re eating waffles on the floor at seven in the morning on a Saturday. Your life is a mess.”

“You let me eat waffles on the floor. You’re enabling my dysfunction. Anyways, my life isn’t a mess. I rejoined band and robotics club just like you wanted, and I started doing that Reading Buddies program where we go and read to the grade schoolers at Midtown Elementary. Straight As too. I’m a model citizen.”

Tony holds up his hands. “Pause. There’s so much to unpack there. What do you mean, I wanted you to rejoin band and robotics? What are you volunteering for, don’t you have enough going on?”

Peter sits up and fixes him with those wide, earnest eyes. “You said, if I’m nothing without the suit, I shouldn’t have it, right?”

Tony winces internally. He knows the words themselves are sound enough, but he kind of regrets the way he’d delivered them at the time. “Well, yeah.”

“Well, yeah,” Peter echoes. “I figured it was bad if I couldn’t balance being Spider-Man with being Peter Parker, you know? I mean, I love being Spider-Man, but all of Spider-Man’s ideals and motivations and values come from Peter Parker. So first I gotta figure out who Peter Parker is and what makes him tick, and then I gotta use that stuff to make myself a better protector, ‘cause it’s hard to protect people without a connection to them. I guess what I’m trying to say is that connecting to myself helps me connect with the people around me and that’s just as important as spending time practicing webslinging or working on my suit.”

For once, Tony Stark is rendered speechless.

He forgets, sometimes, how ridiculously smart this kid is. Scratch that - it’s not like you can ever forget the kid is smart, when he spends half his time spiraling off into tangents about advanced scientific concepts - but Peter is also insightful and wise far beyond his years sometimes, which stands out sharply in contrast to his texting addiction and annoying habit of leaving his shoes in inappropriate places.

“Okay,” Tony manages, finally. “Don’t you spend enough time volunteering in the community as Spider-Man, though? Rescuing dogs from heatstroke and old ladies from muggers, or vice-versa?”

“Well, I can’t put that stuff on a college application.”

“Okay,” Tony says again, a little balloon of pride swelling in his chest, or possibly heartburn. It’s hard to tell. “Band, robotics, and reading to illiterate little gremlins. I get it. You’re, uh...making time for fun stuff though, right?” You unbelievable old hypocrite, he thinks to himself.

“Sure, sure.” Peter flips back onto his stomach and sets into his cooling bacon, in a clear signal that he’s ready for the conversation to end.

“Why don’t you invite your friend over today? You know, the little dickhead that hacked my multi-million-dollar suit and disabled vital safety protocols? You can work on homework together and if you go two hours without breaking anything I’ll let him take a very brief glance from the doorway at the inside of my lab.” As he’s finishing the sentence, Tony resists the urge to slap himself in the face. Why, Stark, why. Why must you always have the last word?

It’s too late. Peter has shot back up into a sitting position, eyes huge. “Wow, Mr. Stark, you mean it? Wow. Ned will freak. Out. This is amazing! Yeah. Let me text him! Oh - you might have to talk to his mom on the phone - she likes to vet people before she lets him go to their house for the first time. She’s a little scary but you’re good with scary. Are you sure, Mr. Stark? If you’re sure, I’m calling Ned now. Wow. He’s going to straight up die.”

That would solve the predicament my impulsive idiot mouth has put me in, Tony thinks, rolling his eyes heavenward. Meanwhile, Peter is busy having a conversation on his phone that seems to consist mostly of the word dude.

“Dude. Dude. Ned. You’ll never guess what, dude. No, they haven’t announced the Breath of the Wild 2 release date. It’s even better. Dude. You wanna come over today?”

A pause, while Tony muses on what a Breath of the Wild is. New space movie?

“No, dude, not to the apartment. To Mr. Stark’s place. Yes, Tony Stark. Dude yes the New Avengers Facility. No I am not shitting you. Dude. Dude.”

“Duuuuude,” Tony says obnoxiously. Peter shoots him an offended look.

“Yeah, I’m sure he’ll talk to your mom. Mr. Stark, you’ll talk to Ned’s mom, right?”

“On the condition that he makes a blood pact never to fuck with the protocols in your suit again.”

Ned has evidently heard him, as Peter quickly says into the phone “He’s kidding. I think.”

One video call later (with a woman who is somehow, impossibly, even more intimidating than May), Tony has the all-clear to send Happy on a mission to collect Ned. He didn’t think it was possible for one human being to convey so much pain and suffering through one uttered “Yes, boss,” but then again communicating exasperation is one of Happy’s core skills.

“Could be worse,” Tony chirps into the phone. “The kid’s mom wanted me and Peter to come with you, just so she could be sure you weren’t a fraud sent to kidnap her son. I talked her out of it because I thought all three of us in the same car would probably be terrible for your stress levels. And you say I never do anything nice for you.”

The line goes abruptly dead.

Peter, meanwhile, is climbing the walls with excitement. Literally. He’s doing a truly terrifying arachnid equivalent of pacing - crawling back and forth across the living room wall while talking a mile a minute.

“Mr. Stark, can I like, give him a tour of the compound? I mean I know all the rogue Avengers’ quarters are off-limits because they’re like war criminals or whatever, but I think he’d still have a heart attack if I could even show him, like, the pool. I’d be all like Ned. Captain America has been in this pool. If you put your hand in the water it’s like you’re touching Captain America indirectly. Insane. I just realized I’ve never even been in that pool. Can I go in the pool sometime, Mr. Stark?”

“No,” Tony says peevishly, definitely not because he’s grumpy about the Captain America hero-worship. That would be childish.

“Okay, yeah, that’s cool, I get it. Well, I don’t get it, but your house, your rules, right Mr. Stark? We’ll just stick to the common area. He can sit on the couch and I’ll be like Ned. Your butt is in the very same place where Thor’s butt once rested. Oh my god. I sat on that couch once. My butt has been where Thor’s butt was. Woah. Woah.”

“Watch it. If you run into that painting you’re paying for it.”

“How much?”

“You’d have to sell your suit.”

Peter eyes the painting warily and then scurries onto the ceiling. “You weren’t kidding about the lab, right? I swear we’ll be good, like really good, like so quiet you won’t even know we’re here and we’ll get like a ton of homework done and maybe just use the TV for a couple of minutes because Ned and I have never been able to torrent that vintage Star Trek behind-the-scenes footage at more than 360p and you just like own it in HD, which by the way makes you one of the coolest people ever-”

“Peter, honey, come down,” Pepper says as she enters the living room. “My god is that disturbing.”

Peter doesn’t pause for a second as he abruptly lets go the ceiling and flips midair, landing neatly in a crouch. “Anyways, Ned only hacked the suit because I made him do it. I really did, Mr. Stark. He was like ‘No, I don’t think that’s a good idea,’ and I just looked up at him like this,” he does his best Bambi impression, lifting his eyebrows and jutting out his lower lip, “and he was like ‘Man, don’t do that’ and I was like “But you’re my guy in the chair.”

Pepper throws an arm around Peter’s shoulders. “You have no idea yet, but you’re going to very popular with girls someday,” she says, pinching his ear fondly. “And guys too, probably.”

Peter gazes up at her, a comical look of worry on his face. “I highly doubt that, Ms. Potts,” he says, brow furrowing. “The only guy who talks to me is Ned, and the only girl who talks to me is MJ, and that’s mostly only to tell me that I’m a slave to capitalist ideals because I collect Star Wars merch and intern for Stark Industries.”

“Good,” says Tony, feeling a little disturbed himself. “You’re too young to date. Just stay away from...all genders, until you’re sixteen.”

“That’s in August.”

“I changed my mind. Eighteen.”

Pepper laughs. “Good luck enforcing that, Iron Man. So what’s all this about Ned?”

“Mr. Stark said I could invite Ned here, Ms. Potts! Ned’s freaking out, this is going to be the actual best day of his life. Wait. Did Mr. Stark ask you if it was okay? It’s okay with you, right? I was just telling him we’re going to be like super quiet and just work on homework and maybe put our hands in the swimming pool just for a second-”

“Any chance you want to babysit two disgusting teenage boys for a couple hours?” Tony asks helplessly.

“Nope,” Pepper says, popping the p. “It’s my day off, so I’m going to an AGILE seminar in Manhattan. You can handle it. You don’t have any work to do today that can’t be done from home, and your meeting schedule is clear.”

Tony shoots her a look of utter betrayal. There goes plan C, which had been foisting the kids off on Happy while he pleaded mandatory attendance at something-or-other.

-

When Ned arrives, he’s completely speechless. His eyes are so wide they look like they’re going to fall out of his face, but his mouth is squeezed shut. Peter’s excitement ramps up to the point where he’s able to do enough talking for both of them. He leads Ned around the compound first, supervised by the long-suffering Happy, as Tony uses the moments of silence to make a couple of critical calls.

Then, true to Peter’s word, the boys settle down in the kitchen for a homework marathon. Tony gives them some space, retreating to the home office to begin sorting through the veritable mountain of paperwork on his desk.

After a few hours, his focus is interrupted by a loud growl emanating from his stomach. Sighing, he heaves himself out of the desk chair and pads towards the kitchen, following the sound of the kids’ voices.

“A metabolic pathway that releases energy by breaking down complex molecules to simpler compounds is A) a catabolic pathway, B) a metabolic pathway, or C) an anabolic pathway?”

“D) Mitochondria is the powerhouse of the cell.”

Both boys dissolve into hysterical laughter at this. Tony pauses and leans against the wall with his arms crossed, unable to help the smile that breaks across his face. Gen Z humour is so weird. Or maybe this is nerd humour. He really can’t tell.

“I’m so tired of bio. I hate cells. I’m this close to just backflipping off that balcony.”

“I can do a backflip off the balcony.”

“Dude. Figure of speech. Why don’t we switch to English now and finish these worksheets after school on Monday? They’re not due till Tuesday.”

“Won’t be at school Monday.”

Tony raises an eyebrow. And why not, exactly?

“Oh. Oh. Oh, shit, sorry dude, that’s right. I forgot it was coming up so soon.”

What?

“S’okay.”

“Can’t believe it’s been two years already. What are you and May gonna do?”

“I dunno. Last year we watched Die Hard and made Nonna’s lasagna, but May burned it, so we ordered in from Phnom Penh.”

Ned laughs. “He would’ve loved that. I think he probably liked those fried honey garlic wings better than priceless family recipes, anyways.”

Peter laughs too, then there’s a pause. “Is someone there? Mr. Stark?”

Ah, fuck. He’d forgotten about the kid’s insane hearing. He strides into the kitchen, trying to act like he hasn’t been shamelessly eavesdropping on a pair of teenage boys.

“Hey, Fredward,” he says, trying not to smile at the way Ned abruptly clams up, eyes boggling. He sidles past them to the fridge, digging around for the cream cheese. “How’s the homework going? You keeping Pete on task?”

“Pete?” Ned says faintly. “Oh. Yeah. Um, sort of. Yes. We’re uh, doing biology.”

Tony casts an eye at the kitchen island where the boys have their homework spread out. He notes that it’s scattered with half-open chip bags, a sleeve of Oreos, and various gummy candies in terrifying neon colours. It dawns on him that unfortunately, he is the adult here. With a long internal sigh he says goodbye to his bagels and cream cheese and pulls out a bag of bell peppers.

“You two hungry? I was going to make myself some chicken stir-fry for lunch.”

“Oh, we’re good, Mr. Stark,” Peter says cheerfully. “We’ve eaten already.”

“Wrong answer,” Tony says equally cheerfully, pulling out a cutting board. “None of what’s on that table counts as food. How spicy do you like your stir-fry, Hackerman?”

He can practically see Ned processing and then realizing that Tony Stark is addressing him. “Oh. Uh. Oh! Stir-fry. Yeah. I like spicy stuff. My mom always cooks really spicy, grandma hates it and says she’s ruining the adobo, uh, wow, sorry, you totally didn’t need to hear about my mom and grandma fighting. Yikes.”

Tony asks them questions about their homework and school as he slices bell peppers, onions and broccoli. Ned never quite loses the wide-eyed look, but eventually he and Peter are chattering away easily, and Tony lets Ned mix the sauce. (Peter takes after May and is thus banned from helping in the kitchen, for time eternal.)

“Okay Mr. Stark, and then Peter says to Flash, ‘Referring to women as females makes you sound like a Ferengi,’ and then everyone on the team was like ‘Ooooooh,’ and even MJ looked impressed and MJ hates all of us, it was a total mic drop moment. I was so proud.” Ned finishes his story with an admiring glance at Peter, who is starting to go red to the tips of his ears.

Tony is struggling to wrap his mind around how the social hierarchy works at a STEM school that is exclusively comprised of nerds, especially one where a Star Trek reference is considered an impressive comeback, but he grins at Peter nonetheless. “Well done, young Padawan.”

“You can’t mix Star Wars and Star Trek references,” Peter returns gravely. “It’s illegal. I’ll let you go with a warning this time, but next time it’ll be a fine.”

“I can afford it.”

“No kidding,” Ned says, looking around the kitchen again in fresh-eyed wonder, as if seeing the state-of-the-art appliances again for the first time. “Hey, Mr. Stark, do you own any private islands?”

Tony snorts. “Why, are you looking for a place to start your own supervillain lair?”

“Nah,” Ned says placidly. “I’m happy being the Guy in the Chair. I mean, if Peter went evil and decided to build an underground base and start a clone army, I’d have to follow him there. I’d definitely make a solid attempt to bring him back to the light first, of course.” He and Peter fist bump and then make explosion noises with their mouths.

“I have so many questions,” Tony says, refilling Peter’s plate with stir-fry. “First: What’s a guy in the chair?”

Ned gives him a very sincere look, completely void of humour. “A guy in the chair is the guy who’s hooked up to like ten computer screens at all times and has a comm link directly to the guy on the ground. ‘On your left! You’re taking critical damage! Get out of there now!’ or like, ‘Its weakness is the giant third eyeball in the middle of its head!’ You know what I mean.”

“Oh,” Tony says, keeping his own voice very sincere, “like Oracle from Batman?”

Ned turns to Peter, mouth hanging open. “Dude. Dude. My mind is blown. Tony Stark reads comic books? Tony Stark is a Batman fan? ”

“Everyone likes Batman,” Tony scoffs. “Guy’s an icon.”

“You just like him because he’s even more extra than you are,” Peter says, rolling his eyes.

“Take that back. No one’s more extra than I am.”

“Nah, I think dressing up as a bat wins.”

“I could add ears to the Iron Man suit.”

“Please don’t. The Iron Man suit is perfect,” Ned says reverently.

“True,” Tony says, popping a piece of broccoli into his mouth. “Question two: Why would you have to follow Peter underground?”

“Because he’s my best friend and I love him,” Ned answers, like he’s stating that the sky is blue, or some other obvious fact.

Peter doesn’t look at all taken aback by the declaration of affection; in fact, he’s nodding knowingly. “Yeah,” he says, through a mouthful of chicken. “I’d follow Ned into an underground lair too. He’s the Frodo to my Sam.”

“I’m Sam,” Ned corrects. “You’re Frodo.” Peter thinks about this for a second, and then nods again in agreement.

This little exchange is so startling and touching that Tony feels a sudden tightening in his throat. He wants to tell Ned, I’m so glad Peter has you. Thank you. Instead he says, “Right then, Shirelings. Question three: Why a clone army?”

After lunch they head into the lab, where Tony tries to focus on his own work and not to watch like a hawk as Peter and Ned dissect an old prototype Iron Man glove. He’s not afraid they’ll blow anything up, exactly - okay, well, he’s a little worried about that, but he trusts that F.R.I.D.A.Y. would give him a heads up.

“Oh,” Ned says eventually, with a little sigh. “It’s getting close to five.”

Tony had indeed promised to have the kid home by five-thirty, under pain of death, and he feels like Ned’s mom could possibly take him down even as Iron Man. “Understood. Come on, I’ll drive you two home.” He knows May is off at six today, and has a feeling that she’ll want all the Peter time she can get this weekend.

“You’re driving us?” Peter looks over at him, eyes as big as Ned’s.

“For the sake of Happy’s blood pressure. Chop chop, Picard and Number One. Get all your school stuff together.”

Somehow being in Tony Stark’s car sends Ned back into speechless awe, and the drive is relatively quiet. When they pull up at Ned’s, Tony gets out of the car to walk him to the door.

“Let’s surprise your mom,” he says with a wink.

Ned’s face lights up. “I can’t tell if she’s gonna be proud of me or kill me,” he says brightly. “Worth it. Thanks for letting me come over, Mr. Stark. It was seriously so cool.”

“You’re welcome over any time,” Tony says, clapping the kid on the shoulder, and genuinely meaning it. “Skedaddle, Otacon.”

“Otacon,” Peter cackles as Ned trots up the front steps. Tony waves saucily at Ned’s mom when she answers the door. To her credit, she doesn’t look star-struck in the slightest, and simply raises an eyebrow at him as she ushers Ned into the house.

“Hey, Mr. Stark,” Peter says as they drive away. He’s still sitting in the backseat, apparently still a little wary about claiming shotgun. “How come you didn’t drop me off first? My place is on the way.”

“Just wanted a little extra time with you,” Tony says. He feels somehow emboldened by the totally frank and unpretentious moment of affection between the boys in the kitchen earlier, thinks that maybe he should be a little more open with Pete every now and again.

There’s a long silence, which makes Tony nervous enough that he glances into the rear-view mirror.

Peter’s eyes are enormous and totally unguarded. He’s doing the frog thing with his mouth again, but after a second a huge smile wins out and he gains his voice back. “That’s - that’s cool,” he squeaks. “That’s nice.”

The feeling bubbling up in Tony’s chest is a little much for him at that point, but he soldiers through it and resists the urge to quip. “Yeah,” he says, which is about all he can manage.

-

That Monday he receives a text from May - privately, not in the group chat.

(May) 23:11
Thank you, Tony.

(TS) 23:12
What for?

(May) 23:17
Don’t play dumb, Stark. The flowers were lovely

(May) 23:17
Did Peter tell you about today?

(TS) 23:18
No, he didn’t.

(May) 23:19
Don’t take it personally. He doesn’t talk about it with anyone

(May) 23:20
I know he’ll share with you, someday, when he’s ready

(TS) 23:23
Peter is an amazing kid, in no small part because he was raised by two of the very best.

(May) 23:30
I’m glad he has you.

Tony clicks off his phone and holds it close to his chest. He feels a hot prickling behind his eyes and that all-too-familiar tightness in his throat as he replays May’s words in his mind.

I know he’ll share with you, someday. I’m glad he has you.

He doesn’t know this - has no way of knowing this - but miles and miles away May Parker is curled up in Peter’s twin bed, one arm wrapped around her boy’s thin frame as she watches the slow rise and fall of his chest.

Her other hand clutches her phone, and she’s smiling, even as a tear works its way down her cheek.

Raised by two of the very best.

“Yes, he was,” she whispers, turning off her phone and burying her face in Peter’s dark curls.

Chapter Text

III. MJ

“You know, Mr. Stark, Peter’s birthday is on August 10th.”

Tony looks up from his StarkPad, raising an eyebrow at Ned, who is sprawled out on the floor with a Lego replica of Helm’s Deep. “Is that so?”

Pepper snorts at him from across the room, where she’s busily tapping away on her laptop. Peter’s birthday has been entered as an event in her and Tony’s shared calendar for months, with a list of potential gift ideas in the Notes section that has been growing significantly in length each week as they get closer to the date.

Ned obliviously continues on in a hushed tone, as if Peter’s enhanced hearing couldn’t pick up a whisper from the next floor up. “Yeah. He’s turning sixteen. That’s like, kind of a big deal, you know?”

“You’re right,” Tony says in an exaggerated stage whisper. “He’ll practically be a man grown. What do you two goons have planned? Rager in a parking lot?”

Ned looks horrified. “No. No. We usually just like, have dinner with May. But this year’s extra special, so I got him -”

Tony draws two fingers across his neck, signalling for Ned to cut the conversation. He cups his hands around his ears and widens his eyes, in what he hopes is a passable pantomime of “Your friend has deeply abnormal augmented senses, dumbass.”

Ned’s eyes widen and he mouths, “Ohhhhh.” Pepper’s shoulders are shaking with repressed laughter on the other side of the room, out of Ned’s field of vision. “Later,” Tony whispers.

When Peter returns from the washroom, Tony can tell he hasn’t been listening in - it would’ve been written all over his face if he had. So it’s not too suspicious when he drops Peter off first that night.

“Mr. Stark, can Ned come over again next Saturday and work on Helm’s Deep?” Peter asks as he unbuckles his seatbelt, then he looks over at Ned. “Or do we go to May’s on Thursday and finish painting my Space Marines?”

Ned is only allowed to hang out once a week at someone else’s house - apparently his mother does not give a flying shit if you’re Tony Stark, live in the world’s most secure building, and let the boys work in a state-of-the-art robotics lab - and also will under no circumstances allow hobby sets or video game systems to cross her doorstep. So, Tony and May have worked out a sort of custodial agreement over Peter and Ned’s various hobbies involving miniatures, rather than dealing with the logistics of carting tiny plastic toys across New York every weekend. Tony is saddled with the Legos (hazardous to sock feet) and May is stuck with the Warhammer (messy paint pots and impossibly small laser blasters that seem to go missing if you take your eyes off them for a second.) He somehow feels like they’ve both lost, and Mrs. Leeds has emerged the victor in the whole situation.

“Space Marines,” Ned decides. “If we finish those next week then work on my Khorne Berserkers, we could maybe even have both armies regulation-ready by GameStop’s next tournament.”

“Hell yeah,” Peter crows. “For the Emperor!”

“The Emperor can suck it! Blood for the Blood God! ” Ned hollers after Peter as he waves goodbye and lets himself into the lobby of his building.

“So what did you get Peter for his birthday, Tedward?” Tony asks as they pull away.

Ned looks at Tony reprovingly, shaking his head and cupping his ear. Tony sighs and waits until they’re a few blocks away, then repeats the question.

“A broken vintage oscilloscope,” Ned answers, beaming.

There’s a pause. The kid looks so proud of himself that Tony heroically resists the urge to make a sarcastic comment.

“Peter...uh...likes that kind of thing?” he says instead, trying to keep his tone neutral instead of incredulous.

“Mr. Stark. Dude. He’s going to flip his shit. See, Peter loves dumpster diving, right? It’s because he’s obsessed with repairing stuff. The harder it is to fix, the better. Tracking down obscure parts in pawn shops or on eBay is like, his favourite part. You should see his face when we find out a machine can only be fixed with some component that’s been out of production for twenty years, it’s total crack to him. Also retrofuturism is like, his aesthetic. The oscilloscope I found looks like someone stole it right off the set of Alien. Okay, and here’s the genius part...”

Ned pauses, and suddenly looks a bit nervous. “I was thinking that all three of us could like, work on it together, maybe? I know you’re super busy and it’s like, so nice that you let us hang out at your house and stuff, and I don’t want to, like, bother you with a stupid request or anything, but I think Peter would be really-”

“Count me in, Nedry,” Tony cuts him off.

“Awesome,” Ned breathes, the Jurassic Park reference sailing straight over his head. God, these kids make him feel old sometimes.

Then Ned looks at Tony sternly. “But you have to promise not to throw your money around and just buy whatever Peter needs to fix it. He likes the bargain hunting.”

“What is he, a middle-aged housewife? Is he gonna start showing up to the supermarket with stacks of expired coupons?”

“Mr. Stark.”

“Yeah, fine,” Tony grumbles. He can’t believe he’s sitting here taking a lecture from a teenager in his own car, but then again, he never thought he’d be stepping on Legos in his own home and this is apparently his life now.

“So what are you getting Peter?”

“I don’t know.”

The question has thrown him off-guard for some reason, even though it’s the reason he arranged to have a few minutes alone with Ned in the car. What is he supposed to say, exactly? Hey, help me figure out what to get for a pain in the ass teenager that I’m starting to feel a hitherto-unprecedented level of affection for, which is kind of throwing me into an alarming mid-life crisis and making me re-evaluate many of my choices over the last ten years? Maybe an advance copy of Breath of the Wild 2?

Tony shakes his head to clear it, and tries again. “Probably not something expensive...right?” Oh God this is awkward, he thinks miserably, why is this so awkward?

Ned is nodding sagely, seemingly immune to the suffocating atmosphere in the car. “Right. He doesn’t like it when people spend a lot on him.”

Well, fuck. There goes Tony’s preferred solution to most problems, and one hundred percent of the gift list he’s come up with thus far.

As they pull up at Ned’s house, Tony is still stewing in the convoluted swamp of his own thoughts. Ned hops out of the car, and then pauses and leans back in for a moment.

“Mr. Stark,” he says, in a voice that is clearly meant to be reassuring, “Peter’s gonna love whatever you get him, ‘cause it’s from you.”

“Thanks. Now scoot, Samwise,” Tony says wearily. After watching Ned bound up the steps, he pulls away from the house just in time to avoid getting holes bored into his head by Mrs. Leeds’ laser-beam gaze.

“I hate this,” he says aloud to the empty car.

After a long, long, long moment of deafening silence, he calls Pepper.

“I was just given the worst pep talk of my entire life by Ned Leeds.”

“That checks out,” Pepper answers, completely unfazed.

“The thing is, he said Peter’s going to like anything I get him for his birthday because it’s from me. That’s terrible, Pepper. That means there is literally no way to know whether I’ve gotten him something he actually likes, or if he just likes it because he feels obligated to like it because of the inherent power dynamic in our relationship. If I spend too much money it’s going to be like I’m patronizing him and May, but if I cheap out then I’m one of those asshole stingy billionaires who goes around lecturing the youth about how they buy too much avocado toast and that’s why they can’t afford a down payment on a house. Or, Pep, what if I get him something unbelievably tone-deaf that shows I have no idea who he actually is as a person? What if I get him a replica of the Babylon 5 space station but it turns out he’s never watched that show and was actually into Firefly all along and I’m just one of those lame adults who thinks all space operas are the same, and that he just has to be happy with any replica spaceship? Wouldn’t that be crushing to a young person’s self-esteem, like I’m just reducing him to a caricature of a sci-fi geek instead of a fully-formed individual with varied interests and passions?”

Pepper waits him out. “Are you done, sweetheart?”

“Yeah, I’m done. No, wait, I’m not. Pepper, Ned’s getting him a busted vintage oscilloscope, and it’s such a good gift because it ties into his interests and his personal aesthetic, whatever that means, plus it’s a meaningful activity that they love to do together. I don’t think I’ve ever gotten anyone a gift that nice.”

“Not true. You got me that teddy bear with massive tits.”

“Exactly,” Tony wails.

“So don’t get him a gift, then,” Pepper says helpfully. “Your track record is horrific, and believe it or not, I know it’s not for lack of trying. You just overthink it and then you panic and get something unbelievably stupid at the last minute.”

“Um, firstly, ouch. I have a weak heart, and you’re breaking it right now.”

Pepper makes a loud, exaggerated kissing noise into the phone.

“Secondly, what do you mean, don’t get him a gift? He’s turning sixteen. Even my asshole of a father got me a car for my sweet sixteen.”

“Tony,” Pepper says, in that endlessly patient way of hers, “Why don’t you ask Peter what he wants for his birthday? I have a feeling it won’t be a car.”

“Can’t you ask him?”

“No. Sink or swim, babycakes.” She hangs up on him.

“I hate this,” he says to the empty car again, and doesn’t get an answer this time either.

-

Tony spends the next week in a stew of stress. Not about Peter in particular, just about...everything. The Accords. A particularly obnoxious meeting with the board of directors that devolves into a bordering-on-hostile sniping match. His knee is bothering him, which makes him feel suddenly, overwhelmingly aware of his own age. Even watching Rhodey cheerfully struggle through his PT seems more acutely painful than usual.

“I wish Rhodey would talk to me,” he complains to Pepper. “Tell me how pissed off he is about this whole situation. Whenever I bring up the prosthetics I’m working on he just laughs and requests stupid additions like a cupholder.”

Pepper puts down her book and rolls over to face him in bed, bringing up a hand to smooth back the hair at his temple. “You need to consider the possibility that he’s not pissed off,” she says, not unkindly.

“How? How could he not be pissed off? He chose to back me on the Accords and now he can only walk twice a week, standing up to his waist in water holding his physical therapist’s hand. It’s...it’s...”

“An occupational hazard,” Pepper finishes for him, gently. “You all know the risks when you put on those suits and fly around beating the shit out of each other. And you’re not the one who shot him out of the sky - Vision is, and they’ve made their peace.”

“Vision didn’t mean to,” Tony defends, knowing he’s deliberately misinterpreting her. She knows it too. “He’s...young? He hasn’t existed for very long. The rest of us have seen enough to know better. I should’ve known better.”

“You can’t always take control of a situation by taking responsibility,” Pepper says. “I know blaming yourself makes you feel better, because it feeds into this idea that everything happens because of choices you’ve made, so if you just make better choices next time then the bad things won’t happen. But sometimes life just serves up bullshit that there’s no way to account for, and no one has any say in it, not even Tony Stark.”

He’s not ready to hear that, not yet, so he kisses her softly and then rolls over and stares at the wall. He wants to live for a little while longer in a world where if he can just work a little harder, be a little smarter, a little stronger, then he can protect everyone he loves.

When you can do the things that I can, but you don't, and then the bad things happen, they happen because of you.

The voice in his head is so young and hopeful and clear-eyed and completely, fundamentally good that Tony can’t bear for it to be wrong about anything. He wants to live in a world where things are that simple.

The next morning, he and Rhodey argue for the first time in what feels like years. It’s not a long argument, or a particularly heated one, but it leaves Tony shaken to the core.

I like the kid, Tones, I really do. He’s real sweet. But Spider-Man is in direct violation of the Accords.

Spider-Man is in direct violation of the Accords.

The unspoken part that Tony fills in for himself: If you can’t even adhere to the Accords, then I was maimed for nothing.

Some part of him knows that this isn’t what Rhodey means, that he’s catastrophizing and projecting. But a combination of his own crippling guilt and the many sleepless nights spent poring over the Accords and Steve’s sad, resolute face showing up in his nightmares and the endless siren alarm blaring in his head (No not Peter leave Peter out of this he’s just a child) causes him to lose his shit and turn and walk away from Rhodey, which he has been so careful not to do these past months because he knows Rhodey can’t follow him.

He cancels on Peter that weekend, and doesn’t text him for the entire week following. Peter sends a few funny videos and then lapses into silence, getting the message loud and clear.

-

It’s a text from May that wakes him up, literally and figuratively; he’d been dozing with his head on his arms, MK. 15 of the new War Machine prosthetic legs lying in scattered pieces nearby.

[May] 00:18
Everything okay, Tony?

It’s just this...pure, simple expression of concern, from a woman who he has no right to expect any consideration from. A woman whose child he drafted into a stupid misguided war that should’ve been left to the foolish old men who started it. A woman whose young, impressionable teenager he has been ignoring, because he can’t pull his head out of his own ass and be strong for someone else for once in his life.

He texts Peter right away.

[TS] 00:19
What do you want for your birthday?

[Retrofuturism Is My Aesthetic] 00:23
what?

[Retrofuturism Is My Aesthetic] 00:23
you dont have to get me anything :)))

[TS] 00:24
Well, I’m getting you something, so you’d better tell me what it is before I make an ass of myself and get you a really terrible present. I have a bad track record. Ask Pepper about it sometime.

[TS] 00:25
Anything you want, kid. Sky’s the limit. I know you don’t like expensive stuff, but you’d be doing me a solid by not letting me embarrass both of us.

[TS] 00:44
Pete?

[Retrofuturism Is My Aesthetic] 00:48
if this is stupid you can totally say no

[Retrofuturism Is My Aesthetic] 00:50
can we do like, dinner at your place?

[Retrofuturism Is My Aesthetic] 00:50
w you and happy and ms potts and May and maybe ned if thats not too much??? i know you guys are super busy rn but my bday is on a sunday this year so maybe ms potts wont have like a thousand meetings????

[TS] 00:51
Dinner. Got it. Invite Ned. Actually scratch that, invite all your friends. Any celebrities you want on the guest list? I know a lot of people.

[Retrofuturism Is My Aesthetic] 00:55
omg

[Retrofuturism Is My Aesthetic] 00:55
do you think maybe

[Retrofuturism Is My Aesthetic] 00:56
you could ask colonel rhodes??????

[TS] 00:57
Rhodey will be thrilled. No one else, though? I met Donald Glover at the advance screening for Solo the other day.

[Retrofuturism Is My Aesthetic] 00:58
woah

[Retrofuturism Is My Aesthetic] 00:58
war machine is gonna be at my birthday dinner

[Retrofuturism Is My Aesthetic] 00:58
ned will

[Retrofuturism Is My Aesthetic] 00:58
DIE

[Retrofuturism Is My Aesthetic] 00:59
:scream: :sob: :heart-eyes: :raised-hands: :heart: :green-heart: :starry-eyed:

[Retrofuturism Is My Aesthetic] 01:01
tell me if this is pushing it but can mj come too???? you haven’t met her yet but she is super dope and like the smartest person alive other than you

[TS] 01:02
Yes of course.

[TS] 01:03
Wait. She?????

[Retrofuturism Is My Aesthetic] 01:04
we’re friends. dont make it weird :OK:

After some back-and-forth over the next week, Peter’s birthday party begins to take shape, even if every time Tony uses the words “birthday party” Peter recoils in horror (insisting that it’s “not a party, just a casual thing.”) The prestigious and highly exclusive guest list consists of: Tony Stark, Founder of Stark Industries and Iron Man; Pepper Potts, CEO, Stark Industries; Happy Hogan, Head of Security, Stark Industries; Colonel James Rodes, aka War Machine; Ned Leeds, Guy in the Chair Extraordinaire; May Parker, BNsc, RN, CNOR, Forest Hills Hospital; and Michelle Jones, artist and reputed general misanthrope (according to Ned.) On the five-star menu for the evening is Peter’s favourite Chinese takeout and May’s homemade cannoli.

“Should we decorate?” Tony asks Happy three days beforehand, casting a critical eye around the suite.

“No. It’d be wasted on that punk. Kid’s a slob through and through,” Happy says, in that particular grumpy way that means he’s trying extra hard not to sound fond.

“God, this is the worst party ever,” Tony sighs dramatically. “Little asshole won’t let me curate the guest list, or put together a decent menu, and now I can’t even decorate? Does he not understand that parties are for the amusement of the people throwing them, and never for the actual individual being celebrated?”

Happy grunts. “Huh. That explains...a lot, actually.”

Pepper finds him later that day, laying on the floor, splattered in blue paint.

“Nice coveralls,” she says from the doorway.

“Thanks. Aren’t you going to praise me on the paint job?”

“You did a great job laying down the dropcloth.”

“Hell yeah I did.”

Pepper leaves, and then comes back in a few minutes wearing ratty sweats and one of his old Stark Industries t-shirts. She sits down next to him. “Need an assistant?”

“I’ve always been your assistant, and we both know it.”

“True.” She kisses him on the nose, gets to her feet and picks up his abandoned roller, laying down paint in smooth, even strokes. Tony watches her. God, he loves her so much; he loves her graceful, deliberate movements, he loves the wisps of hair that always escape her impeccable ponytail to curl at the nape of her neck, he loves each new laugh line and crow’s foot that map themselves onto her blessed, perfect face as the years pass by.

“Pepper. You’re my ride or die, you know that?” He wraps his arms around her waist from behind, getting blue paint all over her, and rests his temple against hers.

She laughs and hands him the roller. “And you’re mine, baby. Your turn, I’ll supervise.”

Supervise turns out to mean make myself a martini, watch Tony struggle, and occasionally helpfully point out missed spots, but somehow it’s the most peaceful he’s felt in months.

-

“Wow. Nice house. Let me guess, you own a set of reclaimed-stone drink coasters that cost more than some people make in a month?”

Tony sizes up the girl in front of him. She’s wearing workboots and baggy jeans paired with an enormous tweed suit jacket sporting patches on both elbows. She is also blatantly sizing him up, casting up and down with a critical eye in a once-over that would make a lesser man flinch.

“Reclaimed-stone home accessories are for the Park Slope stroller mafia. May I take your coat, or would that ruin your eighty-year-old philosophy professor aesthetic?”

Michelle grins ferally at him and hands him the ridiculous jacket, revealing a ripped brown and orange plaid button-up over a tank top, upon which EAT THE RICH is inscribed in deceptively innocuous bubble letters. “Oh, my bad. They must be black leather coasters. Subtle reaffirmation of your masculinity and all.”

Fuck, he thinks, glancing nervously at his set of dark walnut-brown leather coasters.

“I like her,” Pepper is mouthing to May, over the kids’ heads.

Nearby, an awe-struck Peter and Ned watch Rhodey, who is gamely demonstrating one of Tony’s prototype prosthetic legs for them. Michelle smiles sweetly at Tony, sticks a finger in her mouth, and then strides over and puts her wet finger into Ned’s ear. “What’s up, Iron Patriot?” she says coolly, over Ned’s ensuing shriek.

Peter skips giving Michelle the Avengers compound tour - she doesn’t seem like the type be impressed by Thor’s butt groove in the couch - and instead the kids head straight to the lab to dick around until the food arrives. Tony pokes his head in a couple of times to make sure they aren’t manufacturing explosives or whatever STEM school nerds do in their rebellious phase but otherwise leaves them to it. Because he is a cool adult, and not in the slightest because Peter’s terrifying friend makes him a little nervous.

“This is great,” May says as Tony returns from a periodic check-in, sipping her riesling. She and Pepper are curled up on the couch side-by-side, their feet touching. “I’d forgotten how nice it is to actually converse with adults other than Peter’s teachers and our property manager.”

“Let’s do it again soon,” Pepper says with a warm smile.

“Yeah, we can dump the kids at Mrs. Leeds’ house,” Tony chimes in. “It’ll be character-building.”

May cackles. “For them or for her?”

“For all of them. It’s a win-win.”

When the food arrives, they eat in the living room. The kids claim Tony’s oversized armchair, with Peter perching on one arm like a monkey, Ned curled up on the floor at its feet, and Michelle cross-legged on the cushion. Peter and Ned, apparently over their shyness, yammer with Rhodey like they’re all old pals while Michelle and Pepper become absorbed in a discussion about the works of Artemisia Gentileschi.

“I put everything in your suit my ass. The recon drone was 100% my idea,” Rhodey booms.

Michelle lifts her head, and suddenly the room goes dead silent.

“Fuck,” May says.

“Um, am I missing something here?” Rhodey looks around the room, eyes wide. “We all know the little punk is Spider-Man, right?”

“What?  Peter Parker is Spider-Man!? ” Michelle shrieks.

Tony pinches the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger.

There’s a beat, and then Michelle grins and digs back into her lo mein. “Nah, I’m just fucking with you. I’ve known forever.”

“Peter,” Tony says. Peter opens his mouth to protest, raising a hand.

“Oh, give it a rest, Howard Hughes,” Michelle cuts in. “Skinny dork suddenly comes to school one day totally jacked, the same month the Spider-Man videos start popping up on YouTube? Not to mention the bogus internship, and Peter disappearing at ridiculous times, one of which coincides with a squeaky-voiced vigilante saving our decathlon team from splattering all over the Washington Monument? Jumping Christ. I’m generally disinterested, not stupid.”

“You think I’m totally jacked?”

“Yes. Congratulations on all the hard work and protein shakes it took you to get there. You want a medal?”

May and Happy shrug and turn back to their conversation about the latest season of Riverdale, and Tony knows he’s been overruled. He’s still going to have a conversation with Peter about discretion later. God damn it, someone has to.

“Movie time?” Rhodey suggests, as if he didn’t just casually out a teenaged vigilante. “I believe I saw the birthday boy unwrap a box set of Battlestar Galactica earlier. Bet we could get through the pilot miniseries.”

After an hour or so, Tony quietly gets up from the couch and wanders out onto the balcony. He leans on the railing and sips his Italian soda, enjoying the way the cool night air feels on his face and gazing out at the city lights below.

“What’s cracking, nouveau riche?”

Tony grins as Michelle joins him, leaning against the railing and sticking the tips her socked feet out between the bars. “I’ll have you know the Stark wealth and accompanying douchebaggery have been passed down through generations.”

Michelle snorts. “Huh. Wouldn’t know it by your taste in wall art.”

They spend a few moments in oddly companionable silence before she pipes up again. “Hey, can I ask you something?”

“Correct me if I’m wrong here, kid, but I get the feeling you’re going to ask me something whether I like it or not.”

“Negative. Consent is key.”

He takes another swig of his soda to hide his smile. “Well then. I consent.”

“Are you going to make Peter sign the Sokovia Accords?”

He feels like he’s been punched in the stomach, and his first reaction is anger. But he waits that out, because as insightful and challenging and provocative as she is, this is a child he’s dealing with and she deserves absolutely none of his bullshit.

“No,” he says honestly. “Or, rather, I’m doing everything in my power to make sure he doesn’t have to.”

“That’s hypocritical.”

“It is.”

Michelle doesn’t answer for a while, just looks out into the night, that over-large brain of hers clearly processing.

“I’m pro-Accords,” she says finally, managing to surprise him yet again.

“Is that so?” he says, trying to keep it light. “I thought your whole shtick was rebelling against the Man. Legislation involving the registration and supervision of individuals by a large government entity is pretty much as anti-punk as you can get.”

“The anti-Accords faction isn’t punk,” she says, a little patronizingly. “It’s just individualist bullshit. Don’t get me wrong, the way the Accords came about was ridiculous and poorly thought-out, but acting like enhanced individuals are above oversight just smacks of entitlement and social stratification. And Captain America’s boring brand of American exceptionalism.”

“It’s more complicated than that,” Tony says, feeling a sudden and disturbing urge to defend Steve.

“Enlighten me.”

“Cap saw the rise of the Nazis first-hand. It’s easy enough to extrapolate - why do you think he’d be skittish about a specific group of people who didn’t choose their circumstances having to sign a registry that collects their biometric data and gives the government power to detain them indefinitely without trial?”

“I guess, but there has to be a middle-ground between unethical detainment of the enhanced and twenty-six dead Wakandan relief workers.”

“You’re right. I’m working on it,” Tony says, and he’s momentarily taken aback by how openly exhausted he sounds.

They lapse into silence again. The distant sounds of traffic float up to meet them.

“You really do love him, don’t you? Peter.”

Tony mulls that over, swirling the ice cubes around in his glass. He thinks about professional boundaries, a slight shadow swinging away into the night, the smell of bleach as he mopped blood off the lab floor. He thinks about the fact that his gorgeous penthouse suite is little more than a glorified Lego museum these days, with pizza stains on his imported Austrian couch, and how he can’t bring himself to be annoyed about it. And then - he thinks about that clear ringing voice in his head. The one that offers him a world that's still fucked-up and sad but could maybe possibly someday be better.

Michelle moves to go back inside, but then pauses and sticks her hand out. “My friends call me MJ.”

Tony takes the proffered hand and shakes it, once. “Mine call me Tony.”

“Too bad, to me you’ll always be bougie scum,” MJ says, and flashes him a disarmingly genuine smile as she leaves.

Later, after they’ve bundled Ned and MJ into Happy’s car (“Wow, Tony, is this thing bulletproof?  Worried about a proletariat uprising, are we?”) and Rhodey has retired to his own quarters, Tony finds Peter standing in the kitchen eating cold dumplings out of a container. Pepper and May are deep into their third shared bottle of wine, their laughter echoing through the suite as May gesticulates wildly in the telling of a story (as she is wont to do.)

“I can’t believe you’re still eating,” Tony says, slinging an arm around the kid’s shoulder.

Peter looks up at him and grins, mouth full. “Best dumplings in NYC. Want one?” He offers Tony the container. Tony selects a dumpling and bites in.

“Thanks for today, Mr. Stark,” Peter says, in that impossibly genuine way of his. “It was so much fun. I couldn’t have asked for a better birthday. Thank you.”

“Chinese food and having two friends over for a movie night - you’re pretty easy to please, you know that?”

“Two friends and War Machine,” Peter says, his eyes starry. “And you,” he adds shyly.

“I blatantly disregarded your express wishes and got you a birthday present,” Tony says brusquely. Arm still around Peter’s shoulder, he walks them out of the kitchen and down the hall amidst Peter’s protests of “What? What do you mean? Hey! ”

They stop in front of the door to the guest room. Tony lets go. “Your present is in there. Go on, open the door, and don’t be weird about it.”

Peter hesitantly turns the knob and pulls the door open.

The room now has slate-blue walls, in contrast to the whites and creams of the rest of the suite. Posters are tacked up on every available surface - Star Trek, Alien, Akira, even a vintage Super Mario Brothers poster from the 80’s that Tony had found on eBay. There’s a new but modest matching desk-and-bookshelf set in the far corner (because Tony knows that Peter would be too nervous to actually use designer furniture) and the stylish bedclothes have been replaced with a soft plaid flannel (because spiders can’t thermoregulate, and Tony knows that Peter needs all the heat-retention he can get, especially at night.)

The kid is completely and utterly speechless.

“You’re not talking,” Tony says, aware that he’s doing that thing where he compulsively fills up silences. “I can’t tell if that’s a good or a bad thing, but it’s a little disturbing. Come on, kid, snap out of it, Pepper and I slaved over this room. We painted it ourselves. No, I’m kidding, don’t look at me like that. We hired someone. You think I could actually manage a day of honest work like painting?”

“This room is...for me?”

“No, it’s for all the other guests we host who have unhealthy pop culture obsessions and unironically enjoy plaid.”

A slow, hesitant smile starts to spread over Peter’s face, and then he turns away as if to hide it, bringing up a hand to cover his eyes.

“I...I love it, Mr. Stark. Thank you. Thank you. I can’t...wow. Thank you.”

“The window opens from the outside,” Tony says quietly. “And it’s programmed to unlock when F.R.I.D.A.Y. detects Karen nearby.”

He hopes all the things he wants to say are coming across, even if he doesn’t know exactly what they are.

(There will be a time, later, when he wishes he’d known and that he’d been brave enough to say them. But for now, this is enough.)

“Happy sixteenth, old man,” Tony says gruffly, throwing his arm back around Peter’s shoulders. “You want to take the room for a test drive tonight? May can stay in the second guest room, I think she’s too far-gone to drive.”

“Yeah, I’d like that,” says Peter. For the briefest of moments, he leans his head against Tony’s shoulder. Then he’s gone down the hall, hollering “Aunt May! May! You gotta come see this!”

Tony allows himself the pleased smile he’s been holding back, and then pauses with his hand on the doorknob. This is a teenager’s room now. He wonders if he’ll ever be allowed in again.

Oh, well. It’ll probably be as disgusting as Peter is by the end of the month, so he figures he won’t be missing much. They’ll always have the lab.

Chapter Text

IV. SEVEN SATURDAYS

The first Saturday dawns bright and clear, and he kicks Peter and Ned outside to go play in the sunshine.

Well, not in those words, exactly. He phrases it a little differently. Something more like, “Go work on your tans, you pasty nerds.”

Said pasty nerds trudge to the elevator, grumbling incoherently about UV rays and skin cancer. Tony watches them for a while from the balcony as they wander the lawn aimlessly before setting course for the nearest convenience store. It strikes him very suddenly, watching them from far away, that Peter’s shoulders have gotten a little broader - his stride is a bit more sure.

Then Peter does a backflip out of absolutely nowhere, crashing into Ned and taking him down, and Tony can practically hear the “Dude, what the fuck?” from 68 stories up. (He can’t actually hear it. F.R.I.D.A.Y. is enhancing the range of vision on his glasses, but there’s not much she can do about the audio. He’s just extrapolating from Ned’s frantically waving arms.)

Shortly afterwards while he’s capitalizing on the peace and quiet to get some paperwork done, he receives a Snapchat from Peter: a three-second video of Ned, arms full of gross teenage boy snacks, in line at the convenience store. Ned looks at the camera with an utterly tragic expression. The caption reads “Day 0: Foraging for rations. Tell May I love her.”

The second Snapchat is of Ned trudging along the sun-beaten sidewalk - filmed from the back in black and white - captioned: “we walk a LONELY ROAD, the only one that we have ever known”

A while later, a third Snapchat arrives: Peter walking on his hands, legs in the air, balancing on a narrow railing next to the water. Ned is following on the sidewalk and filming him from behind. Suddenly Peter bends his elbows, launches himself up with his palms, does a perfect spin in midair, and lands on his hands again, facing the camera this time. “We know you’re watching these, Mr. Stark,” he says. Ned turns the camera around to face himself. “Ignore us at your peril,” he says tonelessly. “At your PERIL!” Peter echoes in the background.

Tony hasn’t exactly figured out how Snapchat is supposed to work yet so he takes a picture of the wall and captions it with a single kissy face emoji.

“Who the hell said you two were allowed back in here?” Tony says when the elevator dings and the boys re-enter the suite. “I thought I told you to work on your tans.”

“Lost cause, Daddy Warbucks,” a sardonic voice replies for them.

“Correction. Who said you three were allowed back in here? God, my security is getting lax.”

“We found her on the way. If you weren’t ignoring our Snaps you would’ve seen that we asked if we could bring her.”

Tony checks his Snapchat. It’s a still shot of Peter and Ned making their best puppy eyes and MJ grinning with her middle finger raised (caption: a heart and a single question mark.) He rolls his eyes and screencaps it.

“As tempted as I am to kick you out again and make sure F.R.I.D.A.Y. enforces it this time, I’ll let you pay your way in with a snack tax.” Tony holds out his hand.

Peter has anticipated this and picked up his favourite Butterfingers chocolate bar. Tony raises an eyebrow. “Oh, no, it’s not a tax if you bought it specifically for me. That’s a gift. I want some of your Reese’s pieces.”

“Whaaaaaaat? ” Peter backflips away onto the couch, clutching the convenience store bag to his chest, and then bounces indignantly once more on the cushion for good measure.

“What the hell is this backflipping thing? Is this a phase? Do I need to be concerned?”

“Yes,” MJ says. “He nearly died yeeting himself backwards out a window yesterday.”

Peter shoots her a look of utter betrayal. “What the fuck. Since when are you a narc?”

“Since it puts a look like that on Tony Stark’s face. If I keep going I can probably drive him to a nervous breakdown.”

Tony puts a hand over his eyes with a long-suffering sigh. “We have talked about the yeeting, Peter. As in, can it. Stuff it. Yeet no more.”

“Can we work on the oscilloscope?” Ned cuts in before they can really get into it.

“Yeah, yeah. You gonna help, Alanis?”

“I’ll bring my sketchbook. If your stupid concentrating face looks anything like Peter’s stupid concentrating face, I’ve got a great idea for a new art series.”

Later, MJ gifts Tony her sketch. It’s him and Peter, side-by-side, with exaggerated screwed-up eyebrows and slack gaping mouths as they bend over a heap of wires and scrap metal. Despite (or possibly because of) the comically weird facial expressions it’s very well done. MJ has captioned it “Architect of Late-Stage Capitalism and his Heir Apparent, 2018, black & white” in her spiky handwriting.

“Hey, I’m not in this one,” Ned says, peering over Tony’s shoulder.

“Your face wasn’t stupid enough. You didn’t make the cut. Cry about it.” MJ rolls her eyes and punches Ned’s arm. His face screws up a little as he tries to figure out whether he should be flattered or insulted.

“Never mind - there it is! Hold that expression, I have to get my sketchbook. Perfection.” MJ makes a chef’s kiss and reaches for her pencil case.

Ned ducks behind Peter. “No! I changed my mind! Stay away from my face!”

Tony keeps the sketch, of course, but stops short of allowing Pepper to frame it. Instead she takes a picture and send it to the group chat after he’s asleep.

-

The second Saturday is just him and Peter. Pepper is out of town on a conference and Happy is taking a much-deserved day off.

Tony glances over at Peter from his armchair. The kid woke up early, as usual - doesn’t seem to be able to sleep in past seven under any circumstances - but by eleven had fallen back asleep on the couch. He’s sprawled out in his usual dropped-from-a-building way. One leg hanging off touching the floor, one arm flopped out behind his head, the other flung across his stomach, head thrown back and lips parted. Tony fishes his cellphone out of his pocket and takes a picture.

[Fun-Killing Old Farts]

(Tony Stark) 11:14
IMG_1734295.jpg

(May Parker) 11:18
I swear to god i taught him how to use furniture properly

(Pepper Potts) 11:20
These pictures will never not be funny. I’ve been saving them so we can play a slideshow at his wedding.

(May Parker) 11:21
MJ will love that

(Tony Stark) 11:23
Do not even JOKE about that or I will wake him up and remind him that he’s not allowed to date until he’s thirty.

(May Parker) 11:24
What if he married ned instead

(Tony Stark) 11:28
That’s allowed. Ned doesn’t bully me.

(Happy Hogan) 11:32
Kid looks beat to shit lately. you thought about confiscating that suit for a few days?

Tony sighs and puts away his phone before he has to deal with May’s answer. Yes, he has thought about it. Ruminated on it, even.

Peter’s currently sporting a gigantic black eye that is taking a few days to sort itself, even with the healing factor. From what Tony can see where his shirt has ridden up, his abdomen is covered in bruises, and there’s a very long and deeply unsettling slash wound snaking up his left arm and under the sleeve of his t-shirt. He also happens to know that Peter’s sustained a cracked rib and a wrist fracture in the last two weeks.

He and May are in an ongoing disagreement on how to handle it. Normally he would just defer to her as he always does. But unfortunately, Tony knows something May doesn’t know: he knows what happened the last time he confiscated the suit.

Peter had not asked Tony not to tell May about the building, and the burning plane. He had told him. Looked him in the eye, said “May can’t know.” Simple as that.

And it had kind of fucked Tony up, because there was no childish pleading or excitable gesturing. Just calm assurance. It was at that moment he realized - really internalized - that he had put this kid in front of Captain America. In front of the Winter Soldier. The Scarlet Witch. He had believed that Spider-Man would hold his own, would even be an asset to the team. Worse yet, he had been right. Who the hell was he to revoke that belief now - over a few hits from petty criminals - after he had thrown Spider-Man into an assemblage of the most dangerous people on Earth in an untested suit?

In the early days Tony had thought he could make his peace with a friendly neighbourhood Spider-Man. That he could reconcile the ridiculous kid in punny t-shirts and the masked vigilante, if only Spider-Man kept on being the kind of hero who chased down stolen bikes and was gifted churros by little old ladies. But then Peter had said “May can’t know” and Tony couldn’t fucking leave it alone and had to know what May couldn’t, so he hacked in and found the security footage and he watched this child in dollar store pyjamas lift an entire building from a prone position (Tony’s quick mental math came up with a conservative estimate of ten tons.) And then he thought back to Peter lifting up an aerobridge as he chatted with Cap about their respective boroughs, Peter holding together an entire ferry, Peter stopping a moving truck, Peter catching a punch from the Winter Soldier’s iron arm without even flinching, Peter taking a hit from Ant-Man that would have killed any reasonable human being, and he did some more mental math and suddenly he realized -

Holy fuck, a full-grown and combat-trained Peter Parker might someday be one of the strongest enhanced humans on Earth.

And Peter Parker is pulling his punches.

One thing Peter has made clear about Spider-Man is that Spider-Man does not kill. Ever. Under any circumstances. In fact, Spider-Man has never even seriously wounded someone; his signature move is webbing up a perp and leaving them for law enforcement to handle. At first Tony hadn’t thought much of it; of course Spider-Man doesn’t kill. He’s a nerd with a heart of gold who helps lost grannies and reads to little kids in his spare time. It’s just so...him.

But this, this is an oversimplification. The thing is that Spider-Man could kill. Easily. One well-aimed hit, not even using his full strength, could cave someone’s skull. And Peter knows it, so he just categorically refuses to take that risk. He blocks, and dodges, and redirects, but when it comes down to the wire, he’ll take a stab wound rather than injuring his opponent to avoid it.

It drives Tony insane. He wants to shake some sense into the little idiot. Tell him that if he’s not willing to defend himself, then to stay the hell out of fights with armed veteran criminals and stick to returning lost dogs.

He knows it would be useless. He knows Peter doesn’t go looking for trouble - hasn’t done since the Vulture. He knows that Peter genuinely means to stay small-time and low to the ground, but if he hears a scream from an alley...

When you can do the things that I can, but you don't, and then the bad things happen, they happen because of you.

So, he can’t tell May. Hasn’t told Happy about the extent of the kid’s strength, or even Pepper. He can’t explain that taking Peter’s suit away would do jack shit other than taking away Karen, their only point of emergency contact. He can’t explain the implications of her nephew’s staggering raw power or how it actually conversely puts him in far more danger. Tony can make Peter go to bed at eleven and eat a vegetable every now and again - but he forfeited the right to pull the adult card and go over Peter’s head about anything Spider-Man related when he threw Peter into a war zone, left him without support for months because he was too up his own ass moping about Steve, and then took away the kid’s suit - leaving him isolated, defenseless and crying under ten tons of concrete.

He caves and checks his phone again. May hasn’t responded.

Tony heaves a sigh and glances back over at Peter. Peter’s lashes are fluttering against his cheek and his jaw is working steadily, clenching and unclenching. It occurs to him then to wonder if the kid has nightmares.

Fuck. Of course he does.

Tony slowly, slowly reaches over and gently smooths a tangled curl off Peter’s forehead. Leaves his hand there for just a minute.

-

The third Saturday finds May and Pepper in the kitchen first thing in the morning, bumping hips and singing along to the 90’s alt-rock blaring through the speakers, burning the absolute fuck out of an innocent batch of pancake batter. May had scored a rare Friday night off work, so of course Pepper invited her over to get trashed on white wine spritzers, and of course both of them were up the next morning at the ass-crack of dawn with absolutely zero hangover symptoms. They are, Tony supposes, two women of immense fortitude and rugged constitution.

“Sorry baby,” May laughs, trashing the entire plate of burnt pancakes and tossing Peter an apple. “Looks like you’re fending for yourself this morning.”

“Are they still drunk?” Peter grumbles to Tony, still rubbing sleep out of his eyes as he stumbles towards his favourite seat at the kitchen island. His hair is sticking up in that hilarious way and he’s wearing a particularly fashion-forward sleepwear combo - Hello Kitty pyjama pants and a Stark Industries tee. “Why did they think that they could cook?”

“You’re one to talk,” Tony retorts. Peter thinks about this for a second and then shrugs in acceptance.

“Strength in numbers,” Pepper sing-songs from her position at the sink, where she’s scrubbing charred pancake remnants out of Tony’s nice skillet.

“Yeah, I had a good feeling about breakfast,” May adds. “Really thought we could pull it off this time.”

“Your good feeling was right because this means Tony has to make us French toast.” Pepper grins at him in that way she knows he can’t resist. Peter’s suddenly perked up by about thirty percent at the words “French toast.” Tony knows that resistance is futile so he stows his StarkPad in its case and nudges May away from the burners.

“Ugh. I hate this song.” Peter rests his head on his arms, the picture of teenage malaise. So, of course, Tony has to start singing along with May and Pepper. When the opportunity to annoy a teenager comes up, you take it. It’s the law.

“I’m a bitch, I’m a lover,” they belt all together, as Peter sprawls his upper half out on the counter, faking dead. It’s no use. By the end of the song they’ve forced him into doing the “ooh-oohs.” By the end of the next song he’s really getting into it and has taken on the lead vocals. When Tony finishes flipping French toast he’s doing an air guitar solo as May and Pepper whoop and yell “Get it, Spider-Man!”

They pile into the living room with their breakfast plates, and it’s decided by majority vote (that is, everyone except Tony) that they’re going to get caught up on season two of Riverdale. He settles in with an arm around Pepper, Peter on his other side leaning on May’s shoulder, and thinks God, I love family breakfasts.

The thought takes him off guard. He pauses and examines it, and is surprised to find that it feels right. After Steve left he never thought he’d look around at a group of people and feel so comfortable and relaxed and himself - but here he is, with his fiancee and two smart-ass punks from Queens, and he’s home.

-

The fourth Saturday he and Peter have a disagreement of sorts.

They’ve disagreed before, of course - from everything about music, to suit upgrades, to whether nuts belong in brownies (“No,” says Peter emphatically, “quit ruining desserts with random surprise walnuts, who does that to a perfectly good brownie-” and Tony wonders where the hell this passion is when they’re discussing possible choices for college-)

This time, though, it spirals out of control in a way that would almost be funny if it weren’t so bizarre. It starts with Peter and MJ sitting with their heads bent together over Calculus homework, with Ned on FaceTime - the latter having used his one day of freedom earlier in the week for Magic the Gathering night at GameStop, which seems lately to have usurped both Lego and Warhammer in the rankings of the boys’ collectible obsessions. Tony feels a little pang at this, something like Dumb and Dumber are growing up, except he’s not sure if Magic ranks above or below Lego in nerd maturity.

Tony is drifting in and out of the suite but isn’t really around that day per se. He knows Pepper has emphasized with their shared team of executive assistants to try and leave Saturdays alone, but Saturdays mean nothing to Thaddeus Ross, who adheres to a strict schedule of being a massive pain in the ass 7 days a week. So he’s found himself in nearly back-to-back morning meetings.

He’s tired, from too little sleep that week - strike one.

He’s deeply annoyed, in a pervasive and itchy sort of way. Back-to-back meetings (and Ross) never fail to make him feel claustrophobic. Strike two.

And, this is the stupid part - he’s hungry. F.R.I.D.A.Y. has reminded him four times to eat breakfast and he keeps getting distracted. Strike three.

Because he is so hopped up on his own shit, he fails to notice Peter’s shit. MJ of course notices both of their shit but she is not the mediator type. She’s the observer type. So observe she does, as he walks by them doing their Calculus worksheet and sees that Peter’s made a glaring and obvious mistake on what should’ve been an easy problem, and she observes as in a weird fit of pique Tony grabs the pencil directly out of Peter’s hand and circles the error and corrects it without a word.

Peter snatches the pencil back and then grips it so hard it snaps in half.

“Hey,” Tony says, his tone warning. “What, exactly, was that?”

He fails to notice in that moment how Peter’s eyes are pinched into a painful-looking squint; or how Ned and MJ seem to be speaking at much softer volumes than usual; or how Peter’s toe is tapping out a frantic rhythm against the leg of his chair. So he doesn’t drop it - folds his arms and raises an eyebrow, fixes Peter with an unimpressed glare.

Peter throws his hands up. “I don’t know,” he snaps. “Maybe I don’t appreciate having my homework done for me like a first-grader?”

“I was just-” Tony says, but suddenly resents having to deal with teenage moodiness when he’s just trying to help, so he spits out “Maybe don’t make first-grade mistakes, then.”

Peter gets up from his chair so fast it clatters to the floor, yanks the Spider-Man mask from his backpack, turns on his heel, and leaps off the balcony.

Jesus Christ, Tony thinks when he manages to breathe again, figures my punishment for my various sins would be mentoring the world’s most dramatic mutant teenager.

“What the fuck?” he finally manages, a little helplessly. He turns to MJ. “He knows I have a heart condition. Why does he do that?”

“He’s overstimulated and trying to remove himself from the situation before he escalates it,” MJ says. She doesn’t look up from her phone - she has at some point discreetly hung up on Ned and is presumably texting him now.

“Leaping off a 68th-story balcony is escalating.”

“When you have, like, hella mutant strength and could accidentally punch a hole in your boss’s granite countertops, yeeting oneself is actually de-escalation.” Her tone is patient, if a little patronizing.

“I’m not his boss,” Tony says petulantly. “And those countertops aren’t granite.”

MJ shrugs. “Whatever you say, Marie Antoinette.”

Tony refuses to let himself be baited by two teenagers in the span of ten minutes, so he bites back a retort and pinches the bridge of his nose instead. “Why didn’t you...I don’t know, give me a heads-up?”

“Wow. Expecting a teenage girl to do your emotional labour for you. That’s low, even for you. Manage your own weird mentor relationship.” Despite her acidic words, she shoots him a smile as she stuffs her books into her bag, and the effect is something bordering on kind.

Tony joins her, packing up Peter’s stuff, since he doesn’t know if the kid’s actually coming back or not.

“You want a ride, MJ?”

He offers every time, and every time she refuses, citing factors like her carbon footprint or her unwillingness to be seen in the “conspicuous-consumption-on-wheels-mobile.” (He has to admit, that one made him laugh.)

This time, though, she tilts her head and simply watches him for a moment.

“Yeah, fine,” she acquiesces, and shoulders past him out the door before he can react.

“How much do you charge for emotional labour?” Tony asks, as they pull out of the compoud.

“Fifty bucks an hour. Take advantage now, it’ll be more after I earn my Bachelor’s.”

“You’re going for a Bachelor’s in Fine Arts, not in Psychology.”

“Art is the study of the human condition.”

He heaves a sigh and fishes a hundred out of his wallet. “Got change?”

“No,” she says impishly, taking the bill. “So what’s your question, Mr. Carrisford?”

There’s a bit of a silence where Tony tries to work out exactly what he wants from her.

She gets tired of waiting for him to figure it out. “Come on, Tony. You know Peter gets overwhelmed with the spider-senses thing. He’s having a hard time with it, lately, can’t tune everything out as well as he usually can. And then you come in, very obviously keyed up as all hell, make a sudden movement towards him - like, yeah, Parker’s a theatrical walking disaster, but you kind of had it coming.”

There’s a lot to unpack in there, so Tony takes the easy way out. “I was having a shittier morning than he was, guaranteed, and you don’t see me snapping pencils and hurling myself out of penthouses.”

MJ quirks an eyebrow at him. “Petulance is not a good look on you.”

He lets out another sigh, and somehow all the fight goes out of him along with it. “Yeah, you’re right.” He takes a minute to consider. “I’ve noticed he’s been a bit tetchy lately, but wasn’t sure how to ask him about it. What’s...what’s the deal, there?”

“It’s just all piling up,” MJ says airily, waving a hand. “School’s back on and they’re already hyping us up for midterms. His marching band teacher told him he’s got to play at least four games this semester or else he’s out, so between solo clarinet practice and rehearsal with the rest of the brass-wielding maniacs he’s pretty much at his limit for annoying sounds. Decathlon’s been ramping up which means more time dealing with that dickhead Flash. And all the sensory overload throws him off his game patrolling so he screws up - and that just fuels the trash fire that is his self-esteem at the moment.”

“He tells you all this?” Tony says weakly, not sure whether to feel impressed or jealous.

MJ ducks her head and, startlingly, blushes. “Er, no. I’m just observant.”

“That you are.” Normally Tony would leap on the opportunity to bully her back for once, but even his tactless ass senses that this is a topic he shouldn’t push. Instead, he asks: “What now, then?”

“Go talk to him, duh.”

“I’m pretty sure I’m the last person he wants to talk to.”

“Wrong again, wow, it’s like you’re going for a record.” She whistles, pretending to be impressed. “Drop me off here.”

Here is a random street occupied by mostly retail buildings. “Sorry, where, exactly?”

“Right here. I live a few blocks away.”

“What, you embarrassed to be seen with me?”

“Yes,” she says exasperatedly. “You think my parents know I hang out with Tony Stark? Christ, man, I have to keep up the illusion of standards.” She hops out of the car and then leans back in through the window. “Look, Tony. Trust me when I say there is no one Peter would rather talk to right now than you. You two idiots are one and the same, and that’s why I tolerate you.”

Tony grins at her. “Thanks, MJ. I appreciate your tolerance. That’s very touching.”

MJ holds the hundred-dollar bill out to him, though he tries to wave it off. “On the house this time, Stark.” She smiles, folds the bill into his hand and pats it patronizingly. “Buy yourself something nice.” Then she’s off down the street.

Tony laughs despite himself - the balls on this kid are nothing short of astounding - and sets a course for Peter and May’s apartment.

May isn’t home. Peter answers the door wearing an MIT hoodie (subtly purchased for him by Tony,) his Hello Kitty pyjama pants (hilariously purchased for him by Tony,) his Spider-Man mask (cleverly built for him by Tony) and a huge pair of over-the-ear headphones (probably fished out of a dumpster.) A wave of affection surges up, replacing whatever it was he’d been carefully planning to say.

“Mr. Stark ?” Peter squeaks.

“How’s it going, Pete? Can I come in?”

Peter eyes him warily (or at least it looks that way as the eyes of the Spider-Man mask narrow. Hard to tell.) “Uh, yeah.” Tony follows him into the living room, where all the curtains have been drawn shut and there’s a truly massive nest of quilts and knitted blankets taking shape on the couch. He sits gingerly in a free spot.

“I’m really sorry, Mr. Stark,” Peter bursts forth, apparently unable to contain himself any longer, dropping down beside Tony. “I know we talked about the yeeting and you were just trying to help and I was like, super rude, that was way uncalled for-”

“You know they make special earplugs for musicians, right?” Tony cuts him off. “I looked it up. They can do custom fittings by filling your ear with foam and making a mold, and it allows some sound through but filters out the most harmful stuff.”

“Um, I know,” Peter says. “They did fittings for everyone first week of school. It’s just that they cost, like...three hundred dollars.”

Tony resists the urge to smack himself in the face. “Pete. How much do you spend on Magic cards in a month?”

“Nothing, Mr. Stark. I trade for them at the pawn shop with stuff I find when I’m diving.”

Jesus Christ this kid is such a thrifty old grandmother. “Pete. Peter. I know May hates it when I pay for things, but if you want a future at Juilliard you can’t lose your hearing by age eighteen. Please let me buy you some god damned earplugs. I am begging you.”

Peter lifts up the bottom of his mask so Tony can see him smiling. “Have you heard me play the clarinet? There is no future at Juilliard. Anways, I thought I was going to MIT.”

Nice misdirection, Parker, Tony thinks, because normally this would’ve reduced him to a sentimental mess and he knows that Peter knows it. He sticks gamely to his goal. “Okay. We’re doing an earplug fitting, I’ll get an audiologist down at the compound tomorrow. I know you have homework but it won’t take long. I’ve also been thinking you need a new pair of glasses.”

“Nope,” Peter says proudly. “My vision’s been perfect since I got bitten.”

“Not prescription,” Tony corrects. “Just regular glasses with a slight tint to help with all the fluorescent lighting at your school. Don’t worry, the tint won’t be noticeable, it’ll just help deflect some glare. Not everyone can pull off pink lenses like I can. Also, you know you can always ask F.R.I.D.A.Y. to dim the lights at the compound when you’re visiting, right? She knows exactly what setting will be manageable for you.”

Peter rubs tiredly at his eyes and starts to wrap a blanket tightly around himself. “How do you...how do you know about all this stuff? Like, my senses going haywire.”

“I know everything,” Tony says, charitably deciding not to out MJ. “Plus, you’re obvious as hell. Look, you’re building an actual cocoon.” He reaches out to help wrap blankets, and soon Peter is thoroughly burrito’d.

It’s sort of fucking adorable and Tony’s basically used up all of his capacity for feelings for the day, so he claps Peter on his cocooned shoulder and stands up.

“Get some sleep, Metapod,” he says (then is immediately alarmed that he’s made a successful Pokemon reference.) “I’ll text you the time for the audiologist.”

Peter smiles up at him, totally unguarded and genuine. “Um...thanks, Mr. Stark. Thanks a lot. I’m sorry for being a shithead earlier.”

“Nothing to apologize for,” Tony says as he lets himself out. On a whim he calls over his shoulder, “I’m sorry too, for being a bigger shithead,” and closes the door over Peter’s protests.

His last stop of the day is the run-down art store near where he’d dropped MJ off earlier. He’s noticed that her sketchbook is getting rather full, and she always buys the same brand. He knows her address, of course - he's a nosy bastard who knows everything - and slips the new sketchbook into her mailbox with a note:

To MJ, from your insufferable bougie scum friend. If you return it I’ll buy you six more.

-

On the fifth Friday, Tony attends Midtown Tech’s inaugural football game of the season, incognito in a baseball cap and MIT hoodie, sandwiched into the bleachers with May and Pepper and Happy. They don’t sell beer at high school football games, so Tony, May and Pepper have done some strategic pre-drinking. Happy sourly chows down on hot dogs and popcorn as they cheer raucously.

During the first quarter, a mom leans over to Tony and says, “Which one’s yours?”

Without thinking he says “Mine’s one of the dorks in the marching band.”

She laughs and pats his elbow. “Mine too, god love her. Trumpet.”

“Lucky you. Ours plays the clarinet,” May chimes in.

They leave right after Peter’s show at halftime, even though it’s terrible marching band parent etiquette, because May’s only managed to get blurry distance shots of Peter marching and wants a close-up of him in his uniform before he changes out of it.

“Oh god,” Tony hears Peter groan as they descend on him. He tries to put his hand in front of the lens of May’s phone. “Noooo, please don’t.”

“This can be easy, or this can be hard,” Tony says cheerfully. “You can play nice and pose for your aunt or I can pose with you.”

“Okay, okay.”

“I changed my mind, I’m posing with you.”

“God why are you always so extra-”

The picture turns out absolutely fabulous. Tony beaming, wearing Peter’s jaunty feathered hat, arm tight around the kid’s shoulders; Peter the picture of abject misery, squished up against Tony’s side with his clarinet gripped awkwardly in both hands.

“Is that Tony Stark?” one of the other parents says, and that’s their cue to scram. They pile into the car laughing and May texts Tony the picture immediately.

On the fifth Saturday, Tony changes his lock screen.

-

On the sixth Saturday, Tony cancels on Peter. He’s just got so much work to do, and he and Pepper need a little quality time to themselves - and Peter seems relieved too because his midterms are fast approaching and Ned’s mother has been insisting lately that the kids study at her place, where she can keep an eye on them.

It’s okay, Tony tells himself. We’ll just get through the next few weeks and then back to normal.

-

The seventh Saturday he is floating through space in a dead ship with a cyborg, millions of miles away from everything he loves, hands covered in blood and ashes - oh god the ashes - he knows they won’t have enough oxygen, the ship is crippled, he’ll never get back to Earth and find out if Pepper made it - the kid’s ashes are on his hands and he didn’t gather up the rest of the fucking dust and the only thing he’d been able to say was You’re alright - not words of comfort meant for Peter but a selfish plea to whatever might be out there listening - please be alright, please don’t go, I don’t want you to go. He hadn’t been able to come up with the things he so desperately needed to say because he’d been too preoccupied with the feeling of the kid’s legs crumbling underneath his own, and of course it was Peter who was reassuring him - I’m sorry - because Tony wasn’t able to pull himself together and be strong for someone he loved more than anything.

Six more Saturdays. That was all they’d had. He hadn’t known. Hadn’t known to count them. And he’d missed the very last one.

The seventh Saturday is the day the stars go dark.

Chapter Text

V. INTERLUDE: CASSIE

The first person to meet him on Earth is Steve.

“I couldn’t stop him,” he wheezes. Steve’s got a hold on him now, keeping him mostly upright.

“Me neither,” Steve says, face lined with grief.

No. Cap. You don’t understand. “I...I lost the kid.”

Steve knows. He only met Peter once - You got heart, kid - but he knows Tony so well and he knows what it means. “Tony...we lost...”

“He said...” He said he didn’t want to go. He knew it was coming. He was terrified.

And then his arms are full of Pepper Potts and he shoves the existential terror back down deep into his chest, kisses her, tells her “It’s okay,” because he cannot ever be the same again, can’t lose it and let everyone else around him be strong for him. That part of Tony Stark died on Titan, along with the child he loved.

It takes him days to find May. Cell service is out everywhere. But he knows she’s alive, feels it as keenly as he feels her nephew’s absence, so he keeps looking. Finally tracks her down in an emergency makeshift hospital in Manhattan, elbows deep in gore, triaging what seems like three patients at the same time.

They lock eyes, and May says, “Wait.”

She gestures for another nurse to come and take over, carefully, carefully extricating herself. Then she takes a step towards Tony. And another. She’s covered in blood.

“Peter’s gone.”

“I know.”

There’s a long moment where they’re locked, frozen, staring at each other, and then she crumples to the ground. Tony catches her on the way down, sinks with her, holds her upright. “I know,” she gasps, “I knew the second it happened, but now you’re here and you’re telling me and it’s-” she dissolves into a low, keening moan. “Oh, Peter, my baby...Peter...”

He can’t even cry with her. Has no fucking right to cry. So he holds May Parker until the wails of Peter, Peter, Peter fade into silent shaking sobs.

He finds out the next day about Ned, and MJ, and that Pepper’s pregnant.

-

The decision to move out to the lake house is easy; in fact, the easiest thing he’s ever done. This baby cannot be haunted by the ghosts of his failures and cannot be surrounded by the omnipresent reminders of the things they’ve all lost. She deserves a clean, brand-new world.

He leaves Peter’s room at the tower exactly as it was. Can’t even bring himself to smooth the crumpled flannel on the bed or pick up the socks from the floor. It looks like Peter could walk back in any second, and this is exquisitely painful, but not as painful as making it look like he never existed at all.

He knows May is doing the same thing at her apartment. Creating a shrine to a dead child.

After Morgan is born they bundle her into the car every weekend and make the drive out to visit May. Even though Tony had only been to the apartment in Queens a handful of times before the Snap, there’s something about stepping through that doorway that makes him feel a kind of peace, laced as it is with grief. He flips through old photo albums and May’s scrapbook of MJ sketches - makes lasagna dinners in the tiny kitchen as Pepper and May play with Morgan on the floor.

The night Morgan takes her first steps, Tony calls May.

“What was Peter like as a baby?” he asks, and before he can even process what’s happening to him, he’s crying.

He can tell she’s crying too. “I don’t know,” she admits. “Mary and Richard didn’t move back to New York until he was five. We met him once, just...just after he was born, and I thought...he looked like all newborn babies, you know? Kind of wrinkly and gross and...I had no clue, Tony.”

“Morgan walked today. She just...looked at Pepper, thought about it for a second, and then got up and went to where she wanted to go. My first thought was that she reminded me so much of him, but then I realized, how would I know?”

It’s such a specific and poignant sadness, unique to the two of them; the knowledge that May has missed so much, and he’s missed so much more, and that there is no one alive who remembers Peter Parker’s first steps.

It becomes difficult, wrangling a toddler into the car for an hours-long drive every weekend. May understands. Every Saturday night he calls her, and they talk long into the night. Tony learns what foods Peter liked when he was small, his favourite colours, that he used to be terrified of dolls. May wants to talk about Peter and Tony wants to listen - hoarding every insignificant bit of information he can - between the two of them it’s like they’re writing the Encyclopedia of Peter Parker, in a desperate bid to prevent him from crumbling to dust all over again.

Sometimes he’ll make the drive out to Queens alone for dinner with May, or Pepper will, while the other one enjoys some one-on-one time with Morgan. Often Tony stops on the way at the Avengers compound. Takes the back way in, and straight up to his penthouse suite. He’ll sit in Peter’s room for a few minutes - on the floor, so that he doesn’t disturb any rumpled covers or the backpack still hanging off the edge of the desk chair - and lean his head back on the edge of the bed. Just for a moment, breathing.

He runs into Nat, once, as he’s leaving. She doesn’t say anything to him. Just smiles sadly and then vanishes down the dark hallway.

-

“I went on a date last night,” May says. Tony chokes on his beer.

“Don’t act so surprised. I’m not that old.”

Tony recovers quickly, swallowing. “Nah, you’ve still got it.” He wolf whistles.

“You’re a married family man now, not a frat boy,” May chides him, smacking his arm.

He laughs. “Really, though. Good for you, May. How long has it been since you’ve gone on a date?”

“Oh, god. I guess whenever my last date with Ben was, before we stopped calling them dates.” She takes a long swig of her wine. “It’s, you know...it’s easier, now. People understand grief better. After Mary and Richard died - and then again after Ben died - people used to just say so much stupid, kind, well-intentioned shit. Things like, ‘God is bringing one of his angels back,’ or ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to remind you of him.’”

“Oh, that one’s the fucking worst,” Tony agrees. “Didn’t mean to remind you...as if you could go three seconds without thinking about...”

“Yeah, exactly.” She squeezes his hand. “And I used to feel so alone. Like no one could ever get it - how it felt to lose Richard and Mary, and suddenly be responsible for this tiny life, and how Ben and I had no idea what we were doing but we somehow had to pull it together and not fuck up Peter’s life even more than it’d already been fucked. Then after Ben died it was like...like another wall between me and everyone around me, because I was a widow, and a single mom. Back then people didn’t like to hang around young widows or single mothers, because we were just...walking reminders, I guess, of all the things that could go wrong in life.”

Tony squeezes her hand back. “And now everyone gets it.”

May’s eyes well up with tears. “Is it awful of me to feel just...a little, tiny bit relieved?”

“God, no,” Tony breathes. “May. You’re allowed to find happiness, wherever you can. God knows you deserve it. If...” his eyes well up here, too, “if a lifelong piece of shit like me is somehow allowed to have a beautiful wife, and a precious daughter, then you deserve ten times that amount of happiness.”

“You deserve it too, Tony,” May insists. “I know you think you failed, and that all this is somehow your fault - fuck, Tony, it’s Thanos’ fault and no one else’s - but you launched yourself into space without even hesitating to try and help, and...”

“So did Peter,” he says quietly, a tear escaping down his cheek.

“You two are so alike.” May’s tone is fond, as she reaches up to cup his face. “He loved you so much, you know? I’m glad you were there with him, at...at the end.”

He had confessed to her long ago that all he’d been able to do was say You’re alright and hold Peter, gripped by terror, as fragments of his legs and then his arms had drifted away into the air around them - that Peter’s last words had been I’m sorry when he of all people in the fucking universe probably had the least to apologize for. There are no more secrets between him and May Parker.

So this undoes him, and he pulls her in close and cries into her hair, and she sobs into the collar of his shirt.

No one spares them a glance. Everyone cries in restaurants now.

-

Sometimes Tony feels like a Morgan addict. The smell of her baby shampoo is his favourite thing in the entire world, and he often finds himself scooping her up just to bury his nose in her neck and get his fix. By the time she’s four she’s ceased to be tolerant of his nonsense and wriggles away as soon as possible, intent on getting back to the important four-year-old tasks that make up her little world.

He’s determined to love her properly, and it forces him to face up to some frankly terrifying things that he’s been pushing down his entire life. He sits with her at the piano, plunking out songs, tears streaming down his face as he remembers a similar scene with his mother at a beach house long ago. He tells her that it’s okay to cry whenever you want, that everybody cries, and when she asks he’ll try to explain exactly why he’s crying.

Because I miss people.

Who do you miss, Daddy?

Lots of people, Maguna. I miss my mom, and my dad, and Steve, and Nat.

And Petey.

Yeah, and Pete.

He reads endless parenting books, highlighting entire paragraphs and making notes in the margins, and then he discards them wholesale because the only parenting advice he wants is from Pepper. (It usually boils down to “Love her, be authentic, and provide structure.” God, he loves her ability summarize, to make it all seem so simple.) They learn together about gardening, and fishing, and off-grid power systems, and eventually he even builds himself another lab - even though the first few times working by himself are so painful it takes his breath away. (A couple of times he tries putting on the voicemails as background noise. This ends up with him laying on his back on the floor, work abandoned, as F.R.I.D.A.Y. rewinds his favourite parts over and over again.)

“Love you,” Morgan sings, as she passes him by carrying an enormous stack of blocks. “Love you,” she says, poking her head around his lab door. “Love you Mommy, love you Daddy,” she laughs, climbing all over them on the couch and sticking her tiny fingers in their ears and mouths. It makes him unbelievably happy, to know that this child has grown wrapped up in utter adoration and hasn’t known anything else.

He wonders if all parents love their children as desperately as he loves Morgan, or just parents who have another child floating somewhere amongst the stars, where their love can’t reach.

-

After all these years, seeing Steve’s face never fails to hit him like a punch to the gut. He does the only thing he can think of - turns and walks away. Nat leads the charge in following him, because of course she does, and it’s only out of the long years of affection he’s held for her and Steve both that he doesn’t forcibly evict them from the premises when they start blathering about time travel of all things.

“I lost someone important to me,” Scott Lang says in that grating, earnest, Disney Channel way of his.

Fuck, you think I haven’t ? 

He means what he says to Steve. He can’t roll the dice on his second chance. He can never, ever watch another child of his crumble before his eyes, sobbing and pleading I don’t want to go. A world without Morgan Stark in it isn’t a world that’s worth it. He’d trade himself in a heartbeat but won't - can't risk trading her even for half of all the living creatures in the universe.

Later, he wipes flecks of water from a framed photo of him and Peter - the only thing he’d taken with him and allowed into the untouched haven of the lake house. He’d been naive, hadn’t realized at the time that Peter would be omnipresent anyways, a constant voice fluttering at the edges of his consciousness, soaking into every corner of Tony’s life - and Morgan’s. He doesn’t delude himself anymore into thinking he would be the same father to her if Peter hadn’t come along first.

Maybe, he thinks, and he knows it’s dangerous to feel like there’s any universe out there where he can have it all, but a vision of Peter and Morgan walking down to the lake hand-in-hand clenches around his heart and won’t let go.

“I can’t help everyone,” he says later that night to Pepper.

“Sounds like you can,” she replies gently.

Pepper Potts has never been wrong once in her entire life, so the next morning finds Tony speeding to the New Avengers Facility.

-

After Natasha returns alone from Vormir, the rest of them gather in the basement bar. F.R.I.D.A.Y. dims the lights and Steve requests background music - hokey chart-toppers from the forties, of course.

“She’s alone somewhere, beating herself up. I know she is,” Steve says, an undercurrent of frustration in his tone. They all know that Nat can’t be found if she doesn’t want to be, so they haven’t bothered combing the compound for her. She’ll turn up when she’s ready.

“Of course she is,” Rocket pipes up. “If we win, she’s gonna have to tell his wife and kids he ain’t coming back. That’s rough.”

“Nothing she could’ve done.” Rhodey drains his mug. “Once Clint makes up his mind, that’s it.”

Thor drains his, too. “He was noble, but...I cannot say I understand, leaving his wife and children behind like that.”

“I can,” Scott says. “To him, a world with all the people he loved in it - his wife, his kids, his best friend - was just a better option than a world with him in it, and even one of those people missing.”

Tony eyes Scott. “You got kids, Lang?”

“Yeah. A little girl. Cassie. She’s...um, she’s fifteen, so I guess not so little anymore.”

Oh. Oh.

Tony rubs a hand over his eyes. “Ah, fuck. I’m sorry.”

Scott smiles. “Don’t be. I gotta tell you, even though I was only gone five hours, holding her in my arms again was the best feeling in the world. She’ll always be my little girl. Even if she’s as tall as I am, now.”

“Now you’re a dad to a teenager, overnight,” Rocket cackles. “Hoooo boy, do you ever have a fun time ahead of you.”

“What do you know about teenagers?” Bruce asks, raising an eyebrow.

“More than you’d think.”

“Teenagers are fun,” Tony says, clapping Scott on the shoulder. “I mean, they smell terrible and are prone to a lot of existential crises, but they’re funny and smart and adorable even when they’re trying not to be.”

“What do you know about teenagers?” Bruce repeats incredulously.

“Yeah,” a voice says quietly from the doorway, “I think it’s about time you told us about the kid.”

Natasha is there, leaning against the doorframe, arms folded. Her expression is inscrutable.

Suddenly he knows she’s been in Peter’s room. Nat’s a killer combo of nosy, paranoid, and neurotic. She can’t help it. She’s been in every room in the compound. Any other night he would be furious - feel violated, even, that his little shrine has been encroached on by someone who has no idea what it means.

Tonight he pats the spot on the bench next to him. “I will, but only if you come sit with me.”

She acquiesces with surprisingly little resistance. He puts an arm around her and draws her in close. She stiffens - he knows she’s not a hugger - but what the hell, the dad in him needs her to know that he loves her no matter what.

Steve sits on her other side and puts a large hand over hers.

“So,” she says, eyes shining with tears she refuses to shed, “Spider-Man, huh?”

“Peter Parker. He’s...” Tony laughs shakily. “He was the most loveable dumbass I ever met in my life. Real cute kid. I told myself at the beginning that I’d, you know, put up some boundaries with him...keep things professional. Before I knew it he and his idiot friends were at my house every weekend eating all my food and leaving their socks on my couch.”

Talking about Peter with someone other than May or Pepper feels weird, but...good. Very good. It makes him feel light and free, because everyone should know about Peter Parker. So he tells them. He talks about Peter’s particular brand of Springsteen vigilantism, the grannies and the churros, the way he’d do a flip for anyone who asked and demonstrate his web shooters for clusters of excited kids on the sidewalk. He talks about how Peter and Ned seemed to have an endless capacity for watching the Lord of the Rings Extended Editions, and how he had walked in on them more than once sobbing openly at the Battle of Helm’s Deep. Rocket starts cackling when he gets into the story of the time Peter sneezed while sleeping hanging upside-down, scared himself, and accidentally flipped out the window. He pulls a smile from Nat when he starts recounting MJ’s rude nicknames for him and way she’d make a point of ripping paper out of her sketchbook, folding it, and putting it under her glasses of soda rather than use his “tacky-ass new money coasters.” Then Rocket talks about his friend (a tree, apparently) who had been going through its second adolescence, and Nat shyly offers a story about the first time she’d met Clint’s kids, and soon they’re all laughing and crying and trading stories about Clint and all the rest of the people they’ve lost.

Cathartic, is the word that comes to Tony later that night, as he plants an affectionate kiss to the side of Nat’s head and ruffles the fuzzy hair on the top of Rocket’s head (the raccoon is far too drunk to protest this indignity.) He gets up, disentangling himself, and pushes Bruce in to take his place next to Nat.

“I’ve got a call to make,” he says, and excuses himself.

May picks up on the first ring. It’s 2am.

“Tony? Are you okay?”

His chest twinges at that. The fact that she can still muster up the energy to worry about him, after all these years, and the fact that it’s been far too long since he last called.

“May. Yeah. I’m okay.” He takes a deep breath. “May, I want to get Pete back.”

He hears her blow out a long breath, on the other side of the line. “I know you do,” she says carefully. “And you know I do.”

He tries again. “I mean - May. What I mean is, I’m getting him back. Peter. And everyone else.”

“What? ” Suddenly her voice is enraged. “Tony, for fuck’s sakes, if you’re drunk -”

“No, no, no, I’m not. Well, tipsy. But I swear to god this isn’t...Please hear me out. Give me three minutes and then you can hang up on me and never call me back.”

She gives him three minutes. In retrospect, not really enough time to get into the details of time travel and friends who have resurfaced from stints on faraway planets and the mechanics of the Infinity Stones - but he makes it work somehow. Or at least he hopes he has, during the deafening silence that follows.

“May?”

Her voice is low, measured. “And why, exactly, are you jeopardizing the future you’ve built with your wife and your daughter, Tony? Help me understand this, because I sure as hell don’t.”

Tony exhales, all of his breath coming out in one long gust. May sure knows how to take it out of him. “Well, ideally, I’m not jeopardizing anything,” he says. “We figured it out. We have the stones. There’s no reason for things to go wrong now. But even if...the reason I agreed to...” He clears his throat. “As someone I deeply admire once said - when you can do the things that I can, but you don't, and then the bad things happen, they happen because of you.”

May is crying by the time he finishes the phrase, but her voice is like steel. “This is bigger than you or me, do you understand? You can’t bring Peter back because you miss him - for your own sake, or for mine - but because a world with Peter in it is a better world for everyone.”

A tear rolls down his cheek, and he nods, even though May can’t see it. “Yeah. And I’m sorry it took me so long to figure that out.”

“Okay, Tony. Bring my baby back.” She hangs up.

“I know you’ve been eavesdropping, Steve,” he calls. “Nasty habit - where’d you pick that up from? Nat?”

Steve moves to stand beside him. Together they gaze out into the night, the cool air drying Tony’s cheeks.

“You’re different, Tony,” Steve says carefully.

“It’s the gray hair. I’m a silver fox now. I see the way you’ve been looking at me - don’t be ashamed, it’s perfectly natural.”

Steve smiles, and hesitantly puts a hand on Tony’s shoulder. “Fatherhood looks good on you.”

Tony smiles back at him and covers Steve’s hand with his own. “Being less of an insufferable tight-ass looks good on you.” He squeezes Steve’s hand, then turns to go inside. “Come on, let’s go put that raccoon to bed before it hurts itself. I feel like we’re being irresponsible letting it drink in the first place.”

“Good idea. We’ll put Thor to bed too while we’re at it. Make him drink a few glasses of water.”

“Woo, mama. Fatherhood looks sexy on you, too, Cap.”

“Tony,” Steve says, voice full of affection, “Shut the hell up.”

“Language.”

-

Things go to hell in a handbasket, like they always do. But somehow, Tony can’t bring himself to care.

Because there, in the middle of the destroyed compound, a portal opens up. The first thing he sees is the Guardians of the Galaxy, the second thing he sees is that asshole wizard floating around doing stupid asshole wizard things with his hands, and the third thing he sees -

Peter.

Wide grin, floppy hair, the light of the portal shining like golden sunlight on his face - alive -

They’re drawn into combat then, and they all charge forward, screaming - Tony’s peripherally aware of a slight figure swinging above him, whooping - alive -

And for the first time in five years they’re face to face. Peter’s rambling but Tony’s brain can’t even process individual words. Peter looks so whole and alive and exactly the same but so much more vibrant than Tony’s imagination had been able to piece together. He can’t believe it. He needs to make sure. He steps forward, cutting Peter off.

“C’mere, kid, hold me.”

“What - what are you doing -”

And then his eyes fill with tears because Jesus Christ the kid smells like drugstore shampoo and motor oil and he’s so solid. He presses a kiss to Peter’s cheek.

“Huh. This is nice,” Peter says dreamily, squeezing him back.

They’re drawn back into the fight, then, and Tony is both frightened and astounded by how many people he loves are gathered on this battlefield. Bruce, who has just hurled a cackling Rocket headfirst into a throng of enemies, guns blazing. Steve, wielding Mjolnir - what ? - and trading quips with Thor. Rhodey laughing as he blasts aliens to hell. Peter, who has somehow become part of what looks like an all-female battle charge, screaming from sheer adrenaline as he swings along overhead.

Pepper motherfucking Potts, decked out in the Rescue suit, kicking ass - He loves her, he loves her, he loves her -

So when the gauntlet practically lands on him, the choice is easy.

“I am Iron Man,” he says.

A better world for everyone, he thinks.

And he snaps.

Chapter Text

VI. PETER, AFTER

Can you hear me? It’s Peter. Hey...we won. We won, Mr. Stark.

I’m sorry, Tony.

He wakes up, once, briefly. Pepper swims into his vision, then back out again, and he thinks he hears the sound of a piano drifting through the air.

Ah, that’s nice, he thinks, then drifts off.

He wakes up the second time and it’s still dark when he opens his eyes.

Oh, that’s right, I died. Of course it’s dark.

He lets his eyes flutter shut again and thinks, I miss Maguna.

The third time, he is aware immediately of three things:

It’s bright-

He can’t move his arm-

May Parker and Steve Rogers are sitting together in chairs next to his bed, talking quietly-

Now that’s... "Weird.”

“Hey, Tony,” Steve says gently. “What’s weird?”

“Cap,” he croaks. “May.” He reaches, hand fumbling around uselessly, until May captures it in both of her own. “Petermorganpepper,” he manages to spit out around his tongue, which feels like a brick in his mouth.

May laughs, her eyes filling with tears. She presses a kiss to his fingers. "There he is. Welcome back, you pain in the ass. I sent Pepper to your suite for a rest, she hasn’t been sleeping enough lately. And I’m good at bedside vigils. Morgan’s at the lake house with Rhodey and Happy. And Peter...he's...he's here.” Steve takes Tony’s hand from in between hers so she can reach for a tissue. “Sorry, I’m such a mess,” she laments, blowing her nose. “I’ll go get Pepper.”

“Thanks,” Tony mumbles. “Pete too. Please.”

“Of course,” May says gently, and lets herself out.

“Look at you, finally learning your manners in your fifties.”

“Late...forties.”

“I was with you in 1970 when we met your father just before you were born. Nice try.”

Tony cracks a grin, even though his lips are so dry it hurts. “How’s...” he thinks for a second. “How’s everyone?”

Steve tilts his head. “You mean, the world?”

It’s so Steve that Tony lets out a hoarse laugh. “Don’t care...about the world right now...done enough for those...ungrateful...motherf-”

“Everyone’s fine,” Steve says, smiling. “No casualties, unbelievably enough. The new facility is toast. Good thing you were too sentimental to sell the old Tower.” He pauses and examines Tony briefly, checking the heart monitor and fiddling with the IV. “Can I get you anything? Water?”

“My kids,” Tony says.

“Your...yeah.” Steve leans back in his chair, keeping a hold on Tony’s hand with one of his. “You know, I’ve been getting to know Queens. Our friendly neighbourhood Spider-Man. Real nice kid.”

Even in his mental fog Tony can tell Steve is dancing around something. “Get...to the point, Cap.”

“We, er...haven’t exactly told him about Morgan yet.”

“What?” Tony blinks, not sure how to process this.

“He’s been through a lot.” Steve squeezes Tony’s hand. “He, uh...he left for a field trip one morning...God, he’s so young...died in space, and then he came back five years later into an active war zone and got the shit kicked out of him just before watching you pull a hell of a suicidal stunt.”

“Oh,” Tony says faintly. “Wow. Yeah.”

“Yeah. So we’re, uh...trying not to overload him right now. Kind of taking every day as it comes. All of us are. Cho has this...program she’s developing, for reintegrating the Dusted...”

Steve’s babbling, so Tony cuts him off. “I get it. Just...soon. Morgan.”

“You'll see Morgan soon,” Steve reassures him. “But she’s a little too small to see her daddy on death’s door.”

He knows Steve is being very, maddeningly, Steveishly reasonable, so he settles for grunting and rolling his eyes.

And then the door opens and Pepper is there and suddenly nothing else matters.

“Pep,” he chokes, lifting his arms like a child. Or rather, lifting one arm, as the other seems to not be responding to his commands. She practically flings herself onto the bed next to him, curling into his side, and God she’s so warm and he breathes in her clean linen and lavender scent - it feels like his body is practically melting from the complete and utter relief.

She’s crying and smiling and pressing kisses on every surface she can reach, and he twines his good hand in her hair, and they spend a long time like that - he notices at some point that Cap has tactfully vacated the premises - before they settle into an exhausted puddle of limbs, tangled up so tightly he can’t figure out where his legs end and Pepper’s begin.

“How are you feeling?” she whispers into his neck.

“Like shit,” he rasps. “Happy.”

“Me too, babycakes.” Pepper sighs and traces her fingers up and down his shoulder. It feels absurdly good. She pulls herself up to look him in the eyes. “So, you wanna talk about what the hell you were thinking?” He knows she’s going for stern, but the mellow contentment in her voice is thwarting her.

“The wizard said...it had to be me.” He rolls his eyes. “Fucking wizard...”

“Why the hell would you listen to the wizard? I thought you hated the wizard.” He knows Pepper is teasing him, but it’s a legitimate question.

“Seemed like he knew...what he was talking about,” Tony explains. “Brought Pete back...”

Pepper’s eyes soften. “So you trusted him.”

“Yeah. Mistake. Should’ve tossed the gauntlet to Danvers.”

She hums in agreement, but doesn’t give him too much shit for once. He presses a kiss into her hair. “Is Pete coming?”

“Um...I thought he was, but...” Her tone is suddenly cagey in a way that makes him feel a bit alarmed. “I’ll get him.” She extricates herself from Tony, plants about twenty more kisses on his face, and then disappears into the hallway.

Some time later he hears murmuring outside the door. “I know, honey. He’s been asking for you.” Pepper’s voice. There’s some incoherent muttering. “It’s okay,” she says, reassuring. “It’ll be fine...do you want me to come in with you?” There’s another pause, and then the door opens.

Peter takes one tiny step in. Pepper’s just behind him, with a steady hand on his shoulder. “I’ll come back soon,” she says softly. She gives his shoulder a little squeeze and retreats, shutting the door behind her.

“Peter,” Tony breathes, and then the tears start, because he’s a sentimental old dad now and there’s his kid, standing there alive and solid and real and wearing the same ratty old NASA t-shirt, and the feeling surging up through his chest is so powerful that he thinks his heart might just give out on the spot.

Peter’s expression is unfathomable, but he seems to be warring with himself. He looks at Tony with wide eyes, then back at the door, then silent tears start spilling down his cheeks and he takes a hesitant step towards the bed.

“Hey,” Tony says softly, holding out his good arm. “It's okay.”

“You’re, um...” Peter says, and his voice cracks. “You’re gonna be okay, Mr. Stark?”

“Too annoying to die,” Tony says, quirking a smile.

Peter doesn’t smile back. His eyes are enormous in his pale, peaky face, and he’s chewing on his lower lip.

“C’mere,” Tony sighs, beckoning. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Peter seems to lose whatever internal battle he’s fighting and collapses onto the bed in a heap. Tony pulls him in close against his side and doesn't comment on the tears soaking into his hospital gown.

“God, I missed you,” Tony says after a few moments, leaning his cheek on Peter’s mop of curls. “Sorry, kid. I know it...hasn’t been that long for you.”

“S’okay,” Peter mumbles into his shoulder. “I’m really sorry, Mr. Stark.”

“Sorry? What for?”

“I, um...” Peter sighs shakily. “I think maybe the things I was...saying, as I...uh, as I died...and the way you had to watch it happen...it was...a lot. I wish I’d calmed down a bit, so you...didn’t have to see that.”

Tony is utterly flabbergasted. He casts around for something, anything to say. It’s true that the kid’s dying moments have played on repeat in almost every single one of his nightmares for the last five years, but apologizing for the way he died is a whole new level of weird, even for Peter.

Peter takes his silence as an invitation to continue. “And, um...I’m sixteen now, I shouldn’t be...” he takes a deep breath. “I shouldn’t do pathetic stuff like...” he gestures with his free hand towards himself, and moves as if he’s going to get up.

“Halt,” Tony says. “First off, you’re never too old for affection. That’s toxic masculinity,” he quips lamely, but it does bring a shadow of a smile to Peter’s face. “Second...” he thinks for a moment, about how to phrase it. “There’s no way you could’ve died...that wouldn’t have haunted me, for the rest of my life. It wasn’t how you died. It was that you were gone. And I knew I’d never see you again.” This brings up a fresh round of tears for him, and he’s exhausted by all the talking, so he pulls Peter back into his side. “Now stop apologizing and bring it in.”

Peter obliges, tucking his chin back onto Tony’s chest and hesitantly wrapping an arm around him. “Okay, Mr. Stark,” he says, his voice hoarse. “I, um...I’m sorry I didn’t know to miss you. I’m...so glad you’re okay.”

For the first time in five years, Tony feels completely and totally at peace. The warm weight of Peter at his side, the knowledge that Pepper is just down the hall, and that Morgan is safe and happy with his two best friends, and soon all of them will be together - the feeling is just indescribable, and his heart swells in his chest.

There’s a little niggling worry poking at the edges of his joy - something about Peter’s tone, and his pinched face - but Tony is too exhausted to examine it, so he lets the contentment take root and drifts off to sleep.

When he wakes up the first time, Peter is still there, snoring softly, and Pepper has curled into his other side. He kisses each of their heads and then goes back to sleep.

When he wakes up the second time, Peter is gone, and Tony doesn’t see him again for days.

-

There are so many visitors over the next week that even though it’s the Avengers Tower medical ward, and not a public hospital, May institutes visiting hours and sets a strict break schedule where she can check his vitals, change his IV, and make sure he’s eating the meals Helen Cho has specifically designed for his recovery.

It is a god damned wonder to watch May Parker stand in the doorway wagging her finger up at a Hulkified Bruce Banner and Drax and essentially tell them to fuck off because it’s time for Tony’s checkup. He feels privileged to have witnessed it.

“You know, May, the Avengers facility staffs its own nurses,” he teases her as she changes the bandages on his arm.

“I know,” she grumbles, “but you’re such a god damned nuisance that I couldn’t in good conscience inflict you on any of them.”

“That’s very noble, but we both know it’s because you like sticking me with needles.”

She laughs and pinches his cheek, but doesn’t deny it.

Tony’s grateful for the company, he really is (although he feels the endless thank-yous are unnecessary - he knows any Avenger, hell, any Wakandan footsoldier would have done the same thing in his position). He enjoys the time whiled away with Bruce and Thor, catching up on the past five years and before, when they’d somehow become involved in an alien gladiator arena and then met up with the Guardians of the Galaxy. Not that Bruce remembers much of it, even though he and the Hulk are sharing a brain now, or...something. The Wakandans visit him often and he truly does love picking Shuri’s brains for genius tech insight (and T’Challa’s for his thoughtful and deliberate politics.) He even likes when assorted members of the Guardians show up, even though they’re weird and exhausting and make him wonder how the hell they’ve survived in space for so long.

And he and Steve...talk, and talk, and talk. About everything. About Bucky Barnes, and Peggy Carter, and Ho Yinsen, and Wanda’s parents. About the Accords and everything that led up to them, and what they would mean now in the wake of the chaos - in a fragile, nearly-destroyed world. They talk about their friendship and all the well-meaning ways that people who love each other can cause each other pain. He doesn’t enjoy this, per se. It hurts like fuck but in the way that digging an embedded splinter of glass out of your arm would hurt like fuck. The kind of hurt with an end in sight and the promise of healing after.

He’s grateful for the people around him, but he knows Nat hasn’t been seen since just after the battle, and he misses Morgan and Peter so much he swears he can physically feel it.

He expresses this to Pepper one night, after May has chased out the annoying and unsettling yet deeply entertaining combo of Mantis, Thor and Stephen Strange.

“I think it would be good for Morgan to come visit soon,” Pepper says with a soft smile. “You...you look good, Tony. I think she can handle it.”

“Yeah. She and Pete will get along like a house on fire,” Tony laughs.

Pepper grins, putting a hand on his knee. “We told Peter about her today. You may want to sit down for this shocker, but he cried when I showed him a picture.”

May chimes in, “I believe his exact words were, ‘Oh my god, oh fuck, she’s just so small ’ followed by ‘She hasn’t had her first day of school yet, has she, I don’t wanna miss her first day of school,’ and then the waterworks started.”

“God, I love that kid so much,” Pepper laughs. “He’s not going to have any idea what hit him. Morgan’s hyped up on years of stories about him.”

Tony feels an odd sinking in his chest, even as he chuckles along. It feels wrong that they’d had this conversation without him. It occurs to him with a sudden pang that he’d really wanted to be the one to tell Peter about Morgan. Suddenly a tear rolls down his cheek, startling him as much as it does Pepper and May. He scrubs it away quickly, feeling irrationally embarrassed, as if these two women haven’t seen him ugly-cry on many occasions.

“Honey? What’s the matter?” Pepper bends over him, a worried crease forming between her eyebrows.

“I, uh...” he fights to steady his voice. “I just...I kind of miss Pete, that’s all.”

May puts a hand on his shoulder, gently squeezing. “Hey. It’s okay to miss him, Tony, even if it feels a little ridiculous. It still hurts to let him out of my sight. I swear to God I hug that kid like fifty times a day and it doesn’t feel like enough.” She laughs. “I’m pretty sure he’s caught me smelling his hair. Thank God he’s so tolerant of his weird old aunt.”

Tony’s brow furrows. “No...that’s not what I mean. He hasn’t been by. Since the first night after I woke up.”

“What?” May looks completely at a loss. “Not once?”

“That doesn't...” Pepper says quietly, almost to herself. She turns to Tony with a baffled shrug. “He told me he visits you a few times a day.”

“Yeah,” May adds. “Every night he heads off in the direction of the med ward, says he’s going to see you before he goes to sleep.”

The odd sinking feeling deepens. “Something’s weird here,” Tony mutters. “F.R.I.D.A.Y., can you fetch surveillance video of the areas near the med ward and pull up entries containing Peter Parker?”

“You got it, boss,” F.R.I.D.A.Y. says. After a moment of processing, she projects the results, sped up.

Because there are a lot of them.

Peter does indeed come to visit Tony several times a day, and every single night. But only when the hallway is clear, and only for seconds at a time. It’s always the same; he pads down the hall carefully, as if trying not to make a sound. Looks in the window, stares for a moment, and then walks away so quickly it’s like he’s trying to stop himself from breaking out into a run.

Tony, May and Pepper look at each other helplessly, with matching bewildered expressions.

“Um, okay,” May says, breaking the silence, “what the fuck?”

Pepper pushes her bangs off her forehead and blows out a breath. “Wow. Holy shit. Uh, I can’t tell if that’s creepy, or touching, or deeply concerning.”

“All three?” Tony volunteers, because she’s pretty accurately summed up the way he’s feeling.

“All three,” May agrees. “Definitely all three.”

“What does he do...the rest of the time?” Tony asks. “Does he seem, you know, okay?”

“Wanders around making friends wherever he goes,” May says, unable to help a little smile. “Quieter than usual, but...that seems...expected, I guess. Every time I ask him he just smiles and tells me he’s adjusting, whatever that means.”

“May’s not kidding, he’s friends with everyone. Caught him playing foosball in the rec room with Carol Danvers the other day,” Pepper says, raising an eyebrow.

Tony files away that delightful little mental image to savour another time, when he’s less worried. “Okay...okay. He’s sleeping okay? Any nightmares?”

“I don’t know,” May says, very softly. “I can’t...I wanted to sleep in the same room with him, just in case he...but the thing is, I still have nightmares, too, they didn’t just go away when he came back...and that’s too much to pile on him, you know?”

Pepper loops an arm around May’s shoulders, pulling her in close. “Oh, May.”

“He said he was fine sleeping alone, and I...” May rubs her eyes tiredly. “I didn’t feel like I could push it. Can your...can your robot tell if he’s sleeping through the night? I feel so invasive asking, but...”

“As a rule, I don’t allow access to footage of anyone’s personal quarters, even to Boss,” F.R.I.D.A.Y. answers. “Exceptions can be made in extreme emergency situations,” she says apologetically, “but there are no lives at stake right now.”

“No, no, I get it. It was stupid,” May sighs. “Thanks, Ms. Robot.”

“However, I can share that Mr. Parker often leaves his personal quarters at night. Would you like to see that footage?”

“What?” May falters. She looks at Tony and Pepper. “Should we?”

Tony sighs and rubs his face with his good hand. “Fuck. Nothing in any parenting book prepared me for...whatever this is.”

“We can’t watch it,” May decides. “That’s just too weird. Ms. Robot, can you just like...give us a verbal rundown of what he’s up to? But leave out anything that would really embarrass him? Sorry, I’m an idiot, a robot wouldn’t know. I mean, embarrassing stuff a teenager would do at night, like-”

“Ah ah ah!” Tony cuts her off, making a lip-zipping motion with his fingers. “F.R.I.D.A.Y. is very advanced and has studied up on human behaviour. You don’t need to spell it out for her.”

“Oh, thank god.”

F.R.I.D.A.Y. processes for a moment. “Okay, summary complete. 67% of the time, Mr. Parker leaves his room wearing his Spider-Man mask, and sits alone on the roof for varying lengths of time before returning to his quarters. Mostly for stretches of four or five hours, sometimes all night, rarely less than two hours. He spends the remaining 33% with Natasha Romanoff.”

Pepper pinches the bridge of her nose between her fingers - a Tony-ism she’s picked up over the years. “Natasha? I didn’t even know she was here.”

“Neither did I,” Tony says grumpily. “Fuck me, next I’ll learn that Morgan’s been hiding in the vents all along and everyone’s avoiding me.”

Pepper looks like she wants to give him shit for being petulant, but she wisely lets it go for the time being. “What are they doing together?” she asks instead.

“Access to audio recordings is strictly prohibited except in case of an emergency and I can’t offer information about the content of those recordings, but I can confirm that based on their lip movements, they are talking. Not much, though - they mostly sit together on the roof.”

“Huh.” May looks lost. “So, uh...my child is spending quality time sitting on a roof in silence with Black Widow. Huh.”

Pepper chews her lip. “What now? Do we talk to him about it?”

“Seems like a conversation he’d yeet himself backwards out a window to avoid,” Tony muses.

“What the fuck is yeet ?”

“Way of life.”

“Tony,” Pepper says warningly. “Focus.”

Tony drops back onto his pillow from a sitting position, exhaling in frustration. “Why do you need my input, anyways? It seems like I’m the last person he wants to talk to.”

“Oh, quit being dramatic,” May snaps. “He’s not talking to me, either. You think that makes me feel good?”

“He’s not talking to anyone. Both of you, stop it.” (If there’s anyone on God’s green earth who can tell both Tony Stark and May Parker to can it and actually get results, it’s Pepper Potts.) “Let's get Morgan up here as soon as possible, and we can have a family day, just the five of us. Peter won't be able to say no to that, and then we can watch him for a while and suss out a course of action."

"Using Morgan as bait. Very clever, Potts," May says wryly.

"That's why I'm CEO," Pepper says. Tony squeezes her hand in agreement.

-

“Where’s Petey?”

It’s about the twentieth time Morgan’s asked, and Tony’s starting to feel like chopped liver. Their reunion had been a little anticlimactic - meaning Tony had tried to hold her close and Morgan had poked the blackened parts of his neck and shoulder, said, “Eww, Daddy,” and then wriggled out of his hug because she’d wanted to sit in May’s lap instead. He knows that to her it’s just been an endless sleepover party of bossing around her uncles Happy and Rhodey and that she has no idea he very nearly died saving the whole goddamned world, and he doesn’t want her to know that exactly, but man. Kids are cold.

“Peter’s coming,” Tony says pointedly, glancing at Pepper.

She throws up her hands. “I’ve texted him like four times, and he keeps responding ‘In a few.’ That’s very ambiguous.”

“This is ridiculous. I’m calling him,” Tony grumbles, gesturing to F.R.I.D.A.Y. She pulls up a projection screen in front of him and dials Peter.

Peter answers on the seventh ring, but declines the video portion of the call. “Um...Mr. Stark?”

“Petey Petey Petey Petey,” Morgan chants in the background, wiggling impatiently in May’s lap.

“Hey, Pete.” He tries to keep his tone as normal as possible. “We’ve got someone down here who’s really looking forward to meeting you. Got an ETA?”

“Gimme an ETA, Pete!” Morgan crows.

He can almost hear the smile in Peter’s voice. “Two minutes and thirty-eight seconds.”

“Time him, F.R.I.,” Tony says with a grin, and hangs up.

“Good to know he’ll give at least one of us a straight answer,” Pepper says with fond exasperation.

It is, in fact, exactly two minutes and thirty-eight seconds before the door creaks open. The sight of him nearly bowls Tony over - he wonders how long it’ll take before he gets used to seeing Peter just...existing, right there, all rumpled sweater-over-checked-shirt combo and worn jeans. He realizes afresh how much he’s missed the kid since he saw him last.

Peter is, in his turn, literally bowled over by a small bundle of shrieking energy. “Petey! Hi! It’s Morgan! Guess what, I had two peanut butter sandwiches for breakfast today, and Uncle Rhodey told Uncle Happy to fuck off in the car this morning, ‘cause Uncle Happy told Rhodey to stay in the goddamn lane-”

Voila, my parenting skills in action, Tony thinks with a sigh, but Peter is laughing, with an enormous smile on his face, the corners of his eyes crinkled in sheer delight, and Tony can’t bring himself to get too worked up over it. Peter sits down right there on the floor and lets Morgan clamber all over him like a monkey, chattering his ear off (“Daddy says there’s never gonna be a sequel to Frozen ‘cause people had better things to worry about after the pock-a-lypse. Wanna hear me sing Let it Go?”) and then he gathers her into a bear hug and says, “Hi, Morgan. Hi. I’m Peter Parker.”

“I know that,” Morgan says, rolling her eyes, but tolerating the hug. “You’re Peter Parker and you’re my brother. Do you wanna hear me sing or not? Daddy, why’s he crying?”

Tony exchanges a wide-eyed glance with Pepper. He’d never said that to Morgan, had been careful to avoid that particular comparison, in fact. Then he looks at May, trying to communicate without words that no, he hadn’t presumptuously laid claim to her kid like that when Peter wasn’t around to have a say in it.

“Kids are perceptive,” May mouths, with a small smile.

“Why don’t you ask him?” Tony tells Morgan, who is watching him expectantly. To Peter he says, “She’s, uh...she’s good with tears. It doesn’t freak her out. We try to be honest with her.” Peter nods and scrubs his eyes with the back of his hand.

“Petey, why are you crying?”

“Um...” Peter swallows. “Because you’re really cute and I kind of love you a lot and being your brother would be the coolest thing ever.”

“Okay,” Morgan says. “You’re weird. But I love you anyways and I promise I won't sell your toys. You know what? If you wanna sing Love is an Open Door instead, I’ll even let you be Anna.”

“You never let me be Anna,” Tony complains.

Morgan reaches over to pat his knee. “You have to learn to sing high-up, then you can be Anna. Maybe someday.”

“I don’t know that song,” Peter says, a fresh round of tears coursing down his cheeks, even though he’s smiling ear to ear. “Teach me?”

“Yeah. The sandwiches part is the most important part. Listen up...”

Tony’s getting pretty good with standing up by this point, but he still doesn’t have quite enough stamina for walking, so he allows himself to be loaded into a wheelchair. May pushes him as they venture out into the Tower proper. It’s not the first time he’s been out of the med ward since waking up, but it will be his first time off of this particular floor. He feels pathetically excited at the opportunity for even a tiny change of scenery.

Peter and Morgan have moved on from Love is an Open Door (in which Peter had gamely adopted a falsetto before being demoted to Hans) and now they’re on to You’re Welcome from Moana. May and Pepper walk behind them, taking turns pushing Tony, and for a while the three of them are silent. He can’t speak, anyways - the sight of Peter holding Morgan’s hand while she skips alongside him is doing things to his heart that are very nearly painful.

They end up in the canteen, which used to be mostly for lower-level Stark Industries and Avengers staffers but has now sort of just become a mixed bag of everyone from superheroes to janitors. Pepper has done an incredible job in sourcing food - scarce, because the volume produced over the last five years is not holding up well at all against billions of people suddenly reappearing - but she has put them all on rations, with any surplus going out to the designated food stations that have been rapidly established in New York’s various boroughs. Today the rations are rice and beans cooked in a surprisingly delicious sauce, along with a sort of creepy-tasting electrolyte drink that the R&D team is piloting for relief efforts, using the inhabitants of the Tower as test subjects.

Tony looks at Peter and then gestures at the seat next to him, raising his eyebrows and smiling. Peter smiles back weakly and moves to sit down before Morgan stamps her little foot.

“No, Daddy, I’m sitting with Petey,” she explains to Tony, in that patient way that makes it clear she thinks he’s being a total moron. “You got a whole lot of time with Petey before, and I’ve only had like one minute with him, so it’s my turn.”

“We can’t all sit together?” Tony asks, equal parts amused and put-out.

“No. You talk too much and I won’t get any chances to talk if we sit next to you.” Morgan climbs on his lap, kisses him, and then climbs back down and drags Peter to a spot so far down the long table it’s almost funny. Rejection from Morgan, he can take - sort of - she went through a Mommy-only phase that lasted months and nearly sent him into an existential crisis, but he came out a stronger man in the end - but the look of relief that flashes across Peter’s face nearly makes him flinch.

“So, what’s your read on the situation, Parker-Potts Analysis Team?” Tony asks quietly. He knows Peter could probably hear him with the enhanced senses if he were actively listening, but Peter seems pretty absorbed right now in trying to coax Morgan to try just one bean.

“He seems really...normal, other than the fact that he hasn’t said one word to you directly,” Pepper says, her lips pursed in a puzzled frown.

“Fuck,” May says with a sigh, realization dawning on her face. “That’s his...thing. I should’ve...” she pushes a hand through her hair, blowing out a sigh. “He did this after...after Ben. He just acts aggressively normal until people stop asking him questions. I can’t believe I didn’t...”

Tony squeezes her elbow. “Hey. No Parker family self-flagellation."

"Right," Pepper says. "We've all had enough to keep our minds busy lately. Just focus on next steps. What do we do?”

“Never did crack that nut,” May replies, frowning. “I tried. Sent him to therapists, school guidance counselors, everything - they always just gushed about how functional and well-adjusted he was” - she makes a kind of exasperated gesture - “and sent him on his way.”

Peter’s currently making a huge show of enjoying his beans, gesticulating wildly and making exaggerated happy faces as he shovels them down. Morgan seems to find this hilarious but it has the opposite of intended effect - she starts scooping her beans onto his plate instead. Suddenly Peter goes still, tilting his head a little, in the way that Tony knows means he’s caught something with those ridiculously enhanced ears of his.

“No, I think Thor’s really turned a corner,” Tony cuts in smoothly, raising his eyebrows to get Pepper and May to play along. “He’s been spending a lot of time with the Guardians lately. They’re weird as hell, but - can’t say I disapprove.”

“Good for him,” Pepper says, catching on quickly. “I kind of wish he’d go for a haircut, though.”

“I don’t know,” May says. “I think the matted beard thing is kind of hot.”

The tips of Peter’s ears turn red, and he switches his attention fully back to Morgan.

“Nice one,” Tony mouths, and May grins back at him with a saucy wink that suggests she maybe wasn’t one hundred percent kidding.

After lunch, they stroll for a while outside in the sunshine, which quickly turns into being stopped every few feet. Turns out the only thing the Avengers Tower’s various inhabitants love more than seeing Tony Stark up and about is seeing Peter Parker with a squealing five-year-old balanced on his hip.

“Dr. Banner,” Peter gasps, eyes huge, when they run into Bruce. “It’s- it’s really good to see you-”

“Oh, God, this is so cute I can hardly stand it,” Bruce says, putting a gigantic green hand over his heart. “Possibly the only person under thirty who’s read all of my papers, and the only Stark who isn’t a massive pain in the kiester. You two are my favourites right now, you hear me?”

“I’m everyone’s favourite,” Morgan says contentedly from her perch, “And Petey’s my favourite.”

Tony and Pepper exchange offended looks.

A moment later, Sam pops up (“What’s up, Spider-Man? You carrying around the Stark spawn to make yourself look bigger in comparison?”) and Danvers (“Hey, Peter Parker, want to lose at foosball again later tonight?”) and by the time they reach a nice stretch on the grass to sprawl out on, they’ve managed to attract a whole group. Tony doesn’t mind. Morgan is in her element, bossing people around and telling long, rambling stories, and even Peter seems to be enjoying himself.

After a breathless, mile-a-minute discussion with Bruce about gamma radiation (honest to God, of course Peter would basically be the president and possibly the only member in good standing of Bruce’s fan club) the kid wanders over and plops down in the grass next to Tony.

“Hey, kid,” Tony says. He’s thinking back to what May said - “aggressively normal” - so he decides to meet Peter where he’s comfortable, and just try to act natural.

“Hey, Mr. Stark,” Peter says, a little hesitant, but sounding almost like himself.

“So, you’re Morgan’s favourite, huh? Doesn’t seem fair that I should lose the title, just like that. We should have a joust or something.”

Peter laughs. “Yeah, let’s do it before you're healed up so I have a fighting chance.”

“You’re on, if I can borrow Cap’s shield to strap to my dead arm.”

He’s actually still a little sensitive about the arm, but he’ll do anything to make Peter laugh at this point, and it’s actually working. Peter looks almost relaxed, with only a little tightness around his eyes.

They sit quietly for a while, on the edges of the conversation - contributing occasionally but never in the centre, laughing as Morgan wheedles Steve into doing push-ups with her standing on his back.

It feels so comfortable and easy that he feels suddenly disoriented when Peter stands up abruptly, with a clipped little “See you, Mr. Stark,” and starts to book it in the other direction.

“Hey!” Morgan yells, cupping her hands around her mouth. “Where d'you think you're going?”

Peter freezes for a second with a deer-in-the-headlights look, and then quickly rearranges his face into a smile. “Um, back to my room. I’ll see you tomorrow, right?”

Morgan sighs impatiently. “If you don’t eat your dinner every night, Peppa Pig gets the axe and becomes next morning’s bacon sandwiches.”

Peter shoots Tony a brief What the fuck? look. Tony shrugs back. Peppa Pig is Satan in a pink dress. Peter just hasn’t spent enough time around the preschool set to realize it yet.

“Oh, I uh, I have food back in my room. You wanna hug goodbye?”

Yes, Tony thinks, but only Morgan gets one (even though she sassily points out that you’re not supposed to have food in your room because that’s what rations means.) Peter waves to Pepper and May, who are sitting with Sam and Rhodey, and takes off at a trot across the compound. 

“Little punk have somewhere to be?” Sam says, raising an eyebrow. “That was a fast exit.”

“He’s mysterious these days,” Tony replies sourly.

“He’s sixteen,” Steve says. “It’s a mysterious age.”

“How the hell would you know? You were sixteen like a hundred and fifty years ago and probably spent all your time at Pop’s Chocklit Shoppe splitting milkshakes with cute dames.”

Steve gets that pained look he always get when Tony starts wildly mixing up time periods, but doesn’t press the issue further.

"Yeah, how the hell would you know, Captain Steve?" a little voice pipes up.

"Okay, I think it's time we get some dinner in you, half-pint," May says. "Tony, Pepper, I can take her if you want." Tony nods as Morgan happily holds her arms up to May, who gathers her up and then sets off back in the direction of the tower. Others take their leave as well, and the group dwindles down until just a few of them are left on the lawn - Bruce, Steve, Sam, Rhodey, Pepper and Tony. It sort of feels like old times. Except for the few, conspicuous empty spots - some of which will never be filled again, and some Tony can only hope will be.

“I think we should do a ceremony,” Pepper says pensively and rather out of the blue, breaking a long stretch of silence.

“A what?”

Pepper’s face has that look that means she’s been chewing through a problem in the back of her brain for days and is finally ready to unleash the solution on the world. It’s sort of a sudden clearing of tension that Tony won’t have even picked up on until it dissipates, leaving calm assurance in its wake.

“After the Snap, we did a ceremony to honour the fallen, right? Although that was a few months out. Then we commissioned the memorial stones in the park.” Pepper pauses, tapping the side of her face with her finger. “The thing is, there are still fallen. People who aren’t coming back, because they weren't Dusted, just died the normal way in the course of the chaos. And the people who have come back are finding themselves kind of adrift in a world that’s struggling to make room for them, and there’s all this grief and confusion - I think we just need to address it straight up.”

“But we don’t have any solutions, or answers to their questions,” Tony points out, frowning.

“No, I like it,” Steve says. “I think it would be good if we just let people know that they’re being heard, and that we’re working on it, and that we’re open to suggestions. That we’re all in this together.”

“Hold up,” Sam cuts in. “What do you mean “we”? That sounds like something the government should handle.”

“This is...exactly why we need to do an event,” Tony realizes, though he hates the realization. “The people who’ve come back don’t know this stuff.”

“What, that Pepper is the mayor now? Not that I’m not in favour, but was there an election or something while I was gone?”

It’s difficult to explain, how Stark Industries and the government had become intertwined during the five-year interim. At first Pepper had thrown herself completely and wholeheartedly into supporting relief efforts, assisting with ground cleanup, and advising on restructuring for organizations that were struggling to understand how to operate with half their manpower. (Tony had worked on logistical problems behind the scenes, but they had agreed that it was better if the Avengers collectively kept a low profile.) After Morgan was born she had continued to manage Stark Industries remotely and had expanded their portfolio of assistance to include forays into farming technology, waste management, and even urban planning, while Tony continued quietly with developing key strategies and tech. Stark Industries had money, but more importantly, SI had over the years been gathering the top minds from around the entire world - and now it was time to turn their focus outward and put those resources to good use.

The nature of their work meant a close partnership with government on every level. The municipal and state branches had been more than willing to cooperate but the federal government had expressed some reluctance to so openly rely on a megacorporation. This was endlessly frustrating to Tony (seeing as megacorporations had funded America in secret for a long time, and now was the time they chose to draw the line?) but Pepper had a more practical approach. She had agreed to bring some divisions of SI under federal jurisdiction, in exchange for freedom to operate mostly without oversight in other areas. So SI’s new food production, urban planning and emergency aid divisions were officially under federal supervision, while Pepper had flexibility to operate quickly and as she saw fit with regards to tech and general low-level ground support.

Tony tries to give Sam the quick summary, while distilling what this means, exactly: any communication coming from the municipal government is generally reviewed and signed off on by Stark Industries. This is technically a courtesy but SI is so intertwined with the mayor’s office at this point that issuing a non-joint communication would likely be a confusing disaster.

“So...” Sam flops onto his back, crossing his arms behind his bed. “Pepper’s the co-mayor.”

“...Yeah, essentially. Also sort of the unofficial federal Secretary of Agriculture, since no one really bothered to reappoint the position after the previous secretary was Dusted.”

Steve whistles lowly. He’d known, as everyone in the interim had, that Stark Industries was carrying out governmental operations and associating closely with the mayor’s office; but he and Tony hadn’t really been in contact and so he hadn’t gotten the finer details.

“So, an event,” Bruce muses. “Instead of just a press release or something. I like it.”

Tony doesn’t like it. Pepper knows why.

“Tony,” she says gently, at the expression on his face.

“I just don’t think it’s necessary for me to be there.”

“It is, Tones,” Rhodey says, putting a hand on his shoulder. “I think you know it is. If you don’t make an appearance now, people are going to start to create their own narratives.”

“It’s not,” Tony snaps. “Pepper is the public figure everyone trusts. She’s been the face of all the relief efforts and has been a better and more trustworthy politician than any of the idiots who were properly elected.”

“Yes, but you and Steve are the faces of the Avengers,” Rhodey says calmly.

“First off, I am not, never have been, just Cap. Second, can’t the Avengers take a fucking break for a few weeks?”

Steve sighs. “We’ve been on break for almost seven years now. Besides, we’re already involved in the rebuilding whether we like it or not.”

Tony knows he’s right. He knows that Sam and Steve and Barnes have been making excursions into the city, Danvers has been in demand nationwide - that they’re all getting as much out of her as they can before she inevitably heads off-planet - and Bruce has been putting in more than his share of hours in the labs.

“We haven’t...we haven’t talked about what the Avengers will look like, going forward.”

“You can retire, Tones. You’ve earned it.” Rhodey smiles sadly at him. “We can manage.”

“No,” Tony grits out. “That’s not...” But it is, kind of. He doesn’t want to retire, but he also really, really does. He wants to go back to the lake house and spend his days making lunches for Morgan and tinkering in the lab. But an equal part of him also wants to help more actively, and keep putting good back into the world to make up for all the things he’s taken away. It seems grossly, unbelievably selfish to bow out because he’s a father now, especially when Scott...and Clint...

“I can’t retire,” he finishes lamely, completely failing to sum up his feelings on the matter, “but I’m not ready to...”

“You could retire,” Steve says thoughtfully, tilting his head, and Tony suddenly feels like he really won’t like whatever comes out of the Star-Spangled Boy Scout’s mouth next.

“You could appoint a successor. Stay involved on the sidelines in a mentorship role.”

Everyone present catches on immediately, except for Sam. The silence hangs heavy until -

“What? You two want to put that scrawny little twelve-year-old mutant nerd in charge of the Avengers?”

“Not in charge,” Steve says, the thoughtful look still on his face. “Not for quite a while, anyways. But filling Iron Man’s spot on the team, and taking charge of tech and development, and then someday...”

Tony looks, dumbfounded, from face to face. Bruce is nodding, stroking his chin, and Rhodey doesn’t look nearly as appalled as he should, all things considered.

“Absolutely not,” Pepper cuts in crisply, and Tony feels palpable relief. “Absolutely fucking not.”

“Pep,” Rhodey says, folding his arms. “I know about E.D.I.T.H. Happy wasn’t the only one in on that plan.”

“You think I don’t know that?” Pepper starts, and then stops and takes a calming breath. “I’m sorry, James, but it’s out of the question. He’s not old enough yet.”

“Wait, catch me up here, what’s E.D.I.T.H.?” Bruce cuts in.

“An emergency measure, in case I died,” Tony snaps. “Which I haven’t, so if we could all please stop plotting to put me in a senior’s home...”

“So you were considering it,” Steve says. “The kid.”

“Only if I died!” Tony thunders, surprising Bruce so much he flinches visibly. “There is no universe in which I am still alive and drawing breath where I would throw a teenager into this fucking hell swamp. I am not dead, Spider-Man is off the fucking team, and we are all going to collectively leave him alone until he is old enough to buy a pint, for fuck’s sakes.”

“Woah, man, woah,” Sam says, throwing up his hands. “I agree with you, dude, but...”

Steve has been fixing him with that same calm, examining gaze the entire time, has barely reacted to his outburst at all. “Okay, Tony,” he says slowly. “Okay.”

It annoys the fuck out him, how Steve seems to think Tony needs his acquiescence on anything regarding Peter Parker, but then Tony realizes he’s not really the one with the veto power either - it’s May.

“We shouldn’t be having this discussion now,” he says, all the fight going out of him, rubbing at his eyes. “Other people should be here. Natasha. Thor. Wanda. Scott, Danvers, T’Challa.” He pauses. “Barnes." The expression that crosses Steve’s face at that last addition is so raw that Tony can’t look at him directly.

Pepper purses her lips and stares at the assembled group. “We’ll take a break and continue this later,” she says, in a tone that invites no debate.

As Rhodey pushes his wheelchair towards the tower, Pepper keeps her hand on his shoulder. They can have whole conversations without saying a word - this is nothing new, of course - and so they pass the med ward and keep going, towards his and Pepper’s old suite. It’ll be the first time he’s seen that suite in a long, long time.

“You officially free from the med ward?” Rhodey asks, squeezing his other shoulder. “Or is this a jailbreak? I have to know. I’m a little scared of Dr. Cho.”

Tony scoffs. “I thought you were my ride or die.”

“Pepper’s your ride or die. I’m just around to enable your bad behaviour.”

“I’m going to go tuck in my darling little gremlin, even though she informed me today that she prefers a smelly teenage boy she just met over her own father, who gave her life and resisted the temptation to sell her on Craigslist many times. Enable that.”

“That kid of yours really goes for the jugular. Told me straight-faced that Happy was the fun uncle when I told her she had to quit playing Super Mario and come eat lunch.”

“She gets it from Pepper.”

-

Morgan turns out not to be in their suite at all. She’s next door, in the quarters assigned to the Parkers.

Specifically, she’s on the couch - sprawled out on Peter’s chest, drooling on his sweater. Peter is asleep too, snoring softly, one arm resting over Morgan and the other flung up over his head. May is reading in the armchair next to them, her feet propped up near Peter’s on the arm of the couch.

“Well, that’s fucking cute,” Pepper says quietly with a grin.

“They both conked out mid-bedtime story,” May whispers.

“What was the story?”

“The first chapter of The Hobbit, recited from memory.”

“Oh. Of course.”

“Okay, sweetie,” May says, gently disentangling Morgan and handing the sleepy lump to Tony. Morgan makes a little whining noise, but once she’s in Tony’s arms her head finds his shoulder and she’s back asleep within seconds.

“Thanks for watching her, May,” Pepper says, embracing her.

“Any time. Makes my heart melt to hear a tiny little voice saying ‘Aunt May’ again.” May smiles fondly at the gangly form flopped out on the couch.

As he and Pepper let themselves out of the suite and close the door, Tony catches a glimpse of May - she’s sitting on the floor, with one hand smoothing through Peter’s curls, head resting right next to his - and he feels more conviction than he had even earlier in the afternoon - he has to keep going. Putting one foot in front of the other, having the difficult shitty conversations with Steve, figuring out where Iron Man stops and Tony Stark starts, and how he and Pepper and Morgan will fit into a new existence. One where they’re no longer detached and maintaining points of contact with the world at large, but involved and present and living in it every single day. He thinks back to something Peter had said - before - about how connecting to the community made him a better protector, and that started with understanding the connection between Peter Parker and Spider-Man.

Okay, kid, he thinks, burying his nose into Morgan’s hair and breathing in her shampoo smell. I’m scared as fuck, and I have no idea what I’m doing, but you were right. You were right.

Chapter Text

VII. MJ, AFTER

Tony is starting to think that Rhodey’s motivations to assist with his physiotherapy sessions are less than pure.

“Okay, Tones, picture this. Morgan comes home and tagging along behind her is some little punk-ass douche that smells like a bubblegum e-cig and has one of those ear gauges in - like, real big, so big you could stick a marker through it - and she goes “Dad, this is my boyfriend Jaxon,” and Jaxon like, throws a gang sign even though he’s a scrawny white boy from Tribeca. But the thing is, you gotta play nice with this dog turd, because if you take a stand and ban him from the house then Morgan’s just gonna sneak around and see him anyways and then you’ll have lost the father-daughter trust and she’ll never willingly confide in you about a boy again. So you grit your teeth and say “Hello, Jaxon, pleasure to meet you,” and you reach out to shake his hand, and the kid has an infuriatingly limp grip, it’s like you’re holding on to a noodle, but you can’t crush the ever-living shit out of his fingers because Morgan’s watching and your stable and secure bond rests on how you handle this moment, so instead you channel all that frustration into your other hand-”

“Oh my God-” Tony groans.

“-Are you still with me, Tones? Really get yourself into the scene.” Rhodey grabs his good hand and shakes it, then mid handshake lets his fingers go creepy and limp. “Horrible, isn’t it? Doesn’t that other hand of yours really just wanna clench into a fist?”

“Colones Rhodes, that’s, er...not exactly what I meant by a visualization exercise-”

“Clench into a fist and then sock you in the fucking teeth.”

“There you go, Tones! Now you’re getting into it! Visualize how much you wanna punch my smug-ass face.”

The physiotherapist, January, is massaging Tony’s forearm. “Hey!” she says. “Bit of a response there. Well done, Colonel.”

“No, January, there is no ‘well done Colonel,’ there is only ‘Colonel Rhodes, you are impeding recovery and for Tony’s sake you must leave immediately’-”

“Daddy!”

Morgan comes barreling around the corner and launches herself into his lap.

“Hi, Maguna,” Tony says, kissing the top of her head. She bites him.

“Ow - what the f- facula...”

“Nice save.”

“Eat the rich,” Morgan says, biting him again, but more gently this time.

Tony’s heart thumps, once. “Um, where did you...” His head snaps up to the entrance of the physical therapy facility, and despite his daughter’s newfound penchant for cannibalism, an enormous grin breaks across his face.

“MJ,” he says, struggling to his feet and groping for his cane.

“Don’t have an aneurysm, Stark,” MJ says, but she crosses the room in a few steps, pulling Peter along with her. He notices with amusement that they’re holding hands.

Tony holds out his good arm. “Can I get a hug? Maybe it’ll melt my cold dead heart and I’ll finally see the error of my ways.”

“Well, anything in the name of dismantling the bourgeoisie,” MJ sighs, and flings herself into his embrace.

“I’m so glad to see you, you fun-sized misanthrope,” he says, pressing his cheek into the top of her head.

“Good to see you too, you super-sized narcissist.” She squeezes him tightly, then releases him. “Okay, that’s enough sappy bullshit. Christ on a bike, are you crying?”

“Yes, a little,” Tony says loftily. “I’m practicing radical acceptance and experiencing my emotions in a healthy, mindful way.”

“Oh, good for you, you ate a cognitive behavioural therapy textbook,” MJ says, but she’s smiling.

“Anyways, stop teaching my daughter your weird catchphrases. She’s at a very literal age.”

“There is no ethical consumption under capitalism!” Morgan cheers.

“We practiced that one,” MJ says. “Good job, munchkin.”

“Time for a break, I think,” January says, smiling at the scene in front of her. “See you tomorrow?”

“Oh, you bet,” Rhodey says cheerfully, clapping Tony on the back.

“So where’s Ron Weasley?” Tony asks, as they sit down with their trays at the canteen. Peter chooses the spot next to him, Morgan in his lap. 

“Ned’s mom is, uh...” Peter gestures and trails off helplessly.

“Freaking the fudge out,” MJ supplies helpfully. “She may never let him out of her sight again. Oh, and you better watch your back, she’s probably going to climb through your window and kill you in your sleep as soon as she finds a way to chain Ned to his bunk bed.”

“Me?” Tony says.

“Yeah, you. Ned says she never would’ve let him come over if she’d known you were Iron Man and getting into dangerous situations all the time.”

“I - what? I talked to her on the phone -”

“Yeah, she knew you were Tony Stark,” Peter says with a grin, as he cuts Morgan’s vegetables into smaller pieces. “She thought letting Ned visit the compound could maybe net him a good recommendation letter for college.”

Tony blinks.

“I don’t have time to keep up with who is Iron Man and who isn’t,” MJ yells, waving her arms and doing a killer Mrs. Leeds impression. “All my time is taken up making sure my stupid son doesn’t ruin his future - all you want to do is play those video games and never do your homework - Iron Man, bah - next you’ll tell me your little friend Peter is Captain America -”

Rhodey snorts into his electrolyte drink.

“Okay, well, that’s a new one,” Tony says. “Anyways, I’m surprised Ned is allowed to see you two.”

“Uh...he’s not,” Peter says sheepishly. Tony raises an eyebrow.

“We busted into his bedroom at three in the morning,” MJ says casually. “Who knew, Peter being human velcro would eventually be useful in my day-to-day life.”

“Good for you,” Tony says approvingly. “Next time I’ll send you along with a burner phone he can use.”

“See, told you he’d be cool.” MJ nudges Peter. Peter blushes and busies himself with his food.

“Missed you, kiddo,” Rhodey says to MJ. “Hanging out with Tony at his nice little lake house just wasn’t the same. No three stooges hanging around wiping Cheeto dust on everything.”

Tony feels a little like he’s going to tear up again, but instead of subjecting the kids again to the basket case of emotions he’s been recently, he elects for a giant swig of his drink.

Morgan has climbed down from Peter’s lap, crawled under the table, and surfaced again next to MJ. “Hi,” she says, peering up.

“Oh, what’s up, short stuff?”

“Nothin’,” Morgan says, wiggling her way up to sit next to MJ. She is very clearly eyeing MJ’s orange slices - rations dictate that each person gets only three, and Morgan’s are long gone (as are Peter’s; a fool is soon parted from his citrus fruit.)

“You want me to get scurvy?” MJ scoffs, acting affronted. “Is that what this is?”

“Noooo,” Morgan says, not taking her eyes off the prize.

“I see what this is. You think I’m going to give you my oranges because you’re cute, or to bribe you into liking me. Too bad, I already know you like me, and I’m immune to cuteness.”

“That explains a lot,” Peter says thoughtfully, almost to himself. Morgan sticks out her bottom lip and makes a face that has a 92% success rate with Pepper and a 99.875% success rate with Tony.

“Make a case for it,” MJ suggests. “Tell you what, you construct a logically sound argument, and I’ll fork over the fruit. Knock my socks off, you little troll.”

“Yeah, okay,” Morgan says. “Wait a minute. I gotta think. Don’t eat them while I’m thinking.”

MJ lifts an orange slice to her mouth and opens wide. “But I’m soooo hungry.”

“Hey!” Morgan cries. “MJ!”

“Just fudgin’ with you,” MJ says, grinning and putting the slice back on her plate. “Devise away, little buddy. I’ll wait.”

“So how’s your family?” Tony asks MJ, as Morgan presses her fingers into her temples and squeezes her eyes shut.

“Oh, you know,” MJ says, shrugging. “My dad and stepmom and I were Dusted, my brother and grandma weren’t, so we’re collectively trying to put aside our normal patterns of dysfunction for a little and sort of all get to know each other again. My brother seems to have grown out of his burnout weed dealer phase in the interim. Started working for a supermarket.”

“Do you need anything? You guys getting enough rations? I know toiletries are at a bit of premium right now, but I’ve got a stash-”

MJ cuts him off. “Nah. Thanks, though. We’re getting by.”

Tony rolls his eyes and holds his hand out. “Okay, okay, I get it. You don’t want charity from a one-percenter. At least let me put my number in your phone, just in case.”

MJ types for a second and then hands the phone over. She’s pre-set his contact name as ‘Discount Bruce Wayne.’ He grins and punches in his number, and then his email address for good measure.

“What?” Peter complains. “You let her put you in her phone under a stupid name? I wasn’t allowed to do that.”

Tony stares at him. “You actually listened to me?”

“Um, yes. You weren’t messing with my name in your phone, were you?”

“...Of course not.”

“Okay, I got it,” Morgan announces, opening her eyes and clapping her hands. “MJ, you gotta give me your orange slices because I can’t eat vegetables and that means I could get a vitamin de-fish-en-see. Captain Steve says that children are our future, and I’m children, so if I want to grow up and be the future then I have to be in...” Morgan pauses, searching for the words - “Peak physical condition. Yeah. So it makes sense if I get your orange slices, and you get my vegetables, that way no one gets a vitamin deficiency.” She gazes triumphantly up at MJ, certain of her victory.

“Hold it. Flaw in your logic. What do you mean, you can’t eat vegetables? What happens if you eat one?”

“Emotional trauma,” Morgan says solemnly.

Tony makes a valiant attempt not to laugh, and snorts into his drink instead. He can tell Peter is fighting to keep a straight face.

“Yes, but the way to deal with emotional trauma is by confronting it,” MJ says. “Avoidance is an unhealthy coping mechanism.” She pushes Morgan’s plate of vegetables towards her.

“Is not,” Morgan argues, pushing the plate back. Like father, like daughter, Tony thinks wryly.

“Tell you what,” MJ says, folding her arms. “You impressed me with a well-constructed and well-delivered argument. You put some conviction behind it and I’ll give you all my orange slices plus a bite of my noodles.”

Morgan appraises MJ calculatingly for a long moment. “What’s conviction?”

“Confront your emotional trauma. Eat that big piece of broccoli.”

Morgan eyes the broccoli, sighs, and then pops the whole thing into her mouth. She chews with a pained expression, swallows, and then sticks her tiny hand out. “Pay up,” she says flatly, waggling her fingers.

-

MJ insists on taking the subway home, which makes Tony extremely anxious given the general elevated level of chaos these days, and also categorically refuses to send him a text letting him know she got home safe. (“I’m not setting that precedent. Manage your own anxiety,” she says, and squeezes his hand before jogging out into the street.)

“Want to come hang out in our suite?” Tony asks Peter. “Watch some TV?”

Things with Peter have been...well, not normal exactly, but seemingly on the up-and-up. Peter is talking to him again, at least, and seems to be okay with being in Tony’s general vicinity. He still doesn’t really seek Tony out of his own accord, though - so Tony feels a little nervous asking him to hang out, which is ridiculous and heartbreaking all at once.

“Um...” Peter shifts his weight from one foot to another. “Yeah, sure. Sounds good, Mr. Stark.” Tony’s heart lifts embarrassingly, like the kid’s just agreed to go with him to prom or something, and he tries not to show it on his face. Don’t make it weird for him.

“Great. We can catch up on Riverdale.”

“They kept making that?”

“Yeah. They recast Cheryl. Bad move, no one could bring the crazy like Madelaine Petsch.”

“Let’s watch Treasure Planet,” Morgan says decisively, grabbing Peter’s hand.

“This isn’t a democracy, Maguna, it’s-”

“Yeah, yeah, dictatorship.” Morgan rolls her eyes. “I wanna make a case, Daddy.”

“I don’t think you understand how a dictatorship-”

“Treasure Planet is about a bunch of robot scientists that fly around in space,” Morgan says loudly, talking directly over him. “You’re a robot scientist that flies around. Petey’s just a regular scientist but he flies around too. So it’s the perfect movie to watch with both of you. Plus Mommy says that Treasure Planet is underrated.”

“She’s got us there,” Peter says with a little smile.

“No she doesn’t,” Tony argues. “Peter doesn’t fly, he swings around with webs.”

“Don’t be semantic, Daddy,” Morgan says breezily, in a stunningly perfect imitation of Pepper.

“You mean pedantic.”

“No I don’t,” Morgan sighs. “Anyways, Petey, what do you think of my case?”

“It’s pretty good,” Peter says thoughtfully, tapping a finger against his lower lip. “You know what, I vote yes, because you think I can fly and that’s awesome.”

“Again, not a democracy, you can’t just start voting -”

“Sounds like your reign of terror is over,” Pepper says, as they enter the suite. “Hey, sweetheart.” She wraps Peter in a hug and kisses him on the forehead. “Hey, baby girl.” She ruffles Morgan’s hair with her free hand as Morgan comes over to hug her leg.

Peter squeezes her back. “Hey, Pepper. Is it okay if I stay and watch a movie?”

“You know you don’t have to ask, hon,” Pepper says, releasing him and holding him by the shoulders. “May doesn’t.”

“That’s because May needs her daily Morgan fix and no one’s gonna stop her,” Peter laughs. He pauses. “Huh. I guess I can’t talk.”

“No, you can’t,” Pepper says, cupping his face briefly with one hand. “You three have fun, I have work to do tonight.”

“No you don’t, Mommy,” Morgan says earnestly, “I’m gonna make a case and tell you why you should come watch Treasure Planet with us.”

“Make a case, huh?”

“Morgan learned something new from MJ today,” Tony says, shrugging.

“MJ was here? I wish I’d seen her,” Pepper sighs. “Peter, honey, you text me next time she’s here. Ned hasn’t been by, has he?”

“Uh, no. Long story.”

When they settle in to watch the movie, Peter sits next to Tony without Tony asking. This is nice. Morgan sprawls across both of their laps, creating herself a little pillow nest. This is even nicer. She is predictably asleep within the hour.

Tony carefully, carefully lifts her up, one-armed, and carries her to bed. They’re weaning off afternoon naps, with mixed results, so he doesn’t want to jinx her actually falling asleep around her intended bedtime. He half expects Peter to be gone by the time he gets back.

Peter is not gone, and he doesn’t flinch or move away when Tony sits back down next to him.

Instead, he slowly, gingerly leans his head on Tony’s shoulder, as if he’s afraid Tony will shrug him off. Tony heroically resists the urge to tear up for the third time that day, Jesus Christ there’s being in touch with your feelings and then there’s whatever the hell glass case of emotions this is, and wraps an arm around Peter’s shoulders.

They finish out the movie like that, just leaning into each other, and the second the credits come up Peter gently extricates himself.

“’Night, Mr. Stark,” he says quietly, and turns to leave.

“Pete,” Tony says, but Peter is already gone.

-

They hold Pepper’s event in Central Park. It’s a strange and yet deeply cathartic combination of memorial, news conference, and open forum for people to discuss and ask questions. Some people bring picnic baskets of whatever extra rations they’ve managed to cobble together, to share with their neighbours. Some bring candles and framed photos of the ones they’ve lost. There are people in suits, and pyjamas, and everything in-between. Pepper broadcasts a livestream for anyone who can’t make it, and it’s the most widely-watched broadcast in the history of New York City.

(The night before, Tony finally musters up the courage to ask Peter about the Avengers.

“We’re...going to present a united front tomorrow. We think it’s important to show people that we’re all a team again, and exactly who will make up the team going forward. Transparency. I, uh...you’re young, Pete, but you’ve seen things no sixteen-year-old should see, and I know that’s my fault, so...I don’t think I can take the decision away from you-”

“My answer is still no, Mr. Stark.” Peter is smiling, but there’s something a little sad in it. “Gonna keep looking out for the little guy.”

Tony is relieved, of course he’s relieved, but he can’t ignore the small part of him that feels the rejection keenly.)

The Avengers start out in impressive formation, lined up silently on the stage behind the podiums where Pepper and Mayor Álvarez are speaking, helmets and cowls off to reveal their faces. Tony stands with them in the Iron Man suit. (He’s added some extra supports in the legs of the suit to help him with standing for long periods.) He feels a kind of surge in his chest when he looks out at his teammates - Cap by his side as always, Bruce and Thor flanking, and Rhodey and Sam and Wanda. The newer members - Scott, T’Challa, Barnes, Danvers, and even Strange, who has agreed reluctantly to be an “auxiliary” Avenger when he isn’t busy floating around being a general douchebag. They’ve inducted the Guardians of the Galaxy as well. More of an honorary thing, as Tony knows they’re itching to get back to careening around space in that bizarre rust bucket they call a ship, but he’s glad to have them all the same.

Natasha shows up, after being MIA for weeks. At the last minute, without letting anyone know - just slips into position on Bruce’s right, simple as that, and they all know her well enough to not to comment on it, although Cap reaches over and gives her hand a quick squeeze.

And - all the way across the lawn - there’s a red-and-blue clad figure perched in the upper branches of a huge oak tree. Tony nods at him, smiling, and Spider-Man raises his hand in a mock salute.

“We have a hell of a job ahead of us,” Pepper concludes her speech, “and the work starts here. Now. Each and every one of us, taking things one day at a time, together.”

People are confused, hurt, angry, relieved and overjoyed all at once. At one point the open forum descends into a screaming match, which Pepper and Mayor Álvarez manage to rein in before the undercover security detail has to intervene. They’ve made the decision to have the only visible security be the Avengers, because the day can’t be about Stark Industries and the Mayor’s office putting on any displays of power or authority - it has to be a community event in the truest sense of the word. Later, long after the screaming match, snatches of songs break out here and there among the massive crowds spread out across the lawn; mourning songs, joyful songs, songs that remind people of their homes and distant families. At this point the Avengers step down from the stage and make the rounds. Talking, comforting, answering what questions they can, and listening.

Bruce explains a new renewable energy strategy to a group of enthralled undergrads. T’Challa tells stories about Wakanda to a wizened grandmother, tears leaking freely from her eyes as she takes them in. Steve listens carefully and solemnly to a middle-aged accountant who has passionate opinions about the Accords. Nat, tucked away in the shade of a tree, cries with a family whose father and eldest brother never came back.

And, parallel to the Avengers but not a part of them, Spider-Man makes his own rounds: letting himself be tackled by groups of shrieking grade-schoolers, fetching plastic cups of water for cantankerous old men, enlisting a group of people to help him pick up litter.

Every time Tony thinks he couldn’t be prouder of the kid.

-

“What did it feel like, being Dusted?”

MJ takes a sip of her watered-down papaya juice in the same kind of way a war veteran would take a sip of a very peaty whiskey.

“Felt like a whole lotta nothing, dude,” she says. “I don’t even remember most of the day leading up to it.”

Tony absorbs that for a moment, massaging his bad arm. A little more feeling comes back every day - although he knows he’ll never have full range of motion again - and the grotesque blackness as started to fade into what looks like burn scars.

“You know it wasn’t the same for Peter, though,” she says, eyeing him shrewdly.

He changes the subject. “How’s Dr. Cho’s reintegration program working?”

“It’s working fine, for the people who want to be reintegrated. The combo of individual and group therapy is...well-researched.”

Only MJ could make the words “well-researched” sound disdainful.

“You've got some constructive criticism for me, I take it?”

MJ grins at him. “Always.”

“Lay it on me.” He drains the last of his juice glass and leans on his elbows, giving her his full attention. They’re sitting in the old basement bar - not used often, nowadays, but Tony likes the ambiance and he suspects MJ does too, even though she’d rather swallow a live rodent than admit it.

“I don’t know, have you and Pepper ever considered that maybe the goal shouldn’t be just “re-assimilate people and get things back to how they were?” This is...I don’t want to say an opportunity, because that sounds kind of, ruthless I guess...”

“You’re not wrong, though,” Tony says.

“Yeah.”

“Contrary to what the public seems to think, Stark Industries is just a relatively small cog in an enormous machine. Especially on a global scale, despite my best efforts over the years to break into the international market.”

MJ charitably quirks a half-grin at his shitty joke. “Yeah, I know. I’m not saying Pepper has to like, save the world single-handedly or anything, although if anyone could it’s probably her.”

“Excuse me. I did save the world single-handedly.” Tony picks up his scarred arm with his good one and then lets it drop limply onto the table for effect.

“Deus ex machina.”

“I invented time travel.”

“Good job,” MJ says, patting his arm patronizingly. “Anyways, I just mean that maybe Cho’s program could focus a little less on defining normalcy for people and maybe just...help people define their own normal.”

“You sure you don’t want a job at SI?” Tony says.

“Whatever. What would my position be? Chief Tony Stark Antagonist, Executive Officer of keepin’ it real?”

“Something like that.”

“Yeah, no. I’m not dropping out of high school to deal with your bullshit full-time.”

“There’s no high school to drop out of at the moment.”

“There will be. I have very little faith in the bureaucratic capabilities of the public school system, but eventually they’ll have to get up-and-running once everyone gets over the emotional high of having their kids back and realizes how horrible it is to have unsupervised teenagers running amuck.”

Tony laughs. “It is horrible. Look, you’re in a bar, at two in the afternoon. Next step is vandalism, then arson.”

“Next step? I like to do things out of order.” MJ flashes him a feral grin that makes him wonder about the arson thing for just a fraction of a second.

“Okay, John Orr. Anyways, I have something for you.” He fishes it out of his pocket and hands it over.

“Oh, nice,” MJ says appreciatively. “Retro Nokia phone. It’ll go nice with my collection of vintage stuff.”

Tony sighs and lets the ‘vintage’ comment go. “No, dummy. It’s a burner phone. For Ned.”

“Nice,” MJ says again.

“You and me and Peter are all programmed in there,” Tony explains, “but our information isn’t actually stored anywhere the layman could access. Ned can text us by pressing our respective buttons once, or call by holding the buttons.” Tony demonstrates by tapping the ‘3’ key, which brings up a little chat window. He then punches in a sequence of numbers on the keypad, and a little keyboard springs out of the side of the phone.

“Because you kids weren’t born yet when we had to text the long way,” Tony explains.

“That is...weirdly considerate,” MJ says, and then reconsiders. “Oh, no, wait, I just remembered that hilariously overbearing technological modifications is your love language. I swear to God I laughed for days when I found out about the little tiny heaters in Peter’s suit.”

“Spiders can’t thermoregulate,” Tony says grumpily. “He gets cold. Anyways, the best part is that the phone’s function is tied to this facial recognition scanner,” - he points towards a tiny lens on the front of the phone - “so if anyone else gets their hands on it, it’ll just continue looking like a useless old brick. Also it doesn’t actually store any previous text conversations, so even if he’s forced to scroll through the phone under duress, it won’t cough up any information.”

“Jesus, man,” MJ whistles. “Who hurt you?”

He waves his hand airily. “I’ve been in my fair share of captive situations. Par for the course. Nothing as scary as Mrs. Leeds, of course.”

“Amen to that.” She pauses, and then puts her hand over his. “Thanks. It, um...means a lot to us to be able to talk to Ned. We miss him. A lot.”

“I know,” Tony says gently. “And I also know that his mother loves him a lot and is terrified, just like the rest of us parents are right now. I wouldn’t design you kids an elaborate way to get around her if I didn’t think that the three of you are good for each other, and that you need each other right now.”

“Yeah.” MJ’s eyes are suspiciously bright. “We do. And, um...Peter needs you, even though he’s being stupid about it right now.” She gets up and shoulders her backpack on roughly. “Thanks for the papaya juice, I’ve cheated scurvy for another day. I’ll see you around.”

“MJ,” he says, and she stops, although she doesn’t turn around. “About Peter...do you...”

“I don’t know what’s going on with him, Tony,” MJ says, and her voice is so small and young-sounding that Tony immediately regrets asking. “I just know we can’t let him keep doing...whatever he’s doing. He’s a bad liar but he’s really good at misdirection. So we have to keep pushing.”

“I will never give up on him,” Tony says quietly. “I hope you know that, and I hope you know I’m here for you too. You’re smart and strong as hell and I know you don’t need it, but I want you to know the option is there.”

“I know,” MJ says, her voice still small.

“Can I give you a ride?”

“Not unless you let me drive.” She turns, flashes him a watery smile, and then is off before he can react.

-

He gets a text from Ned at 3 am the next morning.

(Unknown Number) 3:11
Hi mr stark

(Unknown Number) 3:11
thanks for the awesome phone. thanks a million times

(Unknown Number) 3:11
you are saving my life over here

(TS) 3:15
Hey buddy. I’m really happy to hear from you. You’re OK?

(Unknown Number) 3:16
i mean yeah other than being on permanent lockdown with no end in sight

(Unknown Number) 3:16
wait why are you up at 3 did i wake you omg i’m sorry

(TS) 3:17
Nope. Kid decided it was a good time to wake me up and ask for a glass of juice. Sitting in the kitchen questioning my life choices.

(Unknown Number) 3:17
lmao we all know peter gets cranky when u don’t feed him before bed

(TS) 3:18
Ha, ha. I meant my five year old.

(TS) 3:18
Go to bed, insolent youth.

(Unknown Number) 3:19
on it

(Unknown Number) 3:19
thanks again mr stark

(Unknown Number) 3:19
like for real

He sighs, puts his phone in his pocket, and watches Morgan sleepily chug down the rest of her cup. “You good, you pint-sized pain in the butt?”

After tucking her back in, he’s struck with a sudden impulse. He quietly lets himself out of the suite, and to his surprise finds himself in the hall face-to-face with an equally surprised Peter Parker.

“Um, hi,” Peter says. The Spider-Man mask is in his hands, but he hasn’t put it on yet.

“Going patrolling?”

“No, I uh...haven’t been in a while. Just getting some fresh air.”

“Got it.”

They stare awkwardly at each other for a moment. Tony rests his hand on the doorknob, but then thinks back to what MJ said - keep pushing.

“Can I join you?”

He can tell Peter agrees only for lack of a tactful way to say no, but what the hell. It’s something. They find their way up to the roof in silence, and Peter makes himself comfortable on the very edge, his legs swinging out into the open air. Tony hesitates for a second and then sits next to him. He’s done more than his fair share of flying in the suit, but he’s never been as comfortable - as completely at home - as Peter is with dizzying heights. Sometimes he thinks this is less of a Spider-Man thing and more of a Peter thing; being at ease with the concept of freefall.

They sit, very quietly, for what must be an hour before Tony clears his throat.

“Pete.”

Peter tenses up, and Tony can almost see him warring with the urge to hurl himself off the building wholesale.

“Just hear me out, for two minutes, and then I’ll leave you alone, okay?”

Peter nods, slowly. He’s got the mask on so it’s impossible to see his expression.

“I know there’s something going with you. May knows, Pepper knows, MJ knows. No one’s upset with you or thinks any less of you. We all just care about you and want to be there for you, but you have to let us help.”

Silence.

“You don’t have to talk to me,” Tony says, “but...please, talk to someone. I just...” he clears his throat, “I love you, kid, I really do. I want you to be happy. Whatever it takes.”

The eyes of the mask regard him impassively, and then Peter turns and looks out into the distance, the haze the city lights cast on the night sky. More stars are visible now than there were five years ago, but not as many as during the interim; they’re being swallowed up again by the incandescent flickering glow of the returned and all they’ve brought back with them. From Tony’s point of view this can only be a good thing. Somewhere along the line, for him, stars came to mean emptiness - weightlessness - the ashes he left behind on a dead planet.

“You know how my uncle Ben died?”

A weight settles in his gut. “No. May and I never talked about it.”

“Took a bullet for me.”

Tony watches his profile carefully. He’s motionless, no tension in his shoulders or hands betraying him.

“We were walking home with takeout for Aunt May. Took a shortcut through the alleyway, ran into some lowlife, you get it. But the second the gun came out, he just - pushed me aside, threw himself...” Peter shakes his head. “Stupidest fucking thing.”

“That doesn’t sound stupid to me,” Tony says, very quietly.

“You don’t understand. It was...after. He knew. About the spider bite. We were gonna tell May together.” Peter tilts his head up, towards the pale crescent moon. “He knew I could’ve taken the hit, and I knew it, and I just froze up. Couldn’t do anything but watch. Watched the guy get away, then watched Ben bleed out in an alleyway. I didn’t even call 911 - that was some girl passing by when she heard the gun go off.”

when you can do the things that I can, but you don't-

“Pete,” Tony says gently, although inside he feels like he’s falling, falling, falling, with nothing solid underneath him. “That’s shock. It’s a well-documented response.” He takes a shaky breath. “It wasn’t your fault. He loved you, and didn’t want to see you hurt.”

“Well, that’s the thing, isn’t it?” Peter says, his voice eerily calm. “People think that because they love you, they’re entitled to make your decisions for you. To decide what hurts are better or worse. From where I’m standing, I feel like if Ben really loved me that much, he would’ve decided to stick around. Not leave May a single parent to an enhanced kid with no idea how to make sense of his powers.” He moves, and for a moment Tony wonders if he’s going to leap out into the expanse of dark sky below their feet, go somewhere that Tony can’t follow.

Instead he stands up with deliberate slowness and straightens out his jacket. “With all due respect, Mr. Stark, it was very kind of you to say all of those things, but...I just don’t want to hear it. Not from you.”

And then he’s gone.

Tony remains on the roof for a long time, until the first wavering rays of sun begin to filter through the pre-dawn mist.

Chapter Text

VIII. Ned, After

“Instant coffee has its charms. You know, when it’s the only coffee available for miles. And when you’ve been banned from caffeine for way too long because your unreasonable doctor has teamed up with your equally unreasonable nurse friend to take away all the joy in your life.”

“Peter likes instant coffee.” Bruce takes a delicate sip. He’s looking distinctly more Bruce-y than Hulk-y today, but is still very green and flirting with the upper acceptable limit of human size.

“I watched Peter eat a piece of banana Morgan threw on the floor yesterday. Not helping your case, here.” Tony swigs it down nonetheless, trying to ignore the gritty texture as he gets closer to the bottom of the cup. “What are you doing feeding him coffee, anyways? You’re going to stunt his growth.”

“He doesn’t really metabolize it the same way a regular kid would. Well, maybe, in a large dose. We haven’t experimented with that yet.”

“Yet? ”

Bruce laughs. “Simmer down, papa bear. We’ve just been running a few tests on his blood samples, that kind of thing. Kid’s got a heck of a brain on him. The ideas he comes up with are wild, you know? There’s a real mad scientist in there, under all the...” Bruce waves his hands around. “...the Bambi eyes, excitable squeaking, hilarious tee shirts.”

Tony thinks back to the time Peter brought him prototype sketches of a deep-sea suit roughly modeled on an anglerfish, complete with neuromasts to sense changes in water pressure and a regenerative system that could theoretically be powered by methane. (-Back up, Little Mermaid. What the hell would you even use this for? -Oh, not me, Mr. Stark. Just in case we ever get an Aquaman-type on the team, you know?)

He blows out a sigh. “You don’t know the half of it.”

“I gotta say, I’m glad he’s talking now, but it was kinda fun having someone be so intimidated that they couldn’t get a word out.” Bruce chuckles. “That’s a first, you know?”

“Ho ho ho,” Tony says, taking another swig of coffee.

“By my research, not my size. You’re cute when you’re jealous,” Bruce teases. “Don’t worry, you’re still the kid’s hero.”

“That so?” Tony tries to sound nonchalant and takes a bite of his bagel. “Thought all the glamour of Iron Man would’ve worn off the first time he saw me up close without my TV makeup on.”

Bruce knows Tony’s fishing, but indulges him anyways. “Yeah. Talks about you pretty much non-stop, all the cool stuff you guys have worked on together, the fun times - like when you yelled at him after he blew up a ferry.”

“I didn’t yell. I expressed my disappointment at a reasonable volume.”

“Same thing to kids.”

Tony hasn’t told anyone about his and Peter’s conversation on the roof the other night. It feels too...private, too raw. Other than May and Pepper he hasn’t even discussed the kid’s weird behaviour in general with anyone. But Bruce...Bruce is a problem-solver, just like he is. He’s got an analytical mind and a gentle nature, and boy howdy does he know a thing or two about resolving inner conflicts.

“Brucey bear-”

He stops midsentence just as he catches a glimpse of Natasha disappearing out of sight around a corner.

“What’s up, Tony?” Bruce follows his gaze, squinting.

“Nothing,” Tony says, chugging the last of his coffee and wrinkling his nose as the undissolved bits stick in his teeth.

-

He knows that you don’t just see Natasha by chance. She lets you see her.

So he puts Morgan to bed and then he waits on the roof.

Tony wonders idly if Peter will show up, but he knows the kid can probably hear him breathing from a floor down, so...likely not. He wonders if Nat willl show up. Also unlikely.

He’s just about resigned himself to a nice night of being tormented by his own neuroses while freezing to death on a concrete ledge when he hears footsteps behind him.

“Hey, Nat,” he says, not looking at her, but patting the spot next to him.

“Not my usual rooftop buddy, but I’ll take it,” she sighs, easing herself down.

“I know. I’m cuter.”

Natasha snorts.

“Okay, yeah, no one is cuter than Spider-Man. I’m richer, though.”

“No shit.” She doesn’t ask how he knows who her rooftop buddy is. She’s aware that Tony is very nearly as nosy as she is.

He waits her out, a tactic he’s perfected with his other favourite spiderling. They breathe in the cool night air and he finds himself swinging his legs out into the empty sky like Peter does.

“Um,” she says, running a hand through her bangs. Her hair is still the grown-out red fading into platinum blond. Her eyes are tired and shadowed. “Fuck. I can’t...I can’t face Steve. Or Bruce. Or anyone, really.”

“Glad to hear I’m not anyone. I was having a good self-esteem day and needed to be knocked down a peg.”

Natasha quirks a tiny smile at him, sideways. He reaches over and takes her hand, intertwining their fingers. She lets him.

“Is there any point in asking where you’ve been, other than occasionally on the rooftop at ungodly hours hanging out with a mutant teenager?”

“With Laura and the kids.” Her voice is neutral, carefully-controlled.

“What did you tell her?”

“Everything.”

Tony knows that Laura Barton is the one person in the universe Nat can’t keep secrets from, but the rest of them have only heard the basics - the few clipped sentences Nat had thrown at them that first night she returned to the compound. “Are you going to talk to anyone else about what happened on Vormir?”

“I have.”

“Steve?”

“Peter.”

He doesn’t quite know what to say to that, so he turns his gaze outward.

“He’s pissed at you, you know.”

“Yeah, I gathered that.”

This is where he and Nat always go sideways; they talk in riddles and half-sentences, dancing around and unwilling to meet each other in the middle. What they love about each other - the space, the silent understanding, the easiness - is also what makes it so hard for them to connect with words. When either of them needs a pep talk on the power of friendship they usually go to Steve.

Tony closes his eyes. What the hell, he thinks, I’ll go first, just this once, Nat. “I miss him. I don’t understand why he’s angry and it scares me.”

“Did you know that Red Skull wasn’t disintegrated by the Tesseract?”

“Okay, not quite what I was expecting, but no. I didn’t know that.”

Natasha’s voice is still very calm and very carefully controlled. “The Tesseract sent him to Vormir, where the Soul Stone was. Somewhere along the line he changed - maybe the Stone itself did it, I don’t know - but now he’s the Stonekeeper, and its guardian.”

Tony says nothing. There’s a curl of dread starting in his stomach. He feels like he desperately doesn’t want to hear this, but he also really, really needs to.

“We didn’t believe him about the sacrifice at first, because what the fuck would Thanos sacrifice? And then Clint...put it together. Thanos came with his daughter, and left without her. The Stonekeeper was telling the truth. There was no other way. So we...we talked about it. And then we...Clint...”

Natasha is silent for a long time then. Tony fights to get his breathing under control, to settle his heaving stomach.

“Nat...” He doesn’t voice the question. He doesn’t have to.

She turns towards him. Her expression is pleading, helpless, eyes shining with unshed tears, like nothing he’s ever seen on her face before. “I tried, Tony. Do you understand? I begged him to let me do it, sent him flying and ran for the edge of the cliff. I wanted it to be me. I wanted it to be me. He fucking shot me, and I couldn’t get up in time to stop him, and he jumped, and...I wanted it to be me, Tony, I wish it’d been me every single day.”

She tries to let go of his hand, but he hangs on - not an easy feat, given how goddamned strong she is and that he’s still recovering from having half his body fried.

“Natasha, listen to me,” he says, and she quits trying to pull her hand away. “The night you got back, Scott Lang said something that...really made sense to me. He said that to Clint, a world with every person he loved in it was better than a world with him and even one of those people missing. Can you understand that?”

“No,” she spits. “I can’t. Because now he’s left behind a grieving widow and three kids and me, trying to pick up the pieces. I don’t understand it, Tony, and I refuse to.”

“No, I think you do, Nat,” Tony says gently. “Because you were willing to the same for him.”

“It’s not the same. I was the logical choice. I don’t have a family to leave behind.”

Tony pulls her in close, taking advantage of the fact that if she reacted too suddenly she’d probably knock him right off the edge of the roof. He rests his cheek on the top of her head. “Yes, you do.”

Natasha doesn’t cry, because she never cries, but she leans her head against his collarbone and brings one hand up to grip his forearm, just for a moment.

“It’s fucked-up, being on cleanup crew after someone else’s heroic sacrifice,” she says quietly. “All of the loss, and none of the glory. I just need you to understand that. For me and for him.”

“Okay,” he murmurs, and lets her pull away this time.

-

Tony’s inclination has been to give Peter space, and a lot of it, precisely because Tony knows that giving people space is difficult for him. Tony pokes, and prods, and provokes - anything to get a reaction out of someone. He’s always been that way, so he was trying to be someone different, for Peter’s sake.

He realizes now that this was wrong.

Because he and Peter are more similar than he’s ever been able to admit. When it comes to someone he loves going through a crisis, Peter is the same - he can’t leave them alone. Except where with Tony it’s sarcasm and barbs meant to cause a reaction, with Peter it’s bringing by a favourite smoothie, or nagging endlessly to curl up and watch a movie with him, or making tortuously corny jokes until laughter is inevitable.

And when it comes to their own personal crises, he and Peter are the same - they deflect, deflect, deflect - retreat into a caricature of ‘normal’ that’s so well-reinforced as to be impenetrable, and exit conversations they don’t want to have by blasting off in a metal suit or back-flipping out of a penthouse window.

Tony doesn’t have Peter’s knack for knowing just what sweet little gestures will perk someone up - bringing Pepper the one fruit she is deathly allergic to as a conciliatory offering during their breakup comes to mind - but he’s excellent at a very specific brand of obnoxious and persistent love.

“Knock knock, it’s family movie night,” he says, throwing Peter’s door open with a bang.

“Um, sorry Mr. Stark, I’m feeling a bit tired-”

“Oh, did I make you think it was optional? My bad, clear communication is key.” He leans over, plants a kiss on the top of Peter’s head, and then exits the room, calling “Chop chop, Underoos, or Morgan gets to pick and we watch Moana for the eighty-first time.”

He starts crashing Peter and Bruce’s lab sessions, even though biology is really not his forte, and hangs around making offensively stupid suggestions about how they could expose Peter to gamma radiation to create a Spider-Hulk. (Eventually Peter and Bruce start crashing his lab sessions with Rhodey and suggesting improvements to the Iron Man and War Machine suits like storage for cocktail umbrellas and disco ball projectors for the eye lenses. To his horror Rhodey actually seems tempted by the latter.)

He joins in with Peter and Steve on morning jogs, claiming that his physiotherapist January recommended specifically that jogging with enhanced superhumans would be beneficial to his recovery, and then forces them to deal with his comparatively slow pace by faking a heart attack whenever they get too far ahead. (Okay, maybe this one isn’t entirely for Peter - maybe it’s partly to see the long-suffering look on Steve’s face. He has over half a decade of annoying Steve to catch up on.)

When MJ is visiting, he tries to give the kids some time to themselves, but he also often sends Morgan off to find them like a small heat-seeking missile, with very specific instructions to bring them back for lunch using any means necessary. When they come trooping into the kitchen, a giggling Morgan flung over Peter’s shoulder or clinging to MJ’s back like a koala, Tony takes advantage of the steadily-decreasing restrictions on rationed food and makes them selections from his mental list of Peter’s favourites. Pork dumplings, pad thai, grilled cheese sandwiches, sometimes even lunchtime pancakes or that tricked-out New York Times chocolate chip cookie recipe.

Finally, one night, Tony is rewarded with the faintest tap on the Stark suite’s door.

It’s one in the morning, and he’s still up. Having a child who wakes up at the ass-crack of dawn somehow hasn’t managed to shift his nocturnal habits. He pads over and opens the door.

“Mr. Stark?”

Tony raises an eyebrow. “Whatcha got there, Pete?”

“Um...Spanish textbook.” Peter shuffles in unbidden. He’s decked out in Stark Industries sweatpants, a faded Ghostbusters tee shirt, and only one sock. “The problem is,” he says, reaching up a hand to run a hand through his already very tousled hair, “I can’t remember when to use the present subjunctive.”

“That is a problem,” Tony agrees, slinging an arm around Peter’s shoulders. “Why don’t I make you a cup of hot chocolate and you can tell me all about it?”

Peter blinks owlishly at him. “I just told you.”

“I...think something got lost in translation, because I’m having a little trouble following. Back up a little, I’m getting slow in my old age.”

“Well,” Peter says, huffing a sigh, “the week before I got dusted Mrs. Barahona said we’d have a Spanish quiz soon, and the thing is, I didn’t study for it. Like, I didn’t even start.”

“Happens, when you’re balancing school, a double life as a vigilante and a prestigious internship.”

“And, uh, I’ve...been having nightmares, about showing up for the test and realizing I don’t remember any Spanish because I’ve been gone for five years. And then I started thinking, do I remember any Spanish? So I started practicing a little, figured maybe if I studied for that stupid test I’d quit dreaming about it, but then I realized I don’t remember anything about present subjunctive, but I don’t know if I don’t remember because of being dusted or because I just didn’t know it in the first place.” He squints up at Tony. “So I was, uh, kind of hoping...you’d help me study? You speak Spanish, right?”

That would be Bruce, Tony thinks with an inward sigh. He tightens his arm around the kid’s shoulders. “Yeah, sure, kid. Spanish. Let’s do it. Vamos.” He steers Peter into the living room and eases himself onto the couch, wincing as the aches and pains of the day’s physiotherapy catch up to him.

Peter flops down on the opposite end of the couch with his textbook, feet in Tony’s lap. “Ew, how long have you been wearing this sock, you degenerate,” Tony says, pushing Peter’s feet off. Peter laughs, says “Two weeks,” and puts them back on.

“Hey, I’ve got an idea,” Tony says. “Let’s watch The Motorcycle Diaries without subtitles. That’s basically studying.”

“How did you graduate from MIT?”

“With my out-of-the-box thinking. Engineering is all about efficiency.”

“This isn’t engineering. This is Spanish.”

“Compromise. We watch The Motorcycle Diaries with subtitles while you read your textbook.”

Peter groans and drops back against the arm of the couch, opening his textbook in front of his face. Tony takes this as either agreement or resignation. Either works for his purposes. “F.R.I., be a darling and start the movie, would you?”

“Sorry, Mr. Parker,” F.R.I.D.A.Y. chimes. “I’ll keep the volume low so you can concentrate.”

“Thanks,” Peter mumbles. He starts reading, his lips moving along with the words, sounding them out so quietly Tony can barely hear him.

Around twenty minutes in, Tony notices that Peter has yet to turn the page, and has been sounding out what seems to be the same sentence over and over again.

“Pete,” Tony says gently, reaching for the book. “Correct me if I’m wrong, here, but I’m starting to think you’re not operating at peak efficiency right now.”

Peter lowers the book from in front of his face and raises a finger to his cheek.

“I’m crying,” he says, sounding surprised.

“That you are.”

“What?” Peter mutters. “Why am I crying? That’s so weird.”

Tony takes Peter by the arm and pulls him over to his side of the couch. Peter numbly lets himself be pulled and comes to a rest next to Tony. The cushions are wide enough that they can almost lay comfortably side-by-side, arms touching from shoulder to elbow. They rest there like that for a while, staring at the ceiling, as the movie plays itself out in the background.

“It’s not weird that you’re crying,” Tony says at last. “Happens to me all the time.”

“Yeah?” Peter’s voice is shaky. “What is it? Stress response?”

“Just how grief works sometimes.” Tony slides his arm under Peter’s neck and around his shoulders, pulling him closer. Peter sort of goes along with it, like a limp ragdoll, but after a moment he does rest his head very gently on Tony’s shoulder.

“I don’t understand.”

Tony hates talking about Peter’s death. Hasn’t talked about it with anyone other than May and Pepper, even now that Peter’s safe and here and whole - when he talks about the interim, he only talks about Morgan and Pepper and the lake house. There’s some part of him that still reacts viscerally, feels like if he lets his mind go there then he’ll wake up and realize that everything since Steve and Nat and Bruce and Scott showed up at his cabin was just one long dream. But here, and now, with Peter pressed solidly into his side, their breathing in sync - he figures he can try.

“After you died-” he says. Peter flinches. “After you died, sometimes I’d be doing something really normal and then suddenly all the wind would get knocked out of me and I’d have to sit down and breathe. Or the tears would start. I tried to plan for it, figured I’d have to deal with stuff like - hearing that ridiculous song you liked, you know, that Taylor Swift one - or finding one of your gloves in my car - anniversaries like your birthday or the day - you know. And May and I had this standing Saturday phone call, and - anyways. There were aspects of the grief that I expected, and then there were the times when I’d be emptying the trash and then suddenly I’d be a weeping mess on the garage floor, or I’d be feeding Morgan and she’d say ‘Daddy, why are you crying?’ and I’d have no clue what to tell her. Remember, I told you she was good with tears?” Tony laughs, but the sound is hollow. “That was all me, kid. Just a mess. Tears anywhere, anytime, at the drop of a hat. And I tried to...I tried to be really open with her about it, and let her know it was always okay to cry, but I didn’t always know how to explain it to her. And then one time she just kind of looked at me and said...out of nowhere, she said - ‘You miss Petey.’ And she was right. I did. I was standing there cutting up bell peppers and I missed you and I wished you were there, cutting bell peppers with me.”

“I kind of don’t want to hear this, Mr. Stark,” Peter says, his voice barely above a whisper.

“And I kind of don’t want to talk about it,” Tony says, “but we can’t keep avoiding it, Pete. You and me, we run from things. We’re good at it. We’re fast runners, and smart enough to trick ourselves and charismatic enough to throw other people off the scent. But I learned something over the past five years, and I feel like if I do one worthwhile thing for you, it will be to help you understand - the things you’re running from will always catch up. Always. No exceptions.”

He can feel Peter’s breathing quicken beside him, and he knows he’s pushed enough for now. He turns his head to press his cheek to Peter’s forehead.

“Okay, okay,” he sighs, rubbing circles in Peter’s shoulder with his thumb. “This is me, getting the hell off your case. Are you really invested in this movie, or should we put on some Star Trek instead?”

“Yes,” Peter says, and moves as if he’s going to get up.

“Hey,” Tony says. “Yes to what? And stop that. Get back here and let me love you.” He’d meant it in a teasing way, but it comes out a little more tender than he intended.

“Okay,” Peter says, probably a little more wobbly than he’d intended, and he relaxes back into Tony’s arm. “TNG. Not Enterprise.”

“You godless heathen. F.R.I.D.A.Y., put on the superior Star Trek.”

“Yes, boss. Cuing up Star Trek: Deep Space 9.”

“I never thought I could create anything worse than Ultron, and yet, here we are.”

Peter laughs, a little shaky but genuine, and then is snoring softly against Tony’s shoulder within twenty minutes, and Tony finds his eyes drifting closed not long after that.

He has the same nightmare he has almost every night. Pepper’s so used to it she barely even wakes up, just pulls him a bit closer in and stays there with him, half-conscious, until he can eventually settle back into uneasy sleep.

Tonight, though - he jerks awake, feels the weight of Peter’s head on his chest, and drifts peacefully back out in record time.

-

“My spider-senses are going crazy,” Tony says to Pepper. It’s nine o’clock in the evening, rain pounding at the windows, and he’s trying in vain to get Morgan to eat a few more bites of the dinner she’d abandoned wholesale at six. “Oh come on, you liked peas last week, you little goblin,” he says to Morgan, who has her mouth clamped shut and is glaring at him.

“You don’t have spider-senses,” Pepper replies, absorbed in something on her StarkPad. “Those are just dad-senses. Should we check what Peter’s up to?”

“Pepper. Don’t make it sound lame. And yes, we should.”

Just then his phone buzzes. He spots the name on the caller ID and shows it to Pepper, raising an eyebrow.

“Steve?” she says, raising an eyebrow to match his. Steve is...not a phone person, and that’s an understatement.

He lifts the phone to his ear. “Cap?”

“Tony - I’ve got a kid down here - says he knows you? What’s your name, son?”

“Uh...Ned, Captain America,” he hears in the background. “I mean. I’m Ned. You’re Captain America. Woah.”

“Be right down,” Tony says, launching out of his chair. “Pep, get Pete. Ned’s here.”

“Ned!” Pepper exclaims with delight. “Okay, on it.” She lifts Morgan to her hip. “Come on, sweetness, let’s find your brother.”

“See? Dad-senses,” she murmurs as she passes by Tony on their way out the door. He doesn’t bother with a retort, or shoes even, setting off at a jog towards the elevator.

Steve, understandably, looks a little thrown by the scene unfolding before him: Tony Stark, skidding around the corner in sock feet, before running directly at the soaking drowned rat of a teenage boy standing in the lobby and nearly knocking him over with a bear hug.

“Ned,” Tony says, grinning ear to ear. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“You got my name right,” Ned says faintly, but he returns the hug enthusiastically.

“Sorry, won’t happen again.” Tony squeezes him one more time then releases him, holding him by the shoulders. “Can’t tell you how happy I am to see your ugly mug. Your mom finally let you leave the house?”

“Er,” Ned says.

Tony raises an eyebrow. “Kid, not that Tony Stark doesn’t approve of a good jailbreak every now and then, but if your mom’s put out an Amber Alert it’s going to be a bit of a legal headache for me to explain why I didn’t narc on you immediately.”

“It wasn’t a jailbreak,” Ned protests. “I um...stood up for myself.” This comes out mostly as a squeak, so he takes a deep breath, stands up straight, and tries again. “Yeah. I asserted myself.”

“Oh, I am dying to hear this story,” Tony says gleefully, rubbing his hands together. “Let’s get you something dry to wear, and I’ll make you something to eat. Cap, you too, vamos.” He snaps his fingers.

“I’m assuming you’ll give me a little context here, Tony?” Steve says, with a minute sigh. Ned looks thoroughly rattled, possibly at the fact that Tony just told Captain America to ‘vamos’ and got away with it, but he follows them to the elevator obediently.

“Fred here is Pete’s best friend,” Tony supplies, as the elevator starts the long journey up to the penthouse suite. Steve gives him the look that means That explains very little, Tony, you are so unhelpful and aggravating, or at least Tony thinks that’s what the look means. Steve’s various expressions of disappointment and exasperation tend to blend together in his brain. “Speaking of, F.R.I., has Pepper found the kid yet?”

“Um,” Ned pipes up, which is still pretty impressive considering he’s in an elevator with Steve Rogers and his brain must be in the middle of a slow implode.

“You know where he is?” Tony says.

“He, uh, might be on his way to jailbreak me. I’m not sure. My mom caught me talking on the phone with him and that’s...how the whole thing started.”

Tony can’t tell if he wants to laugh or smack his forehead with his palm. “Yeah, he’s probably on his way to jailbreak you. F.R.I.D.A.Y., call Karen, please. Tell our friendly neighbourhood Spider-Man to stand down, and that if he comes home now there’ll be grilled cheese sandwiches waiting for him.”

“Karen?”

“I shouldn’t have let him name his own AI.”

“I like it,” Steve says. “It’s very...Peter.”

“That it is,” Tony concedes. The elevator opens again to Pepper, May and Morgan.

“Ned, sweetheart,” May says, her eyes filling with tears. Tony realizes this must be the first time they’ve seen each other since before the Snap. She rushes forward to wrap Ned in a warm embrace.

“Hey, May,” Ned says, starting to get a little teary himself. May reaches out her arm and pulls Pepper into the hug.

“Hi, Ms. Potts,” Ned mumbles.

“Hey, Mr. Leeds,” Pepper says, resting her chin on his head.

“Honey, you’re soaked.” May pulls back after planting a kiss on each of Ned’s cheeks. “Back in jiffy, I’ll get you something of Peter’s.”

“I’ll go, May,” Pepper says. “Morgan, pumpkin, let’s go find Ned some clothes.”

Morgan wrinkles her nose. “Yeah, Ned, you’re gonna catch ammonia.” She turns and scampers after Pepper down the hall.

While Ned is changing into his stylish new Stark Industries sweatpants and Peter’s “I Survived My Trip To NYC” shirt, Spider-Man returns. Instead of coming in through the lobby, of course, he crashes in headfirst through a window that F.R.I.D.A.Y. just barely manages to swing open in time.

“Where’s Ned?”

“Baby, I can’t talk to you while you’re on the ceiling, you know it makes me dizzy,” May says sternly, wagging her finger. Peter drops like a sack of potatoes but somehow lands neatly on the balls of his feet, repeating a muffled “Ned?” as he tugs off his mask. May pulls him in, kisses his cheek, and then points him towards the room where Ned is and he’s off like a shot.

Soon, they hear incoherent teenage boy screaming echoing down the hall, interspersed with cries of “Dude! Dude! Dude! ” 

Morgan wriggles free of Pepper’s grip and takes off down the hallway, shrieking “Dude!”

By the time Peter and Ned return, both dressed in dry clothing, with Morgan hanging off Ned’s neck like a little barnacle, Tony has a pretty impressive plate of grilled cheeses going and Pepper’s doling out various hot beverages - hot chocolate for the boys, tea for herself and Steve, and coffee for May and Tony. They settle in the living room, each with a grilled cheese (or four, in Steve and Peter’s cases. Enhanced metabolisms and an all-consuming love for American comfort food will do that to you.)

“So, Ned,” May says, setting down her sandwich and leaning in. “You wanna tell us what happened?”

Ned looks nervously from Tony to Steve. Peter puts his arm around Ned’s shoulders and squeezes, which seems to fortify him a little.

“Uh...” he starts, then clears his throat. “Okay. Well. Mom, um, caught me talking on the burner phone with Peter, and she...you know, started in on her usual stuff. About how I’m not gonna have any future if I keep disobeying her, and I’m a disappointment ‘cause me and Peter like to play video games, and...I just had this thought: before I got Dusted I had, like, straight A’s, you know? Peter too. And if...if she wasn’t cool with straight A’s me playing Super Smash Bros. with my straight A’s best friend, then like, what would be good enough for her? So I asked her that and she like...kind of majorly freaked out. Saying that I didn’t understand what I put her through when I got Dusted, but the thing is that she got Dusted too and it was really my dad who got put through a lot.”

Ned pauses and Peter rubs his shoulder encouragingly. They both look so adorably earnest that Tony has to fight an inappropriate urge to smile.

“So I guess I, uh, I realized we were stuck in this circular argument. There was no winning for either of us, ‘cause the way we see things is just too different. So I just told her that I loved her but I needed to like...be my own guy, find out what’s important to me without her telling me. And she didn’t like that of course but then it sort of dawned on me that if I wanted to leave I could. The thing is...Mom’s really short. She’s like, 5’1”, tops. She always just kinda seemed bigger to me.” Ned takes a deep breath. “So I told her and my dad and my grandma that I loved them but I needed a little space, and that I’d call them later, and I just...walked out. It was crazy easy. Can’t believe I didn’t do it before. And I, uh, came here. I couldn’t think of where else to go.” He puts his head in his hands and groans. “Anyways, that’s the story of how I broke my mom’s heart, imposed on like, the coolest nicest people ever, and also told Captain America all my family problems.”

“Oh, Ned,” May says, gathering both her boys into a hug and kissing each of their heads. “I’m so proud of you. Your mom loves you, but it’s a natural part of growing up to want to separate a little. And don’t mind Steve, he’s no stranger to family feuds.” She says that last bit over their heads, raising an eyebrow at Steve.

“True enough,” says Steve, taking a sip of his tea. “Sounds like you set a healthy boundary, Ned, and that’s truly admirable.”

“You heard the walking public service announcement,” Tony says, reaching out a foot to nudge Ned’s knee. “Admirable. Pfft. You did good, Samwise.”

“I should set a healthy boundary with you,” Steve mutters into his mug.

“Honeybun, you know I don’t do boundaries,” Tony says, reaching over to pinch his cheek. Steve swats him away, albeit not nearly as hard as he could have.

“Back up a little, Ned,” Pepper says, “what do you mean, the burner phone?”

She takes in Ned and Tony’s matching guilty expressions. “Oh for God’s sake,Tony...”

“I assure you that designing a high-tech burner phone for a bunch of teenagers to circumvent another parent was not only necessary, but one of my better ideas,” Tony says, as Morgan crawls into his lap sighing “For God’s sake, Daddy.”

May rolls her eyes. She is well-aware of Tony’s tendency to circumvent the parents of teenagers with ridiculous tech.

“So what’s the plan, Ned?” Steve asks, magnanimously passing up the opportunity to get involved in the Tony-shaming. “You know you’re welcome to stay here as long as you need.”

“Thanks, Captain Rogers,” Ned says, “but I’m gonna go home first thing tomorrow morning. I want to show my mom that I’m responsible, even though I’m not gonna stay under house arrest anymore.”

Steve smiles at that. “Impressive. A man of your word.”

“Ned’s going to watch Moana with me, though, right?” Morgan pipes up, from Tony’s lap.

“No, he’s not, because it is long past your bedtime,” Tony says, frowning down at her. “And you’re a terrible gremlin who didn’t eat your peas. Gremlins don’t get to pick the movie.”

“Gremlins can pick the movie,” Morgan says airily. “Don’t be discriminatory. Anyways, bedtime is a construct.”

Ned shoots a sidelong glance at Tony. “Wow, you really do let your five-year-old hang out with MJ, huh.”

“All of you quit questioning my parenting decisions and eat your grilled cheeses,” Tony says grumpily, depositing Morgan on Steve’s lap and making his way back into the kitchen. “And we’re not watching Moana again. Cap, you pick. No, wait, I want to watch a talkie. Pepper, you pick.”

“Movie night!” Morgan squeals, as he hears Steve grumble, “Films had sound in the 40s.”

May follows him into the kitchen, where he’s pulling a bowl of cookie dough out of the fridge. “What’s cooking, Chef Tony? Is that those New York Times cookies?”

“Yeah. Keeping ‘em in the fridge for 24 hours is part of the recipe.” He can hear Pepper and Peter’s voices floating in, as they debate which 80’s film is absolutely necessary for Steve to see.

“I still can’t believe you’re able to get chocolate chips and butter. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised.” May comes up behind him and wraps her arms around him, resting her chin on his shoulder. “I used to tell Mrs. Leeds that I was taking the boys to the library to study, and instead I’d drop them off at the movies.” She gives him a quick squeeze and then lets go.

“So you approve of the burner phone?” He sniffs and goes back to dropping spoonfuls of cookie dough on the sheet.

“No. Well. I’ll never approve of you giving unreasonably powerful technology to teenage boys. I just...it’s nice knowing you’re looking out for Ned too.”

Tony sighs. “You design a kid a sophisticated phone that any CIA agent would kill for, and then they grow up and maturely set boundaries with their parents and suddenly you’re obsolete.”

“Oh, shut up, old man,” May laughs, punching his arm. She muscles in to help him shape the cookies, which he lets her do, because she probably can’t fuck up spooning cookie dough. Probably. “Really was something, the way Ned was talking, though. I was kind of thinking the same thing. Soon they won’t be boys anymore, they’ll be men.” She sighs. “You know Peter’s grown nearly an inch, since he’s been back? I’d forgotten that he was in the middle of a growth spurt, before the Snap.”

“I’d noticed that.” Tony frowns. “He’s not eating enough to compensate for it.”

“Is that why you can suddenly cook all his favourite foods?” May teases.

“He needs the help.”

“That ship has sailed,” May says fondly. “Ben and Richard both topped out at 5’9.” The men in our family are compact.” She sticks the first sheet of cookie dough into the preheated oven. “Anyways, I guess that’s the bittersweet part of parenting, isn’t it? First they need you for everything, which is exhausting. Then they need you for difficult things that you have no idea how to handle, which is terrifying. And then they start needing you for less and less, and you find yourself scrambling to do the few things you can still actually help with, and that’s just sad. But a good sad, because it means they’re independent and you’ve raised them well.”

“Hey. Pete may be a heartless traitor who somehow learned how to do most of the repairs on his own suit without my intervention, but Morgan would never do that to me. She’ll be little forever and you can’t convince me otherwise, Parker.”

May laughs, kisses him on the cheek, and then leaves him alone to finish baking. He can hear from the living room that they’ve decided on Back to the Future, which, considering the last few months, is so wrong on so many levels.

Tony sets the plate of warm cookies down on the coffee table. Pepper and May are curled up together in the loveseat, Steve is sitting in the recliner like the old man he is, and Peter and Ned are on the couch with Morgan wedged in between them. He knows exactly where he wants to sit.

“Ow!”

“Mr. Stark, get off, you’re on my leg-”

“Daddddyyyyyyy! I can’t see the TV!”

“Sorry, what’s that? You insolent children are in my penthouse, on my couch, and you presume to tell me where I can and cannot sit?”

“Oh come on, you can’t just sit on us-”

“Oh no. I’m old and I’ve fallen and I can’t get up. Too bad.”

Peter succeeds in pushing Tony off him and Ned - damned mutant strength - but he’s laughing, and Tony settles between the boys, pulling Morgan onto his lap. He puts an arm around each of them. “That’s all I wanted,” he says, with a shit-eating grin. “This is my spot.”

Steve smiles over at him, and he knows exactly what this one means. So he gives Steve the finger. Steve salutes him back.

Pepper gives them both the look that says quit misbehaving and watch the god damned movie, and one does not simply disregard the wise counsel of Pepper Potts, so he does.

Chapter Text

IX. BEN

Morgan stands on her very tippy-toes, digging her tiny pink spatula into the bowl of chocolate frosting. She pulls out a rather impressively-sized chunk, slaps it onto the last uncovered part of the cake, and works it back and forth, tongue sticking out in concentration.

“Daddy, I’m done,” she announces. “You sure he wouldn’t want sprinkles?”

“No, baby, he hated sprinkles. Couldn’t stand ‘em,” Tony lies. Really, he’s the one who hates sprinkles, because they get everywhere and he swears he’s still finding the ones from Morgan’s last birthday every time he sweeps the kitchen floor. Sorry buddy, he apologizes silently, which is something he finds himself doing often. I actually don’t know if you liked them. You probably did.

He lets Morgan carry the cake into the living room, although he hovers pretty close, ready to test his dad reflexes at the slightest sign of a wobble. It’s not a big cake, or anything fancy. Just the most he could manage today.

“Oh, that’s nice,” May sighs, smiling at Morgan, her eyes bright. “Did you make that, patatina?”

“Yes,” Morgan says without a trace of hesitation. Tony lifts an eyebrow at her. She had helped frost for like, two minutes, for crying out loud. “Birthdays have to have cakes, right?”

“Right,” May agrees, turning away to hide the way her smile breaks just a little bit.

Morgan furrows her little brow and turns all her concentration to setting the cake down on the coffee table. “Candles,” she instructs, with all the terse efficiency of her mother on a business call.

“On it,” Pepper says, bringing in a package from the kitchen. She kneels down and hands a few to Morgan.

“Now, Mommy,” Morgan says gravely, “It’s two tens and a one. You gotta keep track. My counting can be inconsistent.” Pepper nods with a totally straight face and begins sticking in candles.

“I brought something too,” May says. She digs into the gigantic slouchy monstrosity she calls a purse, and emerges with four cans of Pabst Blue Ribbon.

Tony breaks out into a startled laugh. Fuck. It’s just so perfect. Of course he would be a PBR drinker. Pepper starts chuckle too, then May, and then they’re in a full-on laughing fit.

“Mommy, focus,” Morgan says with a sigh, before wrestling the candles out of a helplessly giggling Pepper’s fingers. “Sixteen...seventeen,” she counts slowly and loudly over their peals of laughter, clearly exasperated that she is currently the only adult in the room.

“Okay, okay,” Pepper gasps, recovering herself a little. She begins lighting the candles (which Tony notices Morgan has counted out perfectly. He’s a little proud and a little disturbed.) F.R.I.D.A.Y. dims the lights until they’re all bathed in the wavering glow.

“The only way it could be more perfect is if you’d found those in a trash can,” Tony quips, and that sets them all off again. Morgan joins in too this time, even though she has no idea what the joke is, but soon the laughter has turned to tears of laughter and then they’re just crying.

Morgan wriggles off Tony’s lap and crawls up onto May’s. She’s got that amazing little-kid sense that tells her who needs cuddles the most at any given moment. May wraps her arms around Morgan and presses a kiss into her hair.

Pepper hands Tony a can of PBR, and cracks one for May as well. For a moment they stare at the flickering candlelight. There’s nothing to say, really; nothing they haven’t all said a thousand times before, nothing that makes this farce of a birthday party any better, nothing that will make it anything other than what it is. So Tony raises his can in a silent toast, and Pepper and May do the same. The fourth unopened can sits at the conspicuously empty spot next to Pepper.

Happy twenty-first, Pete.

-

Tony wakes up, gasping for air.

He thrashes around for a moment, his heart pounding, trying to figure out where he is. A very small bed that smells like banana shampoo. Morgan. This is Morgan’s bed, but not the bed at the lake house. He stuffs his face into the pillow, breathing in Morgan’s scent. Peter. I miss you. I’m so sorry. Please don’t go.

Over the next minute, everything comes back to him - slowly, as it always does after one of these dreams. He’s in the old Avengers Tower in Manhattan. He’d fallen asleep while reading Morgan a story. They’d been having a movie night before he left to put her to bed, a movie night with Cap and May and...Ned, and...

It takes all the strength he has not to hurl himself out of the bed and take off running towards the Parkers’ suite. He forces himself to take a few more deep breaths, wipe his wet cheeks, breathe some more. Then with conspicuous slowness he eases himself off the bed and sets off at a deliberate pace down the hall. He knows Peter is here. He knows. He doesn’t have to run and check. He knows.

Tony doesn’t have to go as far as he thought - when he rounds the corner he’s greeted with a sight that takes him a moment to figure out.

Peter is there, sitting cross-legged on the living room floor, with Morgan sitting in front of him. He’s got a handful of her long brown hair in his fingers, and his gaze is fixed on the television with the same utterly focused expression he wears when he’s working on a particularly fussy bit of circuitry. Next to him are May and MJ - May’s got a handful of MJ’s hair as well, but she’s laughing instead of concentrating.

“Yikes,” May says. “F.R.I.D.A.Y., rewind please, I just took a nosedive on this one.”

The voice coming from the YouTube video on the screen skips back. “Now just spin the hair before you add it to the braid, give it a little bit of texture-”

“See, that’s the part I can’t get!” May cries.

“Well then skip it,” Peter says. “Come on, May, we gotta stop rewinding. The texturing part isn’t necessary.”

“Yes it is,” Morgan pipes up. “If you wanna look like Katniss, you have to do texturing.”

MJ shrugs, her nose buried in a book. “Kid’s not wrong. Katniss’ styling is actually a plot point, it’s part of the rebellion’s propaganda.”

“Okay,” Steve says from the couch, where he and Ned are sitting with their heads bent together over a StarkPhone, “But how do I choose one? Do I have to? What if I like the picture the way it is?”

“Um, maybe filters are a little advanced for you right now,” Ned says. “It’s okay, you don’t have to choose one, it just helps, when you’re like...cultivating your aesthetic. Anyways, you can press this button to skip the editing - yep, right there - and then you come up with a caption.”

Steve furrows his brow and takes the phone from Ned. “Oolong tea,” he says, sounding each word as he types, painfully slow. Ned raises an eyebrow.

“What? It’s oolong tea. Won’t people want to know that?”

Ned considers that, then shrugs. “Minimalist. I like it.”

Peter sees Tony first. (He always does; it could be the enhanced senses or it could be that Peter and Tony always seem to instinctively look for each other these days.) There’s no way he doesn’t notice the expressions flickering across Tony’s face - relief, love, lingering panic, grief - and because he’s Peter, always considerate, always kind, he doesn’t alert anyone else to Tony’s presence quite yet. He simply makes steady eye contact and offers a hesitant smile.

It’s like he’s saying I’m here, or it’s okay, or all of the things Tony needs to hear right now wrapped into one.

Tony uses the moment as an anchor to wrestle his face back under control, before MJ follows Peter’s gaze.

“Oh, speaking of, it’s President Snow himself,” she quips, before going immediately back to her book.

“Weak,” he says, settling himself on the floor between Peter and May. “If Peter is Katniss then I’m clearly Haymitch, the questionable mentor. How do you keep getting into my tower, anyways?” At odds with his offhanded tone, he cups Peter’s elbow in his hand - the last remnant of his nerves just needing to feel him there and solid. Peter very casually leans into him, just a little, just enough to communicate that he gets it.

“Who says Peter is Katniss?” Peter says, then he tilts his head and considers for a moment. He shrugs. “Yeah, no. I don’t think I’m cool enough.”

“You’re cool,” Tony argues, at the same time MJ says “Yeah, no, you’re definitely Peeta.”

“I posted it,” Steve says from behind them, sounding a little apprehensive.

“Heck yeah you did,” Ned praises. “Now we sit back and wait for the likes to roll in.”

“Do mine own ears deceive me,” Tony says, turning around to look at them, “Or has Cap bypassed learning to text and jumped right off the cliff into the dark abyss of social media?”

“I can text,” Steve says primly. “I just prefer not to. It’s impersonal.”

“Wait, wait, wait for it,” Tony says, holding up a scarred finger while he fishes his phone out of his pocket and scrolls through his texts. He holds the phone up triumphantly to display the one and only text he’s ever received from Steve.

(Star-Spangled Man with a Plan) 20:03
avocado

Steve blinks. “I didn’t send that.”

“I beg to differ. I laughed for a solid hour. I’ll never forget that text. I treasure it.”

Steve looks down at his StarkPhone like it’s possessed. “I have no idea how I sent that,” he mutters, more to himself than anything.

“What’s your handle, Cap? I’ll give you a pity follow.”

“CaptainRogers1918 on Instagram,” Ned supplies. “I saved it for him on the other major platforms too, but I think Insta is enough for now.”

“Wait, Tony, you do Instagram?” Steve looks a little encouraged by this.

“Hell yeah. I’m down with the kids. I can Snapchat too.”

“I beg to differ,” Peter says dryly. “How’s the braid going, May?”

“Wow, we’re sassy today, aren’t we,” May grumbles. MJ’s braid is a disaster, while Morgan’s is pretty as a picture. Peter beams proudly down at his handiwork.

“Wanna try, Mr. Stark?” Peter offers, moving to switch places with Tony.

“I’m an expert at braiding already,” Tony says smugly. “Pepper wrote it into our parenting contract that I had to learn at least three practical hairstyles.”

MJ looks like she kind of wants to call him out on the parenting contract but genuinely can’t tell if he’s serious or not, so she settles for making a pfft noise behind her book.

“Yes, but this isn’t a practical hairstyle,” Peter counters. “This is an awesome hairstyle. It’s a reverse Dutch braid. Anyways, I get it, it’s intimidating for a beginner.”

“You are such a little shit,” Tony says, swapping spots with Peter. “You’re on and I will win.”

“Shit is Mommy’s word,” Morgan says. “Now you gotta pay her royalties. Eight thousand dollars every time.”

“You can’t win at braiding.”

“Quit ganging up on me, you horrible children,” Tony complains. “May, back me up here.”

May backs him up, possibly because Peter just snarked on her braiding skills. “Let’s do a hairstyling competition. Peter, go sit behind MJ. Ned and Captain Rogers are judging. I’ll choose the hairstyles.” She turns to Morgan. “Daddy doesn’t have to pay royalties for that word because he’s using it under an academic license right now. I approved it. He’s got to teach Petey a lesson, then he has to give the license back and you can start fining him again.”

“Oh, okay,” Morgan says, shrugging. “That makes sense.”

“Captain Rogers is not judging and wants no part in this,” Steve says. “Captain Rogers is going for a jog. Best of luck to the contestants.”

May chooses the Daenerys Targaryen Season 8 braids for Peter, and a French braid for Tony. She soundly rejects any claims of unfairness and bias.

Peter hovers his hands awkwardly above MJ’s hair before she tells him to “just get on with it already and don’t fudge it up,” her casual tone at total odds with the reddening tips of her ears.

Tony fucking kills it and does the neatest French braid in the history of mankind.

Peter fudges it up. Hard. The tips of his ears are also red.

Well, that’s interesting, Tony thinks, and then Ned leaps in to heroically save his best friend’s life by announcing very loudly that it’s time for him to go home and face his mother.

-

May and Tony decide to drive Ned home together. When Mrs. Leeds opens the door and sees Ned, she bursts into tears and immediately gathers him into a hug, and to their complete shock opens her arms to invite May, Tony and Peter into the embrace too.

When they all finally pull apart, she and May exchange a teary, tentative smile. Mrs. Leeds turns to Tony and gives him a look that clearly says I will tolerate you but if you pull any more high-tech Iron Man bullshit I will cut you. Once that’s been communicated, she kisses Peter once on each cheek and then Ned puts his arm around her and they go inside together.

Hey, Tony gets it. He really does. In her position he’d probably shank his bitch ass too.

-

After Peter died, Tony picked up this...thing. Habit. Mild obsession.

He never really verbalized it to anyone, not even to May; even though deep down he knew there was no way she wasn’t doing it too.

Whenever he found himself in a crowd - usually running errands in town - he would scan around for kids who looked...seventeen-ish. Practically he knew there wasn’t any real way to tell a sixteen-year-old kid apart from a seventeen-year-old kid. But he would watch the crowd, and he would pick out a kid that sort of looked like they could be seventeen, and he would think That’s how old he’d be now.

It got easier to tell the next year. Eighteen-year-olds wearing brand-new college sweatshirts, loading cases of RedBull and Hot Pockets into their carts at the grocery store. He’d be eighteen and he’d be in Boston. He and Ned would be rooming together in a dorm room with bunk beds and Star Wars posters plastered all over the walls.

Sometimes he’d get a reminder that would literally feel like someone had held him down and punched him in the gut, like when he spotted one of the old Decathlon team members at a gas station upstate. A kid he’d never even formally met, but knew from watching the team compete in semifinals - Madeline Daniels - who had been fifteen and shy and wrapped in a too-big yellow jacket when he’d last seen her but now she was tall, and had half of her head shaved, and was just casually pumping gas, leaning against her car with detached boredom - holding a student credit card between two fingers - that’s what twenty looks like. Madeline was twenty and owned a car plastered with nerdy bumper stickers and had a credit card. He’d be twenty now.

But he wasn’t, and never would be. And that was the thing - it physically fucking hurt to see Madeline Daniels sail past her classmates - Peter, and Ned, and MJ - and go somewhere where none of them could follow her. The world was moving on without Peter and that was outrageous, and wrong, and Tony never was able to make his peace with it.

Which is, possibly, why he’s still doing it. Can’t seem to kick the habit.

Seeing a group of kids walk past wearing their college baseball caps with cases of beer in plastic bags slung over their shoulders and thinking - twenty-one, he should be twenty-one. He’d be twenty-one now.

Then a rough shake of his head, to clear it, and -

No - he’s sixteen - but he will be twenty-one, he will be-

“Tony? Hey.”

May snaps a finger in his face, but her eyes are concerned.

“You with me?”

“Um. Yeah. Yes.” He shakes his head again, runs a hand through his hair. They’re in a little cafe on 99th, a few blocks away from where May works. It’s kind of charming - the owner has so painstakingly scrubbed every ramshackle corner, painted the cracking walls a daisy yellow, stuffed every spare crumbling windowsill with overflowing flowerpots - a fresh coat of paint, literally and figuratively, on a space that had been something else before the Snap (no one remembers what, now.)

“So...term starts in two weeks, but they’re going to keep the length of the school year the same and keep all the holidays at the same times, too. The school year will be a bit compressed, but - since the kids who were Dusted are going to be starting back at school at almost the exact time of year they left off - Morita made it sound in his email like that was intentional by the way, which I highly doubt -”

“Two weeks,” Tony says weakly. “Wow.”

May reaches for his hand - the bad one - and gently unwinds his fingers from where they’re clutched around his coffee cup. He’s been trying to practice using it more lately but finds that sometimes when he grabs onto something, his fingers form sort of a claw and get stuck that way, which is what’s just happened. She sets to work massaging the palm of his hand, easing some of the stiffness.

“I know,” she says. “I don’t...feel quite ready for him to go back yet, either. But you know the kids are going stir-crazy. Some routine will be good for them. A little normalcy.”

Tony knows there’s a reason they’re meeting in a run-down cafe in Queens rather than just talking about this at the Tower, where a certain teenager with enhanced super-senses might hear them, so he just waits her out. Can’t really form words at the moment, anyways.

“So, um...” she looks up from his hand, covers it with both of hers. “So I’m thinking we move back on Friday, and that gives him a week to adjust, before...”

The words still won’t come. He’s starting to feel like air won’t come, either, and takes a shuddering breath.

“Tony,” May sighs. “We talked about this. You knew this was coming.”

“I just...” he struggles against the irrational wave of anger that surges up, forcing his tone to stay level. “I don’t think it’s necessary, May. There’s so much space at the Tower. Peter likes it there - and now that we’re back in Manhattan instead of upstate, the commute to Midtown Tech is only-”

“Tony.” May’s getting worked up now, too, starting to do that thing where she talks with her hands. “Please do not make me explain to you again how fucked-up it would be to uproot a child from his home of a decade to live with a bunch of superhumans, who are all part of a team he has explicitly declined to join multiple times-”

“Pardon me? That is not-”

“When for him it’s just been a matter of weeks since he was on the bus heading for a field trip to MOMA and he’s already had to process his own death and the fact that the entire world has changed around him, and when he needs every shred of consistency he can fucking get -”

“Oh, consistency, is it? You want to talk about consistency? What about Morgan, you think separating them at this point is consistent for either of them-” They’re both half out of their seats now.

“For fuck’s sakes, do not use your five-year-old daughter as a human shield for your own-”

“How fucking dare you-”

May cuts him off by sweeping her empty coffee cup off the table. It hits the wall and the porcelain shatters into pieces.

They stare at each other for a long moment, equally surprised at the smashed cup, and the fact that they both have unshed tears shining in their eyes. The cafe bustles on around them. They’re not far enough past the apocalypse yet that people give half a shit about inappropriate arguments in public places.

“It’s the last...it’s the last piece of Ben we have left, Tony,” May says, her voice cracking. “It’s our home.”

Tony takes both of her hands in his, as best he can manage with his still-clawed fingers. He presses a kiss to her knuckles and then drops his forehead down to rest on their joined hands, taking a deep breath to steady himself.

“I know,” he whispers. “I know.”

“You’re not his father,” May says, very softly.

“I know,” he whispers again, and now the tears come readily.

“No, you need to understand,” May murmurs, resting a palm against his cheek. “You’re not his father. Ben wasn’t, either. But that...that doesn’t matter, does it? It doesn’t matter what you call it. It just matters that you love him, that you went past the ends of the Earth to bring him back.” She wipes a tear from his cheekbone with her thumb. “I’m not taking him away from you, Tony. I swear to God I’m not. We’ll...we’ll work out a schedule. You can see him as much as you want, and he can see you as much as he wants. I just...I promised, when Ben and I brought that tiny little boy home and carried him over our doorstep...Ben and I promised Peter that this was his home, and always would be. It’s just an apartment, I know that, but I can’t break that promise.”

They sit in silence for a moment, the word promise hanging over them, heavy in the air.

“Something...” Tony clears his throat. “Something got fucked up between me and Peter, May.” It feels like a confession. “We haven’t been able to talk about it. I’m scared that if he leaves now, I’ll never get the chance to fix it.”

“Then I suggest you figure out how to talk to him about it,” May says, but her voice is gentle. “And when you do, you just need to remember that he loves you just as much as you love him, no matter what he says.”

It’s then that he realizes that May knows what’s going on with Peter, has known for a while, even if Peter himself can’t figure out how to express it. And she’s not going to tell him what it is.

Sink or swim, babycakes.

“Yeah,” he says, reaching for a paper towel to start gathering up the porcelain shards. “You’re right. Okay. I’ll figure it out.”

He can do this. He’s a mechanic. Fixing is what he does.

-

That night, he hovers outside the door to Peter’s bedroom, listening to the voices drifting out through the door.

“What if Thor had to fight a huge snow monster that could pick him up and throw him right off a cliff?”

“Doesn’t matter. Thor can fly. He’d still win. Elsa’s snow monster is lame.”

“Rude, Petey. Okay, then Thor has to fight Elsa.”

There’s a pause. “Thor probably wouldn’t want to fight her. He’d go for peace negotiations. Maybe a treaty between Arendelle and Asgard, or like a trade deal. They’re culturally similar enough that it’s plausible.”

“Pffft. You’re just saying that ‘cause Elsa would win. Do you know what, Elsa could probably just freeze all the blood in his whole body, and then he’d turn into a popsicle like Captain Steve, and then Dr. Bruce and everybody would cry about it and no one would be able to save him.”

“Woah, dude. That’s dark.”

“It’s just science. If Elsa can freeze a whole lake she can freeze Thor’s body fluids.”

“Ew. Well, what if someone decided to save him with an act of true love?”

“Doesn’t work that way. That’s only if the heart gets frozen first. If all the blood freezes at once he’s probably fucked.”

“Your dad would have a heart attack if he heard you saying that word,” Peter says offhandedly, knowing full well that Tony is outside and did in fact hear his precious baby saying that word.

“Maguna,” Tony sing-songs, nudging the door open and folding his arms.

“Hi, Daddy,” Morgan says, not even having the decency to look guilty. She and Peter are sprawled on their stomachs, surrounded by discarded action figures. From what he can tell it looks like there’s been a gladiator-style death tournament - among the fallen are all the Avengers but Thor, most of the USS Enterprise, various Lord of the Rings characters, and - disturbingly - a heap of Disney princesses.

Peter unceremoniously tosses Thor into the ‘dead’ pile. “You’re right, Momo,” he sighs. “The Avengers had a good run. Who’s up against Elsa, then? Mulan? God, Elsa is so OP it’s not even funny.”

“Okay,” Tony says, “As much as I want to hear the hypotheticals of princess-on-princess slaughter, it’s Morgan’s bedtime. Morgan, go find Mommy and Aunt May and tell them they’re one Live Laugh Love sign away from the official wine moms club.”

“One Live Laugh Love sign away from being a-fficial wine moms,” Morgan repeats slowly, a look of concentration on her face. “Okay. I got it.” She wanders away down the hall, repeating “One Live Laugh Love sign...” to herself.

Tony thinks he knows why May chose to spend the evening at the Stark suite knocking back spritzers with Pepper, which. Subtle, Parker.

Peter pulls himself into a sitting position and starts sorting the action figures into piles - his own, and Morgan’s, which he dumps into her sparkly plastic purple suitcase.

Tony kneels down to help him. “You should make her clean up after herself. Don’t let her turn you into her personal maid service.”

Peter snorts. “How’s that working out for you and Pepper?”

“Rude, Petey.” He dumps a purple-haired lady figurine into Morgan’s box, and Peter promptly rescues it.

“Hey, that’s mine. I love Morgan, but she can’t have my Major Kusanagi. Hey, have you ever watched the original Ghost in the Shell, Mr. Stark? It’s like, right up your alley. Transhumanism, big guns, philosophical questions on the nature of artificial intelligence, spy stuff. MJ thinks it even passes the Bechdel test. Ned’s not sure because he says it depends on whether you view the Major and the Puppet Master as actual women or as genderless entities with female humanoid forms, and there’s like, this questionably sentient computer program that has a female voice in the original subs but a male voice in the English dub. MJ says that it passes because the movie is making a statement on femininity being separate from sexuality by giving its inhuman protagonists female forms, and like, I don’t feel qualified to comment on that analysis on so many levels but mostly it’s just kinda nice that MJ doesn’t totally hate a movie I like -”

Tony has totally forgotten what he was doing and is just sitting on the floor, leaning with his back against Peter’s bed, enjoying the steady stream of the kid’s voice.

“Mr. Stark? Sorry, was I talking too much? Aw, man, I don’t want to make Ghost in the Shell sound like this boring pretentious movie. It’s totally not. There’s a ton of action and stuff, it’s just that there’s also so many crazy themes to talk about, which...I’m clearly doing. Okay. Shutting up now.”

Tony turns his head towards Peter and just smiles at him for a moment. “You know, Pete, I used to play your voicemails while I was working in my lab.”

Peter’s eyes boggle. “Uh.” He clears his throat, brings his voice down to a lower pitch. “Ahem. Pardon?”

“The ones you used to leave for Happy. I liked listening to ‘em. Made me laugh.”

“Glad to be of service, Mr. Stark.” Peter cracks a hesitant smile. “Honestly, I thought I was just annoying you all the time.”

“Yeah, you were annoying as hell,” Tony says, grinning. He leans his head back against Peter’s mattress, letting his gaze drift to the ceiling. “Loved you from day one, though, even if I was too much of a stupid asshole to realize it.”

Tony can see the kid take a deep breath in his peripheral vision. He wonders if Peter will try and beat a hasty exit, or humour him for a bit. Talking about their feelings seems to go about fifty-fifty in either direction these days.

Peter scoots over on the floor to sit next to Tony, stretching his legs out in front of him and crossing his arms in front of his chest. This is good, because he’s not retreating, but also stressful, because now Tony has to say what he’s been turning over and over in his head for the entire day.

“What was your Uncle Ben like?”

Peter and Tony stiffen at the same time. Peter because, obviously, and Tony because this is not in the slightest what he’d been intending to say.

“Oh,” Peter says, very quietly. He doesn’t immediately hurl himself out the nearest window, which Tony takes as a good sign. “Uh. What do you mean?”

“I mean...what kinds of things did he like? What did you guys do together, for fun? What did he think about, you know, transhumanism, and big guns, and artificial intelligence?”

Tony’s not even sure what he’s asking, really, but something deep in his bones tells him this is the right question. Because in the whole time he’s known Peter, whether he was aware of it or not, the ghost of Ben Parker has been standing right there - unacknowledged, but titanic in the proportions of his influence - and May’s right. Tony’s not the kid’s dad, and neither was Ben. They’re two men who loved a fatherless child with literally everything they had, and Tony thinks - hopes, dares to think - that this must mean some kind of kinship, spanning across the cosmos to wherever it is that Ben ended up. Wherever Tony was somehow allowed to return from.

Peter laughs, and the sound is disarming in how sweet and sad it is. “Ben wasn’t big on the philosophical side of things. He liked Ghost in the Shell, though. Said he thought it was really neat that a cartoon could be that beautiful.”

“More of a Die Hard kinda guy though, huh?”

“How did you know?”

Tony furrows his brow. “I don’t know, actually. Feel like I heard it a long time ago.”

“Well...yeah, you’re right. Those were his favourite movies. We’d always watch the first one on his birthday, and then the second one at Christmas time. It was our Christmas thing - we’d watch Ben’s Christmas movie, then May’s Christmas movie - Love Actually, because like, obviously - and then mine last on Christmas Eve.”

“What was yours?”

Peter ducks his head with an embarrassed smile. “A Muppet Christmas Carol.”

“Oh, that one’s a classic. So when did you watch the third Die Hard?”

“Never. Ben didn’t acknowledge its existence. Like, as in, one time he saw an old framed poster for it in a vintage store and was just went ‘Huh. That’s a nice poster frame.’ When I was little I used to think he was serious and actually couldn’t see anything related to Die Hard 3, so I used to wonder if I bought a Die Hard 3 t-shirt or something maybe I could sneak into his room and raid his secret stash of Reese’s pieces.”

“How do children always find out about secret candy stashes?”

“You sound like you’re having a war flashback right now. Did Morgan find your hoard of caramel chews?”

“Yes, and - wait, what?! Have you been eating my caramels too?”

“Hell no. That’s old people candy. Gross.”

Tony decides to let that one slide. For now. “So I take it your Die Hard candy heist never happened?”

“No, because when Ben decided to start giving me an allowance I realized I could just buy my own candy instead of saving up for a t-shirt and going through all the hassle of a heist. When I told him about it years later, though, he laughed for like a million years and said he would’ve kept up the bit and pretended not to see me because it would’ve been hilarious and totally worth it.”

“Sounds like a really funny guy,” Tony says, smiling. He can just picture a tiny Peter tiptoeing across the Parker apartment, as Ben pretends to be absorbed in a newspaper at the kitchen table.

“Yeah, he was,” Peter says. “He used to plan our Hallowe’en costumes and he’d always come up with the craziest matching stuff he could think of. One Hallowe’en we did Mad Max 2, with him as Max and May as Wez.”

“And you as that feral kid?”

“Nah, I was the dog.”

Tony snorts. “Okay, that’s amazing. Is there photographic evidence of this somewhere?”

Peter grins at him. “Not that you’re ever allowed to see.” He leans his head back to rest next to Tony’s. “He was...a really good guy, you know? Patient, hard-working, nice to everyone, always had time for people no matter what. Just good, straight through.”

“Like you.”

“Not like me.”

“Yes, like you.”

“No.” Peter stares at the ceiling, his arms still folded tight across his chest. “You told me once that you wanted me to be better than you.”

“I was wrong. You already are. Always have been.”

“No, listen to me.” Peter’s tone has a new edge to it that Tony’s never heard before. “I’m not, and I can’t be. I’ve been trying to tell you. I tried to tell you when we were on the roof, but you wouldn’t listen.”

Tony frantically replays the conversation in his head - every word of it has long since been burned into his brain - but he just can’t figure out what Peter means. He feels impossibly helpless. Things are going to shit, they’re missing each other again, and he has no idea how to get them back on the right track.

“Help me understand, Peter. Please.”

“I sat there and watched someone I love bleed out in an alley, and then I sat there and watched someone I love use the Infinity Stones when he was surrounded by enhanced humans that had a way better chance of surviving it. Like me. But it turns out having superpowers means nothing if you’re too pathetic to use them. What is so fucking hard to understand about that, Tony?”

It’s the first time Peter has said outright that he loves him, and only the second time Peter has ever used his given name - the first time was when he was dying on a barren red battlefield - and it creates a physical ache in his chest.

“You’re not pathetic,” Tony manages weakly. It is clearly the wrong thing to say. He can see the tendons in Peter’s forearm standing out as his hands curl into tight fists, clutching at the fabric of his t-shirt - one of Tony’s old MIT shirts, Tony notices, in a weird, detached sort of way.

“No, clearly I am,” Peter says, fighting to keep his voice level. “Because neither of you trusted me to help, and you were obviously right not to, because I froze up and just let you do your stupid fucking martyr thing and you died anyways.”

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” Tony sits up straight, anger blooming hot in his chest, and turns to stare at Peter. “What was I supposed to do, Peter, pray tell? Throw you the gauntlet?”

“You were supposed to at least try and stay alive,” Peter snaps back, shoulders betraying his heavy breathing, but he won’t meet Tony’s eyes.

“You know what?” Tony’s raising his voice now, he knows this is bad, he knows he’s fucking it up, but the anger and the panic and the stress and grief of the last five years are welling up, beating against the inside of his skull like a drum. “You need to figure out who exactly you’re pissed off at. Me? Ben? Yourself? And you’re wrong, I was trying my damndest to stay alive-”

“No you weren’t, don’t lie to my fucking face-”

They’re both on their feet now, somehow, faces inches apart. In the back of Tony’s brain he realizes that he really shouldn’t be provoking an emotional teenager with mutant super-strength, but he’s too far gone at this point. “Why the fuck would I lie to you about that, and how dare you imply-”

“I found E.D.I.T.H!” Peter yells. “I found your stupid suitcase, and your stupid fucking note, after the battle, I found all of it in the wreckage!”

Oh.

Oh.

All the anger deflates out of him, so instantaneously that he has to catch himself with a little stagger. Peter doesn’t notice. He’s too wound up. “You were wrong, you were wrong, I can’t be the next Tony Stark, no one can, it’s so fucked up to act like you’re replaceable! Who would be Morgan’s dad, huh? Who would be Pepper’s husband and the person Nat trusts most in the world now that Clint’s gone, and my- my-”

Tony closes the space between them in one step and gathers Peter into his arms.

“Okay,” he says. “Pete. It’s okay. I’m not going anywhere. It’s okay.”

Peter is still wound tight as a piano wire - his entire body is tense. “It’s not okay. You were wrong.”

“Kid,” he says gently. “I’m an engineer. I plan for every contingency. I can’t help it, it’s in my DNA. But you have to know that I didn’t want that for you. Not that I didn’t have faith you could do it - I did, and I do - but what I wanted was for you to just be a normal teenager. As normal as possible. Have fun with your friends, go off to college, succeed at some things, fail at others, fuck up until you got it out of your system. And I wanted - I want, more than anything - to be there for all of it.”

As he talks, he can feel the tension ebbing out of Peter, bit by bit, replaced by a distinct tremble in his shoulders. Peter sags against Tony, but keeps his arms crossed tight around his midsection, like he’s trying to hold himself together.

“I’m not mad at you,” Peter gasps against his shoulder. “Or Ben. Just at myself. I’m sorry. I’m the worst. I was just so angry and I couldn’t hold on to all of it so it - spilled out, and I know that’s beyond fucked up when you like, saved the entire universe, and Ben was-” his shoulders are shaking in earnest now, “-Ben was just being exactly who he was, it wasn’t his fault, it was mine - I’m so sorry, Mr. Stark, I’m sorry I let you-”

“Okay, no, stop, stop, stop,” Tony interrupts, crushing Peter to his chest. “I need to tell you something, and you need to listen to me. Can you promise you’ll listen to me until I’m done?”

Peter nods, once.

“After you died, I felt like I’d failed...well, the entire universe, but mostly you. I felt like if I’d...made sure you’d actually gotten off the ship, or if I’d sent you back to your field trip, or had made you stay hidden while we fought Thanos...Listen, Pete, I know that none of that would’ve made a difference, that you would’ve just disintegrated somewhere else - but that’s what I felt the worst about, that I couldn’t make it more peaceful for you. I know you, uh,” Tony swallows thickly, “I know you felt it coming, that you knew what was happening. I knew that I’d gotten a chance no one else had gotten - the chance to say goodbye, and that I loved you. And I didn’t say it. I fucked it up, monumentally. I couldn’t even send you off properly.”

“Mr. Stark, I -”

“No, this is where you zip it,” Tony says, pressing a kiss to the side of Peter’s head. He’s rewarded with a little noise that could maybe, possibly have been a chuckle. “Anyways, May said something to me once, before you came back. And I didn’t really think about it at the time, but it just kept popping up in my brain, when I least expected it. She said - ‘I know you think it’s your fault, but it’s Thanos’ fault, and no one else’s.’ And...as much as self-flagellation is one of my favourite pastimes - she was right, you know? It’s just so unbelievably useless to sit around beating ourselves up for how we could’ve saved people better instead of putting the blame on the ones who hurt them in the first place.”

Tony pauses, feeling a little shaky himself. “The bad things that happen out there aren’t inevitable, kid. Thanos was wrong. It’s not inevitable, like a natural disaster, it’s people making choices - who actively decide to do bad things, and then there are people out there who choose to try and make things right. The bad things happen because of the bad people, and the good things happen because of people like you.”

Finally, finally, Peter’s arms come up to hug him back. Peter takes a breath, as if to speak, and then exhales slowly.

“It’s okay, you can talk. I’m done. No, wait, I’m not done. I’m so fucking proud of you, Pete, every single day.” Tony leans his cheek against Peter’s temple. “Okay. Now I’m done. Go ahead.”

“Um...I just...I love you, okay? Like a lot.” Peter’s voice is small, muffled against his chest, and all at once Tony’s struck by the triptych that’s been haunting the back of his consciousness for the last five years. Peter as a child, Peter as the man he’s quickly becoming, and Peter as is he is now. One thing Tony knows, one thing he’s missed (and oh, that still aches) and one thing he knows he’ll be privileged enough to see. Some impossible combination of death and resurrection and the irrevocable knowledge that time is fluid means that these things can exist for him not just side-by-side but all together, all at once.

“I love you too, like a lot,” he says, and they stand there in each other’s arms for God knows how long, but somehow it’s still not long enough.

-

The next morning, he calls Steve, asks him to meet in the basement bar.

“Wow, look at us, sitting in a bar at ten in the morning,” Tony says, sliding a mug of coffee down to Steve - plain black, the way he likes it. “This feels like an adventure, right? Let’s just say it does. We can almost forget that we’re a centenarian and a middle-aged dad, respectively. Here’s an idea - we could go really nuts, spike our coffee.”

Steve looks pensive, or at least Tony supposes he’s got something on his mind, which is why he isn’t telling Tony to get on with it or pointing out that Tony was the one who suggested the bar at ten in the morning and for no good reason to boot.

He spikes his own coffee with a splash of Bailey’s and doesn’t bother with Steve’s. He can’t metabolize alcohol, anyways.

“When you were still out, we used the last of the Pym particles to return the Infinity Stones to their rightful places in time,” Steve says, slowly.

Tony knows this, he’s been filled in. “I feel like you’re going somewhere with this.”

“I saw Peggy.”

Now that, Steve hadn’t told him.

“Oh, Cap,” he says.

“I really thought about it, you know?” Steve stares down into his mug. “Thought about how easy it would be to just...stay there. Get my dance. The Infinity Stones were all returned by that point, Thanos was gone. I felt like I’d done enough, and nobody would begrudge me the chance to live out my life.”

“No one would, Cap. I wouldn’t.”

“No,” Steve agrees. “But the more I thought about it, the more I realized that wasn’t the point. You were still fighting to come back, even after everything you gave, and...Buck, still fighting to find his place in the world even though it would’ve been so much easier to just give up, and Nat...Everyone was still fighting, Tony, because there’s so many things to live for right here in the present, and so many reasons to keep struggling on. Maybe it’s the soldier in me, but I couldn’t just tap out while my brothers and sisters didn’t see any reason to quit.”

“Yeah,” Tony says. “I get that.”

“I know you do.”

“We’re the old guard, though, aren’t we?” Tony takes a sip of coffee. The instant stuff is growing on him. Sort of a...folksy charm. “I mean, when you look at all those bright-eyed young things - Wanda, T’Challa, Scott -”

“Scott’s not that much younger than you are.”

“You know what I mean. It’s the...youthful optimism. Lack of crushing old-man cynicism. Same thing.”

Steve laughs, and they drink their coffee in companionable silence for a moment.

“You won’t be able to fight with that arm, you know. Not the way you used to.”

“Nope,” Tony agrees.

“But you also won’t be able to sit by and watch if the team’s in real trouble.”

“Nope.”

“How does that work, then?”

Tony shrugs. “I kind of wish I believed in God so that he’d strike me dead on the spot for saying this, but I’ve been seriously considering something Strange said. Or, rather, something you said. He just...neatly re-phrased it.”

“Do tell.”

“Auxiliary member.” Tony adds more Bailey’s to his coffee. Folksy charm only takes you so far. “You know. Team mechanic, mentor, head of the clean-up crew. Haul the suit out every once in a while when everything’s really fucked, try my hardest not to get killed so I can go home and make dinner for the kids. Sort of a half-assed retirement.”

“I see,” Steve says. “That sounds...surprisingly well thought-out, for you, anyways. I like it. It’s just...that’s kind of a big hole to fill on the team, isn’t it?”

“Would you say two auxiliary Avengers is roughly equivalent to one full-time Avenger?”

Steve smiles. “I’d say that sounds fair. You talked to him about it?”

“Yep. He’s...disconcertingly keen on it, for someone who’s already turned me down twice. The conditions are: no fighting during school hours, homework comes first, his identity stays a secret, and if any of you morons get him hurt or killed I will get you hurt or killed. Personally, with my bare hands, and then I’ll let May hurt or kill you a second time.”

“Those are good terms.” Steve drains his mug. “That kid’s got a real brain on him, so I’ll make sure he doesn’t get hit in the head too much.”

“You’d better. He’s going to MIT when he graduates, and getting his Master’s.”

“Oh? He decided that, did he?”

“Yes. He doesn’t know it yet, but he’s just so obvious. It’s embarrassing, really.”

“I’m coming over for dinner later,” Steve announces with a grin, getting up from his seat, “so I’ll see you around six.”

“Are you, now.”

“Yes. Ned texted me and told me there’s apple pie involved.”

Tony lays a hand over his heart. “I can’t believe you learned to text for some punk-ass nerd kid and not for me.”

“What can I say,” Steve says, clapping Tony on the shoulder before he turns to leave. “You were right, teenagers are fun. Something to be said for old men like us getting to feel young again.”

“Your Instagram sucks,” Tony calls after Steve’s retreating back. “No one wants to see pictures of trees. Learn to use a filter.”

He swears he sees Steve lift his middle finger before rounding the corner.

Chapter Text

X. WANDA

“You sure you don’t want me to go into the classroom with you, baby? Just a for a few minutes, until you’re settled?”

“I want Peter to come.”

Tony tries not to make it obvious to the entire car that his heart is literally breaking. Jesus. Pepper reaches over and pats his hand sympathetically. She’s always been made of tougher stuff than him.

May snorts, because she is mean and a terrible friend.

“Yeah, I’ll walk you in,” Peter pipes up.

“No,” Morgan says sternly, “you have to stay there with me. The whole day.”

Peter gets out of the car and walks around to the rear door where Morgan is sitting. He helps her out of her booster seat, and then kneels down next to her while she works her arms through the straps of her little purple backpack.

“I would love to, Morgan, really, you know I would,” Peter says, buttoning her jacket and putting his nose close to hers. Morgan won’t meet his eyes, so he ducks his face right into her line of vision. She frowns and looks elsewhere, and he sticks his head in the way again.

“Come on,” he says, bumping Morgan’s nose with his. “I gotta go to my own school, or else I’ll fail all my classes, and then I’ll have to drop out and live in May’s apartment until I’m forty and spend all my time on reddit arguing about ethics in gaming journalism.”

“What?” Morgan blinks.

“Peter,” May sighs from the car.

“Come on, Momo,” Peter says again, planting a big smacking kiss on Morgan’s cheek. “You can’t be mad at me. You love me.”

Morgan struggles away, but she’s giggling. “Ew! Petey!”

“Oh no,” Peter says, wrapping his arms around her. “The universe is bending to your mighty will. I’m stuck to you, forever.” He starts crab-walking away from the car, a wiggling Morgan stuck in his grip. “I’m gonna have to do kindergarten all over again. I’m too big for the desks! We didn’t think through the logistics!”

“Pe-ter ! Let me down! Quit being so weird!” Morgan cries, whacking him with her backpack. Peter grins and sets her down, but doesn’t release her.

“Tell you what. Go give your mom and dad a kiss goodbye and I’ll try really hard to not be weird. Deal?”

Morgan rolls her eyes. “Deal.” She runs back to the car, climbs into the driver’s seat to kiss Tony and Pepper, and then is back out in a flash.

“Can I still walk you in?” Peter says.

She eyes him suspiciously. “Yeah...”

“Can I hold your hand?”

“I guess.”

Peter apparently manages not to embarrass Morgan any further in front of her tiny peers, as she charitably grants him a hug and kiss before lining up with the other kindergartners and disappearing through the school doors.

Tony’s white-knuckling the wheel and he swears his life is flashing in front of his eyes. His baby, disappearing into a school full of strangers. “Why did we enroll her in public school, again? Pep, can you walk me through the thought process just one more time?”

“We want Morgan to be well-adjusted, and private schools are hives of cutthroat competition and social stratification,” Pepper recites, not sounding nearly as worried as Tony feels she should. “Stark Industries is also demonstrating our faith in and commitment to rebuilding the community by being part of the community, and that means not isolating the CEO and founder’s daughter in a bubble of other wealthy children.”

“Ugh. That’s so...strategic. Shouldn’t we make decisions like this with our hearts? My heart is telling me that Morgan should just forget about school and become my lab assistant. Let DUM-E retire to a cabana on the beach somewhere.”

“Tony,” May says, laughing. “She’ll be fine. Peter’s always gone to public school and he turned out perfectly normal.” She pauses. “Well. A little on the freaky side of normal, what with the sticking to walls, and all that. Just don’t let her go on any field trips.”

“Jesus Christ May, how can you even joke about that-”

Peter flings the car door open and hurls himself in. “She introduced me to the other munchkins as ‘my stupid brother.’ No name or anything. So rude.” He’s grinning ear to ear.

“You seem devastated,” Pepper says, smiling and squeezing his knee.

“I am. I’m still in shock from the rudeness. I’ll probably cry about it later, when it’s really sunk in.”

“You and me both,” Tony grumbles, starting the engine.

Peter had really wanted to just take the train, very reasonably pointing out that if Tony Stark dropped him off at his high school it would raise a lot of questions. In return, Tony and May had very reasonably pointed out that they would both be complete emotional wrecks for the rest of their lives if he didn’t let them see him off. The compromise they’ve come up with is that they’re dropping Peter off a few blocks away from Midtown Tech.

They pull into a secluded side street, and Tony puts the car in park. They all get out and stand there for a moment on the sidewalk.

In a surprising turn of events, Pepper’s the first one to crack. “Oh, honey,” she says, her eyes welling up as she re-wraps Peter’s scarf. “I already miss seeing you every day. Take care of yourself, okay?” She kisses each of his cheeks and then folds him into a hug. “And take it from a workaholic - go easy on the extracurriculars for now. Let yourself adjust a little first.”

(Tony knows that by extracurriculars she means everything from marching band to Spider-Man.)

“Miss you too, Pepper,” Peter mumbles, wrapping his arms around her and planting a kiss on the side of her head. “But I’m still gonna be around all the time. It’ll get really annoying and then you’ll have to set healthy boundaries with me and tell me to stop eating all of your food.”

Pepper laughs, pulling back and wiping her eyes. “As long as you don’t touch my muesli, you’re fine.”

“Yeah, about that-”

“Don’t finish that sentence without a lawyer present.” Pepper swats his shoulder. “Be good. We’ll see you for dinner tomorrow night.” She kisses him one more time, and then pulls Tony away to give Peter and May a moment.

When May is done, she and Pepper climb back into the car. May has very heroically held back her tears, although Tony notices that Peter is now bundled in not only a coat and scarf, but a lumpy hat that’s pulled down tight over his ears.

There are about a million things Tony wants to say right now, and most of them are beyond stupid and bordering on incoherent. (“School is for losers” is the first thing that comes to mind when he opens his mouth, and he has to beat that one back down with a real effort.) Peter seems to sense that Tony’s struggling with...words in general, and silently holds his arms out.

Tony steps into them and hugs Peter, hard. “Ah, fuck,” is the brilliant and insightful gem that finally escapes his lips.

“It’s okay, Tony,” Peter says, sounding a little shy. The first-name thing isn’t coming to him naturally quite yet, but Tony appreciates that he’s trying. “We can text, like, all day. And I’ll call you after school, and then we’ve got dinner tomorrow, right? And Morgan’s gonna be fine, I bet she’ll be the most popular kid in class - I mean, she’s definitely the smartest and the cutest, I saw those other kids up close and like, too bad for that bunch of nerfherders-”

“Oh, god damn it, quit being so mature,” Tony grumbles. “I’m the adult here, I’m supposed to be doing the reassuring.”

Peter laughs, and then suddenly goes quiet. “Okay. Then, um...” his voice is very soft, enough so that Tony probably wouldn’t be able to hear him if they weren’t so close together. “Could you, maybe...tell me that everything’s gonna be okay? Like, nothing bad will happen at the Tower while I’m stuck at a desk across town, and we’re all gonna...know how to talk to each other, even though some of my class is going to be kids I remember reading to a few months ago when they were in elementary school? I’m sorry. I know you can’t guarantee any of that, I don’t mean...”

Tony pulls Peter a bit closer. “Well, first off, God help the idiot with the audacity to try and start shit in the place with the highest concentration of enhanced humans on the planet,” he says. “Second...you’re right, I can’t guarantee that things won’t be...extremely fucking weird with your classmates, at least at first. But people are adaptable, people your age even more so, and soon it’ll just become the new normal. I promise you the second one of your dweeb classmates is caught smoking weed in the theatre club tech booth, everyone will basically forget about who was Dusted and who wasn’t. Such is the way of high school.”

Peter laughs again. “Speaking from experience?”

“Nah. I was in college at your age, and plus I had a modicum of class and only smoked weed in cool places, like the restricted-access robotics lab after hours.”

“Not cool. That’s sacrilege.”

Tony pulls back and cups Peter’s face with both his hands. “I invented sacrilege, you mouthy little nerd.” The effect of his flippant tone is utterly ruined by the tears gathering in his eyes. “Everything’s gonna be okay, Pete. And if it’s not I will crash through the roof in the Iron Man suit and make it okay, one way or the other.”

“That sounds...horrifying, and kind of awesome, but mostly horrifying.” Peter smiles back at him, even as a single tear slips down his nose. “I miss you already.”

“Ah, fuck,” Tony says again, because now he’s really going to cry. He kisses Peter on each cheek and then releases him. “Love you, kid. Now skedaddle.” He pats Peter on the shoulder and gives him a little push.

“Love you,” Peter calls over his shoulder, as he sets off. Tony gets back in the car and then he, May and Pepper watch Peter until he’s out of sight, like the creepy sentimental helicopter parents they are.

“Too late to pull them both out and homeschool them?” May says, sniffling and wiping her cheeks.

Pepper puts an arm around her and kisses her shoulder. “Let’s go day drinking,” she suggests. “F.R.I.D.A.Y., cancel my ten o’clock.”

“Yes, boss,” F.R.I.D.A.Y. says, from the car speakers. “There’s a bar near here that has been written up for violation of liquor laws twice in the last six months. May I suggest that as the only likely destination in the vicinity where you’ll be able to purchase alcoholic beverages at nine a.m.?”

“Yes, you may,” Pepper says. “Program the address into the car’s GPS, and don’t you dare judge us, you uppity robot.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” F.R.I.D.A.Y. responds lightly, as Tony steps on the gas.

-

They’re adjusting. It’s hard, and strange, and Tony kind of hates it, but they’re doing it.

As the weather gets colder, Morgan starts asking about the lake house. Tony knows she’s smart, knows she understands their conversations when he explains to her that the lake house isn’t really home anymore; but she’s still only five. She wanders into his and Pepper’s room long after she’s been put to bed with new suggestions and hypotheticals - Petey can come live with us if you drive him to school every day, right? We could buy the other cabin up the hill for the Avengers, right? which Tony knows is her way of saying I want to go home without actually saying it.

Peter’s back to patrolling regularly, which Tony has mixed feelings about, and May even more so. One some level they’re both glad he’s not avoiding patrols anymore. It’s a sign he’s feeling more normal, and his identity as Spider-Man is an important part of him, and they both know they can’t burden him with their own anxieties about it. Still - still. Tony still dreams about the red dust of Titan nearly every night, and May still remembers the terrifying isolation - remembers being the very last of the Parker family.

In an unanticipated reversal, he somehow can’t watch the Baby Monitor Protocol footage anymore. Whenever Peter takes a hit, even one that Tony knows probably doesn’t even register on his superhuman pain scale, Tony feels it - bubbling up as nausea in his stomach, or manifesting as extra tightness in his shoulders the next day. May watches the footage instead. She takes detailed notes. She also starts getting Karen’s weekly report sent to her cellphone directly, bypassing Tony, who can’t bring himself to read them.

Some days it takes Tony’s breath away that Peter, Ned and MJ can laugh and practice ridiculous 80’s dance routines in the kitchen when just months ago they were gone. And then some days Tony walks by the living room and they’re watching Studio Ghibli films (always twined together in a pile, holding hands, feet in each other’s laps), staring listlessly at the television and looking too exhausted to even process the flickering images. He used to think the Dusted were the lucky ones, because they had missed all the trauma and the loss; but now he knows that making sense of your place in a world that’s been forced to move on without you is just a different but equal hurt.

On Thursdays, Peter picks Morgan up from school and takes her back to the Parker apartment, where he watches her until Tony or Pepper comes to collect her. It gives them time to catch up on Stark Industries projects, schedule meetings that they both need to attend, or deal with any of the other thousand things that are demanding their time lately. And it seems to be doing Morgan good. According to her kindergarten teacher, she always has a little extra bounce in her step on Thursdays. (He and Pepper don’t confirm anything outright, but don’t exactly correct the teacher or other parents when they say things like: Morgan’s brother is such a good kid. “Oh, what the hell, let them think you finally lost a paternity suit,” Pepper teases Tony after the first time, and that’s that.)

This particular Thursday, Tony finds himself on autopilot, driving towards Queens hours earlier than usual. There’s just absolutely zero fucking way he can read even one more proposal today on amendments to the ARROW Initiative - which is, with its expanded scope and international reach, even more exhausting than the Sokovia Accords were. He lets himself into the building and up to the seventh floor.

“Your daughter just kicked me into a pit,” Peter says flatly as Tony opens the door. Morgan doesn’t even look up. They’re sprawled out on the floor in front of the TV playing Super Mario something-or-other.

“You were in my way.” Morgan doesn’t sound particularly defensive, just like she’s stating a fact.

“This is a co-op game,” Peter argues. “You know that word, right? Cooperation? Two people helping each other?”

“You’re second player, it’s okay if you die. Besides, you should’ve just done the bubble thing.”

“Dude. I would’ve done the bubble thing if I’d known you were gonna betray me like that.”

“Let’s play Mario Kart,” Tony suggests, easing himself down onto the couch. “Let Morgan sate her bloodlust instead of trying to fight her nature.”

Peter considers that. “Mario Kart 64, and dibs Yoshi.”

“No, you have to be Toad,” Morgan says imperiously.

Peter graciously allows this but annihilates both of them anyways, hurling Tony’s Donkey Kong off Rainbow Road at the very end of the final lap after sniping Morgan’s Yoshi with three red shells in a row.

“Jesus Christ, Parker. We’re going home,” Tony says, chucking his controller on the floor and lifting Morgan under one arm like a sack of potatoes.

“Daddy!” Morgan cries, squirming and beating his back with her little fists. “It’s not eight o’clock yet!”

“How do you know? You can’t even tell time.”

Peter looks up at him from the floor with grave seriousness. “She’s right. It’s only five. We still have three more hours.” It is, in fact, quarter to seven.

“Yeah,” Morgan says triumphantly. “Unhand me, you ruffian.”

“Hey,” Tony says warningly to Peter. “Did I not say she’s too young for Game of Thrones?”

“That’s from Fresh Prince of Bel-Air.”

“Oh, whatever,” Tony sighs, grabbing Morgan under her armpits and gently tossing her at Peter. Peter could catch her easily, of course, but he chooses instead to let her fly into him and knock him directly over, and they collapse into a giggling heap. “I’m apparently already a failure as a guardian, seeing as neither of you can tell time, so I might as well give up and order us a pizza.”

“Minecraft,” Morgan says, voice muffled from somewhere under Peter.

“Cooperative Minecraft,” Tony counters. “If you kill me and throw my stuff into lava again, I’m disowning both of you.”

“Ugh, fine.”

“What? Why me?”

“You keep blowing up my farms.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No you’re not.”

When May comes home from work they’re able to collectively wheedle her into joining in. Minecraft is the one video game she’ll play, as long as they leave her alone to build herself a nice house and don’t rope her into any “creepy dungeon stuff.” Peter dutifully brings her gemstones and stacks of granite from underground so that her house can have classy floors, and refrains from blowing up her little flower garden.

Tony isn’t quite so lucky. “What the mother - fudge,” he curses, catching himself at the last second. “What is with you and the TNT? Why do you do this? Where did I go wrong with you?”

Peter’s character is beating a hasty retreat from the smoldering remains of Tony’s beautifully designed, fully-automated underground watermelon farm.

“I can’t help it. I thrive on destruction.”

“I’ll give you an entire stack of diamond if you hit Morgan’s chicken coop next.”

“Deal.”

“Noooooo!”

After the wholesale demolition of her chicken coop, Morgan declares that it’s eight o’clock and time to go home. (It’s actually nine, which Tony doesn’t bother pointing out.)

Peter carries her out to the car, despite her many protests. “Morgaaaaan,” he sing-songs, kissing her on the cheeks. “I love you and I’m sorry I’m a terrorist.”

“You’re not sorry!”

“Yes I am. I’m so sorry that I’ll let you play Zelda on my file next week.”

Morgan raises an eyebrow at this, her expression so like her mother that Tony has to laugh. “Really? And I can ride any horse I want?”

Peter puts on a pained expression as he buckles her in. “Yes. That’s how much I love you. Although I’ll love you slightly less if you lose my favourite horse.”

“Yeah, okay,” she says benevolently. Peter gives her one last hug before closing the car door.

“Hey, um, Tony,” he says, after Tony hugs him goodbye and is opening the driver’s side door.

Something about his tone makes Tony close the door again and turn back around to face him. “What’s up, Mad Bomber?” he says, folding his arms and quirking an eyebrow.

“Captain Rogers called me to ask if I was coming up to the Tower this weekend.”

“And here I thought he’d finally embraced texting,” Tony says, deliberately keeping his tone light. “He’s regressing.”

“Um, yeah, he only really texts Ned,” Peter says, laughing nervously and scratching the back of his head. “Anyways, he wanted to know if I could, like...join him and Agent Romanoff for some hand-to-hand training.”

“Oh,” Tony says, because his brain has gone utterly blank and he can’t think of any other words.

“Would you, um, maybe, want to come too? Not that I think you need hand-to-hand training, that would be ridiculous, I’ve seen you fight and you definitely do not need the help. I just thought maybe you haven’t, um, done any combat stuff since your arm got...well, I don’t actually know that. I know Colonel Rhodes and January designed you this whole physiotherapy program so maybe that includes combat drills, sorry, this is stupid and not coming out right-”

“Uh, yeah, I’ll think about it,” Tony interrupts. They stare at each other for a second, Peter fiddling awkwardly with the cuff of his sleeve. Tony tries to remember how to move his hands.

“Is everything...okay?” Peter ventures.

Morgan saves him, yelling “Daddy! Let’s go!” from inside the car.

“Yes, Madam Secretary,” Tony calls back, and gets into the driver’s seat a little too quickly. He’s about to just floor it and get the hell out of there, but takes a deep breath and leans back out the window.

“Bye, kid. Be careful on patrol tonight,” he says, working furiously to keep his tone casual.

“Okay,” Peter says, and Tony can see in the rear-view mirror that he stands there watching them drive away until they’re out of sight.

-

“Can I help you, Agent Romanoff?”

“Nope,” Nat says, popping the ‘p.’

Natasha is leaning in the entranceway to the gym, smirking, as Rhodey squats beside Tony on the mat and does his best Tommy Europe impression.

“Come on, come on, come on!” Rhodey yells. “Gimme the last 10 pounds!”

“Oh my god, just cut this goddamn arm off already, there’s 10 pounds right there-”

“Five more sit-ups, then we can cut your arm off.”

“So, explain to me why we’re re-enacting a Canadian weight-loss reality TV show?”

“We’re not,” Tony groans, finishing the last of his sit-ups and flopping onto his back. “Rhodey is just letting the power vested in him by my physiotherapist go to his head, and also clearly needs to watch a higher calibre of television.”

“We’re working on his core strength so that he doesn’t go all shriveled and gimpy from favouring his left side too much,” Rhodey explains. “January said I could supervise.”

“Ooh, sounds fun,” Nat says, squatting down on Tony’s other side. “Need an assistant?”

On the one hand, Tony truly is happy that Nat has started to come by more often and wants to encourage her nascent forays back into life at the Tower. On the other hand, he really does not like the way Rhodey’s eyes are lighting up.

“Hey,” he cuts in, before things can spiral out of hand. “I’ve got a better idea. Why don’t we go annoy the kids while they’re studying for their AP World History test?”

“Peter’s here?” Nat reaches down to help Tony up.

“Yeah. He’s got friends over.”

“Oh, do I get to meet Ned and MJ?” Nat smiles at that. “Okay, you’ve sold me.”

“When you meet them, promise me you’ll greet Ned by name before he can introduce himself,” Rhodey says, as Tony heads for the changing room. “Black Widow knowing who he is may actually make this the happiest day of his life. Although, he does say that every time he meets a new Avenger, and he hasn’t met Banner yet.”

Tony’s living room is a disaster, as per usual, covered in various open bags of chips and candy. Peter is hanging upside-down, reading a thick textbook as he spins in slow circles. One of his socks is missing again, and Tony suspects it will turn up either between the couch cushions or somewhere extremely weird, like on top of the fridge. Ned is flat on his back sprawled on the floor surrounded by loose paper, holding a notebook extremely close to his face and chewing on a pen; and MJ is sitting cross-legged on the couch with Morgan in her lap. Morgan is busily working on what looks like a colouring book as MJ reads questions out loud from flash cards.

“Major cities of the Indus River Civilization,” MJ calls.

“Why do you always get to be the question-asker? Don’t you do enough of that as AcaDec captain?”

“Stop avoiding the question, Parker.”

“You stop avoiding my question.”

“Mom, Dad, why are you yelling ?” Ned fake-sobs.

“Sorry, slugger, I’ll take you out for a game of catch later,” MJ deadpans.

“Harappa and Mohenjo-Daro,” Nat calls from the doorway.

“Aw, man, I had that one,” Peter complains, never ceasing his slow rotation. He fishes a Dorito out of a bag as he passes it by. “Hi, Auntie Nat,” Morgan says absently, not bothering to look up from her colouring.

Tony expected the awestruck, boggle-eyed look on Ned’s face, but he had really not expected it on MJ’s.

“Hi, Ned, Michelle. It’s good to finally meet you,” Nat says.

Ned recovers first. “Hi,” he squeaks. “I’m Ned.” (Rhodey turns around and coughs to hide a laugh.)

“Um,” says MJ.

“Agent Romanoff.” Nat extends her hand to Ned. “But you can call me Natasha.”

Ned shakes her hand. “I’m Ned,” he says again.

Nat smiles. “You’re Peter’s guy in the chair.”

Ned looks like he might faint.

Tony crosses the room and flops onto the couch next to Morgan and MJ. “Whatcha working on there, small fry?” He peers over at Morgan’s paper. Turns out it’s not a colouring book at all but an MJ original - a drawing of Peter and Ned curled up on the ground weeping while clutching papers with big bold F’s marked on them - and Morgan has been exercising her creative colouring license to the fullest, giving Peter purple hair and Ned what looks like a zebra-striped shirt and hot pink pants. This one is definitely going on the fridge.

Rhodey has made himself comfortable next to Ned and started in with the small talk. As usual, Ned recovers quickly enough and is soon chatting away easily with Rhodey, Peter and Nat. He gets better with every new Avenger, although as Rhodey predicted, Tony’s pretty sure Bruce will be the exception. He’ll make sure to have a defibrillator on hand.

Tony raises an eyebrow at MJ, who hasn’t said a word since Nat appeared in the doorway. “Didn’t you say the other day that idolizing the Avengers is all the worst parts of celebrity culture and police worship rolled up into one?”

“Shut up,” MJ hisses, smacking his arm. She turns to stare at him. “Why didn’t you tell me she was coming? Dude. Black Widow is a feminist icon.”

Tony considers that. Yeah, he can see it. He can’t resist teasing MJ a little more, though. “If you promise to stop calling me a capitalist overlord for a whole week, I’ll get her to sign your Black Widow poster.”

The way MJ’s cheeks redden tells him that Oh my god she does have a Black Widow poster.

He can’t help the shit-eating grin that spreads across his face. “This is so cute. I want to take a picture of your face right now and frame it.”

MJ covers Morgan’s ears and snaps, “Climb in that flamboyant tin can you call a suit and fly directly to hell.”

“Oh, I like you,” Nat interjects from her spot on the floor. MJ’s face goes even redder.

Morgan wrestles herself out of MJ’s grip and makes a beeline for Peter. “Petey. Wanna help me cook dinner now?”

“Uh, excuse me?” Tony cuts in. “Aren’t you both explicitly banned from helping in the kitchen, for time immemorial?”

“Nope,” Peter says, pulling himself up high enough on his strand of web that he can grab Morgan’s hands and dangle her off the ground. “Pepper said we could try cooking tonight, because we’d be supervising each other.”

“I’m pretty sure you’re creatively misinterpreting whatever she actually said,” Tony argues, “because she’s going to have to come home eventually and eat whatever abomination is spawned in that kitchen.”

“Negative, boss,” F.R.I.D.A.Y. chimes in helpfully. “Ms. Potts has a business dinner at 7 o’clock at Per Se, and is not expected back until late.”

“Rough,” MJ says to Tony. “Your wife has it out for you.”

That was tonight? Tony had known it would come back to haunt him when he had declined to join Pepper and spend the night schmoozing with prospective shareholders, but he never imagined that her vengeance would be so...swift, and Machiavellian. “Oh for the love of God, Morgan, you’re going to dislocate his arms,” he sighs, covering his face with one hand. Morgan is swinging back and forth with increasing violence, laughing maniacally as she dangles from Peter’s hands like a tiny trapeze artist.

“S’okay,” Peter says. “Healing factor.”

“I can supervise both of them,” Ned offers, astutely picking up on the fact that Tony is about to have a stress-induced heart attack.

“And I’ll supervise Ned,” Rhodey chimes in. “First lesson in the military: chain of command.”

“Pete,” Tony pleads, realizing that he’s hopelessly outnumbered and that possibly his last chance is appealing to the kid’s sense of humanity. “You’re good at so many things already. You’re a talented scientist in the making, a man of culture, and your clarinet playing has become significantly more palatable in the time I’ve known you. Maybe it’s time to gracefully accept that cooking is beyond the realm of your considerable talents.”

“Nahhhh,” Peter says, gathering Morgan up into a secure hold then dropping with a flip to land on his feet, his expression disturbingly blank. “It’s not a matter of talent, just a matter of drive.” He shifts Morgan to his hip and starts making his way towards the kitchen.

“What are we cooking?” Ned asks, as he and Rhodey follow them in.

“I was thinking beef wellington.”

“Do you even know what that is?”

“No, but I bet there’s like, eighty weird ASMR videos on YouTube of people making it.”

“Word,” Morgan agrees.

Out of completely misdirected spite and a desire to spread his misery around, Tony abandons a wide-eyed MJ alone in the living room with Nat. “Sink or swim, punk,” he mutters into her ear, then pats the top of her head and trudges into the kitchen to face his destiny.

“I’m half-Italian, so it’s in my blood,” Peter is saying as Tony walks in, dumping canned tomato sauce into a huge pot. Apparently they’ve noticed that Tony has only ground beef in the fridge and have switched to pasta.

“You and May aren’t technically blood related,” Ned points out.

“Mamma mia, that’s a spicy meatball. Morgan, what kinda spices do you think we should use?”

“We’re making meatballs?”

“No. It’s an old Italian saying. We should probably put some basil in here, right? Oregano?”

“Cinnamon,” Morgan suggests.

“Creative. I like it.”

“You two have to eat whatever the hell crawls out of that oven,” Tony says, crossing his arms and leaning back to stare at the ceiling.

“We all have to eat it,” Rhodey says, taking Morgan from Peter and holding her up so that she can pinch leaves from Tony’s beloved windowsill basil plant. “Especially you. The captain always has to go down with his ship. Like on the Titanic.”

“No, dude, do not actually put cinnamon in there. I’m literally begging you. I’m allergic to cinnamon.”

“That’s a lie.”

“That was a lie. I know May has a list of my allergies taped to your fridge. I’m just saying it’s not gonna end well for you.”

“Just a pinch,” Morgan bargains from Rhodey’s arms, as he waltzes her around singing ‘That’s Amore.’ “I gotta test my hippo-thesis.”

Tony sighs, once, and then gives up and accepts his role as ringmaster of the shit show. “She’s right. It fits in with the flavour profile.”

The lasagne is surprisingly edible, especially after Tony steps in to save Peter from over-boiling the living daylights out of the noodles and Rhodey puts together a lovely salad as a side dish. His kitchen on the other hand looks like an utter fucking crime scene and his tomato-splattered daughter looks every inch the perpetrator she is. Tony sends a Snapchat of the entire tableau to Pepper, captioned “Your move, Potts.”

Much later, after Ned and MJ have left and Peter has been stuck with the task of de-tomato-saucing Morgan’s hair, Nat sticks around to help him clean the kitchen. “I like Peter’s friends,” she says, smiling as she scrubs a bit of tomato sauce off the fridge. They can hear the sound of Morgan splashing and Peter laughing from down the hall.

“I hear you’re a feminist icon,” Tony says. “I mean, not to take away from your special bond with MJ, but she once told me I was slightly less douchey than Elon Musk.”

Nat snorts. “Amazing. Like, categorically untrue, but amazing.”

“Rude. So what did you two talk about?”

“Oh, you know. The ARROW Initiative, the negotiations about the formation of an Asiatic Union, the pro-Thanos cults that have been popping up in Russia. Small talk. We swapped numbers.”

“I just want it on the record that I engineered this friendship, at great cost to my own sanity and dignity.”

“Noted, discount Bruce Wayne.”

Tony magnanimously lets this slide, and tosses the last of the dustpan’s contents in the trash. “So what does MJ think of the ARROW Initiative?”

“She says your love of acronyms is getting out of hand and you need to be stopped.”

“Hey. This one was clever. Augmented-Individuals Registration and Representation Organization Worldwide - it’s concise and self-explanatory. What does Agent Romanoff think of ARROW?”

“Agent Romanoff likes the acronym,” Nat says, with just a ghost of a smile. She knows him well enough to see the small but significant tribute to Clint. “And...you’re doing good work, Tony. ARROW is everything the Accords could have been if we’d all been able to pull our heads out of our asses and think about the greater good instead of getting caught up in our own shit.”

Tony is a little embarrassed by the way the praise catches him off-guard and sends a warm feeling surging through his chest, so he ducks his head and puts a little extra elbow grease into the sauce splatter he’s working on. “Yeah, well. The past five years shifted everyone’s perspective, I think. Losing half of all living things in the universe was...as much of a wake-up call as we could possibly get.”

“I noticed your very first draft of the Initiative included a clause that protects the identities of minors,” Nat says, her tone casual. “And I also noticed the outline for a plan to uncover and take down shadow facilities that may be experimenting on enhanced individuals, complete with Cho’s new research on reversing brainwashing and combating trauma in brainwashed individuals.”

“Perspective,” Tony says again. He’s been subject to some very hard lessons since he met Bucky Barnes, and some even harder ones since he met Peter Parker; but while Tony may be a slow learner, he always learns in the end.

“So, are you going to come down to the gym tomorrow and watch Steve get his ass kicked by a teenager?” Nat says, clearly trying to lighten some of the heaviness that’s settled around them.

“Uh,” Tony says dumbly, because every time he thinks about it his brain seems to shut off entirely.

Nat tilts her head and watches him for a moment, her expression carefully blank, as it always is when she’s observing and deducing things about him.

“He showed me some of his footage the other night,” she ventures after a moment, watching for his reaction. “He’s strong, obviously, but the kid won’t even throw a punch unless he has to. It’s getting ridiculous. I get his whole ‘Spider-Man doesn’t kill’ thing, I really do, but he needs to learn how to throw a non-lethal punch, or at least how to grapple a bit, because his current strategy is just to dodge or let himself get knocked around until he manages to shoot enough web to take down a baby elephant.”

“Yeah,” Tony says vaguely.

“You’re not watching the footage.”

“No.”

She doesn’t do anything with this information, just goes quiet and watches him for another moment as she sorts that tidbit away into the gargantuan filing cabinet that is her brain. Then, very slowly, she sidles up beside Tony and rests a hand on his arm.

“You should come,” she murmurs. “For as long as you can stand it.” She gives his arm a little squeeze, then disappears down the hallway to say goodnight to Peter and Morgan.

-

It turns out he can stand it for about twenty minutes, and then Nat flips Peter over her shoulder and slams him into the ground and Tony excuses himself to go and sit on the cold tile of the changing room floor and try to remember how to breathe.

Steve joins him after a few minutes and takes a seat on the floor next to him. He waits for a while, leaning back against the wall with one arm resting on his knee, perfectly still and patient. Tony battles his way through one of those stupid grounding exercises. (He hates that they’re effective, or maybe he hates that they’re necessary. He’s not sure. The exercises just piss him off and he does them anyways.)

“He’s fine, you know,” Steve finally says. “He was laughing the second he hit the floor.”

“I’m sure he was,” Tony says tersely.

“You’ve seen him take way worse hits.”

Tony slams the side of his good fist into one of the lockers, hard enough that the entire block rattles. Steve doesn’t even react, just keeps staring straight ahead.

“That was before I watched him die, Steve,” Tony says, but all the rage has subsided as quickly as it came, and he’s suddenly so tired that the words just kind of fall out.

“Tony.” Steve's voice is calm and even. “We all watched someone we love die that day. All of us. Nearly every person on Earth.”

Tony knows. He knows Steve saw Barnes crumble to the ground. He knows that his trauma is in no way unique or even notable in the world they live in now and he knows that he’s utterly failing in getting past it, especially compared to people who had witnessed one of the countless horrific ways someone could die that didn’t involve drifting into ash. People like Wanda, like Natasha - people whose loved ones weren’t coming back.

“I don’t think I’m up for this conversation,” he says, struggling to stand - his bad hand has clenched uselessly into a fist and is of no help in balancing him. “Let’s try again later. Or never.”

Steve puts a firm hand on his shoulder. “Sit down.”

Normally Tony would have the nanotech forming around his arm and be aiming a repulsor at Steve’s face by this point, but he hasn’t called up the suit since the memorial event, and he’s just so god damned tired. So he sits back down and lets his head fall back against the wall. “Fuck you,” he mutters, with no real force behind it.

“Tony,” Steve says again, a little kinder this time. “I want to let you take your time and figure this out. I really do. But I think you know where this road leads.”

“I do not. Enlighten me, Captain.” Tony knows he’s mostly being a stubborn jackass for the sake of it, but there is also a tiny - minuscule - part of him that needs Steve to spell it out.

“We don’t know when the next threat is coming.” Steve removes his hand from Tony’s shoulder, apparently satisfied that he won’t make a break for it. “But it will come. It always does. And maybe the next one isn’t so bad - maybe Buck and Sam and Nat everyone else can handle it. Or maybe it is bad, and we need all hands on deck.”

Tony knows where he’s going, but keeps his mouth shut.

“When the next big thing comes, Spider-Man is going to get hit. I can try and keep him on the sidelines all I want, but the kid has a knack for getting right into the thick of things, and he’s unbelievably strong. I can’t bench him if it comes down to the wire - can’t afford to. Do you understand that?”

He does. Steve knows he does.

“And if Spider-Man takes a hit - or jumps into a situation it looks like there’s no coming back from - I can’t lose Iron Man too, to a panic attack, or God forbid to a doomed rescue attempt. I watched you fly into a wormhole with an armed nuke, Tony, and I watched you and Thor go down with Sokovia and I watched you put on that gauntlet. I see those images in my head on all my worst nights, and I would still stand my ground and watch you do those things again. That’s what being an Avenger means. We’re in it for more than just ourselves - we’re in it for everyone, and we’ll protect them no matter what it takes. Peter knows that.”

“He’s sixteen,” Tony says, but it’s not an argument. Just a sad, hopeless statement. “This is so fucked up. I hate it.”

“Wanda’s eighteen.” Steve’s tone is gentle. “It’s always been this way, Tony. It just means something different to you, now.”

Tony blows out a long sigh. Wanda. He’s barely even seen her, to be completely honest, and now he feels sick about it. “How is she?” he ventures, only half-wanting to know the answer.

“Grieving. We’re taking care of her,” Steve replies, taking Tony’s clenched hand and working to pry it apart. “Don’t make that face. You have enough kids on your hands right now. You can’t look after everyone.” Steve gets to his feet in one fluid movement and pulls Tony up with him.

“Head back to your suite,” Steve says, “and take a break. I’ll tell Peter you’re tired and need some time to rest. We’re going to train again next weekend. You can try again. Maybe watch some of the kid’s footage in the meantime.”

Tony doesn’t have it in him to argue, so he goes back to the suite and lays on the couch and stares at the ceiling for hours. He’s aware he made his choice, to half-retire and focus on being a father - and he knows this means that he and Steve aren’t co-leaders anymore. He left that burden on Steve’s shoulders alone and he should be grateful that Steve has agreed to carry it. But god damn if it doesn’t hurt to be benched, told he needs to get his shit straight, and have absolutely no grounds upon which to argue back.

(Even if they were still co-leaders, he wouldn’t have grounds. Steve is unquestionably and completely right.)

He watches some of the Baby Monitor Protocol footage. Then he throws up in the sink. Then he texts Wanda and invites her to come and play Mario Party with him and Morgan and Peter after dinner.

Wanda never answers his text, but shows up at eight o’clock in her pyjamas. Tony makes another bowl of popcorn and they settle in for another round of getting trounced by Peter. She even laughs, once, during the Slaparazzi minigame.

He can’t look after everyone, but his house is a disaster zone full of Legos and Cheeto dust and abandoned socks and he’s resigned to it now, so damned if he doesn’t have room to squeeze in another wayward teenager. It’s a big penthouse.

Chapter Text

XI. IT’S COLD OUTSIDE

Tap-tap.

2 a.m. A soft sound, barely distinguishable from the rain pounding against the walls.

A red-and-blue figure, almost invisible in the close darkness.

Tony peers up. Takes a deep breath.

F.R.I.D.A.Y. doesn’t wait for his command and opens the window. Spider-Man hesitates for a moment and then drops silently to the floor, landing gracefully on the balls of his feet.

He pulls off his mask and tilts his head to the side, eyebrows furrowed in concern. “Um...Mr. Stark? I’m sorry, I know it’s late.”

The lapse back into ‘Mr. Stark’ does not help his attempts to wipe the image of blood covering the lab floor from his mind, so Tony takes another deep breath. He’s okay. He’s not bleeding. He’s okay.

Peter realizes his slip immediately and smacks himself on the forehead. “Aw man, I’m sorry. Tony. Old habits...hey, are you okay? Is this a bad time? I can just, uh, go back home or something and call you tomorrow-”

Tony tries to say “It’s fine” (but it comes out as “You’re fine”) and steps forward to gather the kid into a hug that would be a little too tight for anyone without super-strength.

“Hey - my suit is soaked, you’re gonna get wet -”

“Zip it. Don’t care.”

“Oh. Okay. Yep. Zipping.”

They pull apart and Tony immediately starts heading for the lab door. “I’ll get you some dry clothes and we can get some hot chocolate going-”

“No,” Peter says, loudly enough that it startles both of them. “Um,” he says again, at a much more reasonable volume. “Could you stay - could we just - sit here for a minute?”

“Yep,” Tony says. “Sitting.”

He eases himself onto the lab floor - it gets easier every day, balancing, which is making him feel less old and pathetic. Physically, anyways. Peter gingerly settles next to him, arms wrapped around his knees, their shoulders the only point of contact.

Tony tries waiting Peter out, but after a considerable amount of time elapses, he looks over and Peter still has the same expression he came in with - furrowed brow, staring at a fixed point in the distance, lips pressed firmly together.

“What can I do right now that would help?” Tony ventures. He does this with Morgan, although since Morgan is five and hasn’t been in any traumatic life-or-death battles that he knows of, her answers usually involve juice pops or backrubs. If only his eldest was that simple.

Peter’s face doesn’t change in the slightest, to the point that Tony wonders if he’d even heard the question. Which is ridiculous - Peter hears everything - but maybe he hadn’t been able to filter and process it through all of the rest of the sensory input.

“F.R.I., be a darling and dim the-”

“Please don’t,” Peter cuts in, resting his chin on his knee with a little sigh. “Lights on.”

Something about ‘lights on’ makes him think of Morgan, and then it clicks. “Bad dream, huh?” he says, ducking his head to try and get a look at Peter’s face. “Want to tell me what it was about?”

He’s pretty much expecting Peter to say no, or perhaps nothing at all, but instead Peter lets out another tiny sigh and says “Tell me one of yours.”

“I don’t think you want to hear it.”

“I do.”

“It’s almost always you. On Titan.”

“Oh,” Peter says absently, still staring at the fixed point. “Didn’t you used to have one with Pepper falling into the fire?”

“Still do, every now and again. Just...less frequently.”

“Do you ever have bad dreams about Morgan?”

Tony considers that. “Yeah, I guess I do. Rarely, and they’re always...things like her telling me she doesn’t like juice pops anymore, or that I’m not allowed in her room ever again.”

“Sounds devastating.”

“What can I say, I’ve always had an overactive and morbid imagination.”

Peter huffs out something that might be a sad attempt at a laugh, and then drops his head back into his arms and lapses back into silence.

“Your turn, Pete,” Tony says, bumping Peter’s shoulder lightly with his.

There’s a long pause. “Can I tell you something fucked up?”

This kid and his non-sequiturs. “Yeah, go for it.”

“I can’t remember what my dad looked like. Like, at all.”

Well, whatever Tony had been expecting, it wasn’t that. “Oh,” he says, lamely. “Does that...bother you?”

“Yeah,” Peter says, very, very quietly. “It does. The thing is, I can remember my mom just fine. She was a geneticist, did you know that? And I always used to ask her a million questions about what she was working on, and she’d say that I had a future as a peer reviewer.”

“A geneticist, huh? No wonder you’re so good at biology.”

Peter peeks over at him from behind his arm. “Yeah. And she liked classical music, and wearing stuff that was yellow, and having fresh flowers on the table. But, um, my dad - he and Ben were brothers and they looked pretty similar, and - I guess they somehow got jumbled up in my brain? I remember Ben taking me to Coney Island and we ate a stupid amount of cotton candy and we played skeeball, but then I thought maybe that was my dad that took me, and then I realized I had no idea. I couldn’t even remember if it was before or after they died. So I used to, like, take a photo of my dad to bed with me, and stare at it to try and memorize his face, but it didn’t really work. It always kind of just morphed back into Ben’s face.” Peter buries his face deeper into his arms, muffling his voice a bit. “It feels unfair to...both of them, I guess. I hate it.”

There are many things Tony wants to say to this, things like you were just a little kid, of course your memories aren’t perfect, but instead he says: “Okay. Can I tell you something fucked up?”

“Go for it.”

“I lied. Said I helped with the Time Heist to save the universe. Really it was like, only eighteen percent to save the universe, and eighty-two percent because I wanted to see your ugly mug again.”

Peter starts to laugh incredulously and Tony thinks he also might be crying a little. “Holy shit. What? That is fucked up. You can’t just invent time travel to bring an annoying teenager back to life. Oh my god.”

“Hey, it wasn’t just for you. I said eighty-two percent.” Tony grins, even though Peter can’t see it.

“So fucked up,” Peter says, and then, “It’s okay, I still love you.”

Tony wraps an arm around him, pulling him in close. “I have the feeling your dad wouldn’t be angry with you. I think wherever he is, he’s probably just happy that you had someone like Ben to look after you.”

“How would you know?”

“I know everything. I’m a dad now, which means mandatory induction into the hive-mind.”

“Oh. Is that why you bought Crocs?”

Tony rolls his eyes back as far as they’ll go and slumps dramatically against the wall. “Pepper bought those, they’re for gardening, and if you ever tell Steve about them I swear I will forcibly buckle you into one of the Iron Man suits and send you on a one-way trip straight to-”

“Yeah, yeah,” Peter laughs, sniffling and wiping an arm across his eyes. “Anyways, Captain Rogers can’t give you shit for being old. He texted Ned the letter H last week. Just ‘h.’ I don’t know why, but it’s so funny that we’ve started doing it in our group chat. Like, MJ texted ‘sup losers’ and Shuri just starts spamming ‘hhh,’ and-”

“Back up. First, I am not old, you take that back immediately, and second, you’re in a group chat with the Princess of Wakanda?”

Peter grins and fishes his StarkPhone out of the pocket of the hoodie he's wearing over the Spider-Man suit. He hands it over to Tony. The group chat is titled “the four horsemen of the apocalypse” and their profile photos are four different pictures of Danny DeVito. Shuri (display picture: Danny DeVito in a troll costume, captioned ‘DEATH’) has just sent the group a truly horrific selection of pictures of baked beans, to which Ned (Danny DeVito in a doctor costume, ‘PESTILENCE’) has replied: ‘cursed’

Tony hands the phone back. “Please don’t ever make me look at something like that again. I’m old and I have a heart condition.”

Peter rests his head on Tony’s shoulder. “You’re not old. I take it back.”

Ah, fuck, this kid will be the death of me, Tony thinks as he swallows down the lump in his throat. “Okay, okay, let’s go get you some warm clothes. Last chance on the hot chocolate - yes, no?” He gets up, successfully this time, and starts to pull Peter up with him.

“I should probably go,” Peter says uncomfortably.

Tony knows Peter well enough to know that he would probably sooner cut his own arm off than ask to stay over, because he has a deeply ingrained terror of causing even the slightest bit of inconvenience to any other human being. This also means that whatever nightmare drove Peter to swing here in the pouring rain at two in the morning must have been unbelievably shitty.

“You absolutely should not,” Tony counters, “because I can’t sleep and I need someone to hang out with or I’ll get so lonely and bored that I’ll wake Morgan up to hang out with me, and then Pepper will kill me. Pepper’s gone so long without murdering me, it would be a damn shame to break her streak. Do you really want that on your conscience? ”

Peter considers that. “She probably wouldn’t kill you, because the paperwork afterwards would be really annoying, but I guess we shouldn’t risk it. Wanna work on those tactical simulations you started last week?”

Turns out the night has other plans for them. After Peter changes into a t-shirt and sweats and they’re headed back to the lab, they hear a tiny voice behind them.

“Petey?”

“What’s up, Mojo Jojo?” Peter turns around, raising his eyebrows at Tony as if to say, nice knowing you. “Did we wake you up?” He holds out his arms, and Morgan flings herself into them.

“No,” she says, her voice still muddled from sleep. “Wanna work in the lab.”

Tony feels like his heart might just explode. His sweet tiny little engineer-in-the-making. He opens his mouth to agree, but notices Peter still looking at him with raised eyebrows.

“Back to bed, peanut,” he says with a little sigh. “We can work in the lab tomorrow morning.”

Peter lifts Morgan up, and she buries her face into the crook of his neck. “No,” she mutters sullenly.

“No what?” Tony asks, reaching over to tuck some hair behind her ear. “You don’t want to work in the lab tomorrow? Too bad, Petey and I will miss you.”

“Ugh,” Morgan grumbles, sounding startlingly like an exasperated teenager.

“I’ll tuck you in,” Peter suggests. “And I can tell you about the cool stuff I learned in Calculus class today.”

“No math, no bed, ugh, ugh, ugh. Carry me to your room.”

“Wow, you’re bossy today.” Tony frowns, but Peter’s already obliging and carrying her down the hall. “Hey. Don’t just follow her orders. Quit being so obedient.”

When the Parkers moved back to Queens, Tony had set aside two of the penthouse guest rooms. One for Peter and one for May. This time they had all worked on the rooms together, setting aside a weekend to paint and decorate. Peter and May had conceded to Tony buying them both very nice beds with expensive mattresses, but only on the condition Tony and Pepper go thrifting with them to find posters, memorabilia, knick-knacks and decorations.

Tony had thought it might be hard for him, being in Peter’s room; seeing as he had five years of memories built up in Peter’s old room in the compound, memories of sitting in an empty, perfectly-preserved diorama and feeling like the weight of Peter’s absence was literally crushing him. But there’s something about the new room that’s so light, and comforting. Maybe it’s the way Morgan’s Dadaist scribbles are tacked up next to MJ’s sketches, or the maneki-neko waving away on the windowsill, or the beat-up old music stand Peter insists on using propped in the corner - something about it just feels like home, and Tony likes popping his head in from time to time just to take in the welcoming chaos. He knows Morgan does too. He’ll catch her in the room every once in a while when Peter’s gone. She knows better than to touch a teenage boy’s stuff, but she’ll bring her own toys in and play by herself, or read.

“I wanna sleep in here,” Morgan announces, face still firmly stuck in Peter’s shoulder.

“Yeah, okay,” Peter says, shifting her a bit on his hip as he opens the door. “All yours, shortstack.”

“No, not just me,” she says, with a distinct sniffle. “You too. And Daddy.”

“What’s the matter, baby?” Tony says, taking her from Peter and sitting her on the edge of the bed. He takes her little face in his hands and kisses each cheek. “Did you have a bad dream?”

Morgan avoids his gaze and scrubs violently at her eyes with her hands. “No.”

Tony can almost hear Howard Stark laughing at him from the great beyond. Two of them, he thinks helplessly. Two of them and they’re both just like me, and I didn’t even raise Peter, how does this happen?

Peter climbs obligingly under the covers and pulls Morgan in with him. He raises his eyebrows at Tony expectantly. Morgan raises hers too and snaps her fingers at him.

Jesus Christ how is his own face looking back at him from a five-year-old girl and a teenager who shares exactly none of his DNA. It’s amusing, and spooky as hell, but mostly just endearing so without further ado he heaves himself into the bed with a long-suffering sigh.

“I had a bad dream,” Peter says quietly in Morgan’s ear, so quietly Tony can barely hear him.

Morgan turns around to face him. “What? You did?”

“Yep,” Peter says. “I dreamed that I was a little kid again and I couldn’t find my Uncle Ben at the park.” He’s studiously avoiding looking at Tony. “So I looked and looked, and all the adults kept asking me where my parents were, and I didn’t know. And I kept seeing Ben just out of the corner of my eye but then he would disappear back into the crowd. I was trying really hard to call out for him but my throat just wouldn’t make any noise.” He chews his lip. “It was...really scary? I think.”

“That is scary,” Morgan says decidedly. “I’d be really scared if I couldn’t find Daddy at the park. I’m sorry you couldn’t find Uncle Ben.”

Morgan knows about Ben, and asks Peter and May about him every now and again, in the way she’d ask about a relative they don’t see often. She’s young, but also kids her age who were born during the Interim have grown up with death and loss as an inescapable topic. It’s so normal to them that the old convention of tactful avoidance is just not something that exists on their radar.

“Yeah,” Peter says, with a minute sigh. “Me too.”

Morgan rests a little hand against his cheek. “Okay, Petey, I’ll tell you mine,” she says, in an uncannily perfect mimic of her mother’s soothing voice. “I dreamed you were Spider-Man.”

“Hate to break it to you, KitKat, but I am Spider-Man.”

“I know,” she says thoughtfully, pondering over her next words. “But my friend Ava told my other friend Walker that her mom said: ‘I like Spider-Man, I hope he doesn’t get himself killed.’ And then I asked why Spider-Man would get himself killed, and Ava said that Spider-Man gets shot at sometimes or falls off really tall buildings.”

“That’s true,” Peter says evenly. “I did get shot at and I fell off a really, really tall building, and also a really tall building fell on me one time, and I crashed a plane.”

Morgan takes this well in stride, even if her father is suddenly feeling a distinct tightening in his chest and is literally biting his tongue to avoid yelling When the fuck did you get shot at you little dumbass-

“Oh. But you’re okay?”

“Yep. Remember when I broke my ankle tripping over Ned?”

“Yeah. That was funny.”

“Sure was. And remember how my ankle was better in two days?”

Morgan is bright and makes the connection immediately. “Oh. So it’s okay if you get shot, ‘cause you’ll just heal really fast.”

“Hey. It is most certainly not okay if-” Tony starts, unable to contain himself, but then his words die off abruptly. It’s not okay, not by any stretch, but there’s no way to explain to his five-year-old that her big brother is just going to be in dangerous situations sometimes and there’s nothing any of them can do about it, but their (small) saving grace is that he’s unnaturally durable. And there’s no way to explain that it’s shitty, and unfair, and that Peter has had his childhood taken from him in so many different ways. So while ‘okay’ isn’t accurate by a longshot, it will just have to do for now.

Tony takes a breath. “Is that what you dreamed about, Maguna?” he says instead. Morgan heaves a little sigh but doesn’t answer him, choosing to pet Peter’s face gently instead.

“What kind of TV are your parents letting you watch?” Peter asks, tweaking her nose. “Do you even know what a gun looks like?”

“No. Daddy says I have an overactive imagination.”

“Daddy should really remember an old saying about pots, black kettles, et cetera.”

“Okay, that’s enough out of you two,” Tony grumbles, flinging an arm over both of them. He kisses the back of Morgan’s head. “Do you feel like you can go back to sleep now, baby?”

Morgan snuggles down in between them. “Yeah.” To Peter she says, “We won’t have any more nightmares ‘cause Daddy’s here. Go to sleep. Now.”

“You’re so bossy,” Peter complains. Morgan puts her hand directly over his mouth and furrows her brow. “Okay, okay,” Peter says, muffled. “Sleeping. No, wait.” He throws an arm over Morgan too. “Morgan sandwich. Now I can sleep.”

“Cannibal,” Morgan says with an exasperated sigh. But despite the morbid and overactive imaginations of the Stark family, there are no more bad dreams that night.

-

“Hmm. Something told me I’d find you here.”

Pepper stands with her arms crossed in the doorway of the gym, eyebrows raised. She’s wearing a decidedly mom-ish robe over old sweatpants and still looks like she could walk into a shareholders meeting and dominate the room. Unbelievable.

“Someone told you I was here,” Tony mutters, throwing a punch with his bad arm and trying not to wince as it glances pathetically off the bag. “Who snitched?”

“No one snitched. It’s three in the morning, who’s even up?”

“Bruce, probably. Wanda. Nat. Does Barnes even sleep? I bet Steve just plugs him in to recharge for a couple hours a day and then he’s back to stalking the halls like a Walmart-brand Terminator, fresh as a grumpy metal daisy-”

“Yeah, yeah,” Pepper cuts him off, grabbing a pair of boxing gloves from the selection hanging on the wall. She passes by him, drops a kiss on his shoulder, and then falls into a perfect boxing stance on the other side of the punching bag.

“What are you doing?”

She raises an eyebrow at him. “I thought we were doing three a.m. boxing. Are we not doing that anymore?”

“We can’t both do three a.m. boxing. We’re parents now. Isn’t there some kind of law against us doing sweaty activities together in the dead of night?”

“That’s not what you thought last night.”

“Touche. Who’s watching our child, though?”

“The state-of-the-art A.I. system you built that creepily monitors everyone in this building at all times.”

“Safety is not creepy,” F.R.I.D.A.Y. echoes from above, not helping her own case in the slightest.

“Right,” Pepper says, smiling. “And if kid number two comes through the window with some kind of injury, I’m sure Morgan can stitch him up and make him some hot chocolate. Hold down the fort in the two and a half minutes it’ll take us to sprint up there screaming.”

“You would never sprint while screaming. That’s more my style.”

“I’d do it to keep you company, because I love you and don’t want you to feel alone in your neuroses.”

Tony throws another punch with the bad arm, and it connects this time. “Oh. That’s why you’re joining me for three a.m. boxing?”

Pepper doesn’t answer, just bounces on the balls of her feet and throws a series of flawless jabs.

They box for a while, and Tony is very aware that Pepper is waiting him out. He’s not trying to stall or anything, he’s just not exactly sure himself why he’s in the gym at an ungodly hour, and he doesn’t want to make Pepper figure it out for him. Sometime after Peter came into his life (or maybe after one of MJ’s sermons on exploiting other people’s emotional labour) Tony realized just how much he relied on Pepper for insight not necessarily because he couldn’t figure something out, but because he knew Pepper could and it was easier just to let her do the heavy lifting.

“I still can’t watch Peter spar for more than fifteen minutes,” he says, finally.

“Exposure therapy,” Pepper says, nodding her head in approval. “Watching Peter get thrown around by Steve was too big of a step, so you’re moving it down a notch and just getting comfortable with combat drills in general.”

“Well, when you say it that way, it sounds like I was making a smart and informed decision coming down here, instead of acting completely on impulse.”

“That brain of yours is fast, baby. I’m sure your subconscious figured it out and just didn’t think to let your frontal lobe know.”

“Yeah, sounds plausible.” Tony forces himself to focus. It’s just now occurred to him that he hasn’t been putting in the effort to get his form right, because some part of his brain has given up on throwing a good punch with the bad arm, so what’s the point anyways? He realizes now how counter-productive that is, so he takes a special effort to square up his shoulders and ground his stance better, and then -

“Nice, honey,” Pepper says, and whistles.

Tony figures if he quits while he’s ahead, the sweet feeling of success will motivate him to actually try again sometime, so he strips off his gloves and watches Pepper go for a while. He wonders idly whether she’s so good at boxing because she practices regularly, or because she’s Pepper and has that immense internal wellspring of focus and power that she just channels outwards into everything she does.

“Did you know the kids are in a group chat with the Princess of Wakanda?” Tony says, as Pepper finally finishes a series of drills and begins to unlace her gloves.

Pepper laughs. “Yes, I looked over MJ’s shoulder once and saw a lot of pictures of Danny DeVito. I guess teenagers are weird as fuck everywhere. It’s kind of sweet.”

“It is,” Tony says slowly, “and it isn’t. I just...feel a little conflicted. About Ned and MJ being pulled into...” He waves his arm vaguely. “I mean, how do you think their parents feel about MJ having Natasha Romanoff’s number? About Ned helping Captain America run his shitty Instagram?”

“Mrs. Leeds has been way better lately,” Pepper says lightly. “She actually waved hello to me when I dropped Ned off the other day and possibly even smiled. It was hard to tell.” She studies his face, tilting her head in that analytical way of hers. “Honey, they’re Peter’s best friends. They all look out for each other. We couldn’t keep them out of his world if we tried.”

“But,” Tony argues, “We could keep them out of ours. Being friends with a punk vigilante who webs up muggers in Queens and leaves them for the NYPD to deal with is a very different ballpark than being friends with one of the world’s top assassins and a genetically engineered supersoldier.” He sighs and sits down cross-legged on the mat. Pepper sits next to him. “I wasn’t thinking, Pep. When I invited Ned over for the first time, or threw Pete that birthday party. I didn’t think ahead and I didn’t think about the implications. I just wanted to make the kid happy in the moment, and I didn’t think about what was actually good for him in the long run. Or what was good for Ned, or MJ.”

Pepper watches him for another long moment, and then scoots closer to him and leans her head on his shoulder.

“Tony, how many civilians died in the Battle of New York?”

“Seventy-four.”

“Right,” Pepper says. “And not a single one of those people asked to be involved. They were completely separate, not mixed up in any Avengers business, living their own lives. And then they were involved, because Loki and the Chitauri are aliens and don’t differentiate between humans and enhanced humans and Avengers. Our arbitrary categories don’t mean anything to them.”

Tony sighs and leans his head against hers. “Okay,” he says. He wonders offhandedly if Loki can technically be categorized as an alien. It sort of makes sense.

“We’re all part of the same world, honey. There was some turning point - maybe the first enhanced human, maybe the first threat that could only be neutralized by an enhanced human - but past that turning point, it all became the same ballpark. Ned and MJ are growing up in a world where Captain America delivers PSAs to their gym class and they learn about Sokovia in school. And as for Peter - what was he doing in that first YouTube video you saw?”

“Stopping a moving truck with his bare hands.”

“Yep. In dollar store pyjamas. And if a second Chitauri invasion arrived around that time, and he saw on TV that the Avengers were assembling to fight, what would he do?”

“Stay at home and protect May and watch it all play out on TV,” Tony says petulantly. Then he sighs and tries again. “He’d swing out there in his pyjamas and start herding civilians, or more likely accidentally trip right into the middle of the action and get his stupid ass kicked.”

“Correct,” Pepper says. “Everyone knows that this auxiliary Avenger thing is just a formality, because everyone knows that if the Avengers really need him Spider-Man will be there whether you sanction it or not. I overheard you giving the kids the “If you want to drink, do it at our place” lecture a couple weeks ago. This is the same principle. You can’t actually stop them from doing things, but you can acknowledge it and be there for support and guidance.”

“I’m not a regular mom, I’m a cool mom,” Tony mutters.

“Debatable.”

Tony sighs and turns his head to kiss Pepper’s hair. “Has it ever occurred to you that we’re just two very distinct species of control freak? Except you’re the functional kind that can actually adapt to changes in plans and still keep everything moving along, and I’m the disaster kind that just keeps spiraling out the more things go off course and eventually ends up punching a bag in the dead of night when I realize my teenage idiot is growing up way too fast and there’s fuck all I can do about it?”

He can hear the gentle smile in her voice when she responds. “You know I spiral too sometimes. You were there when I cried about Ned getting his first part-time job. You’re just more honest about it.” She nuzzles her head against his shoulder. “That’s one of the things I admire most about you, you know.”

Pepper admiring him had, strangely, never really occurred to him. The usual things people admired about him - his intelligence, wealth, power, charisma - all felt like a veneer shellacked over top of the Tony that Pepper knew so well, and he’d assumed that when all those were stripped away there was nothing really admirable left.

Tony thinks it’s probably the nicest thing that he’s ever heard in his entire life.

“Shall we go back up and see if Peter’s bleeding out in the kitchen while Morgan starts a fire trying to boil water for hot chocolate?” he says, blinking to clear his eyes.

“That’s another thing I admire about you,” Pepper says, looking up at him through her lashes. “Your flair for dramatic worst-case-scenarios.”

-

“Ho ho ho!” Ned chortles, and thrusts a garishly green envelope at Tony with a beaming smile.

“Stop that, immediately. It’s November.” Tony pushes the envelope out of his face and returns to scrolling through his phone. “And I don’t like being handed things, you know this.”

“Oh dear,” Ned says. “Being a Grinch is how you get on Santa’s naughty list.”

“Being like this is how you get yeeted out of the Avengers tower penthouse by Iron Man.”

“Hey! A+ usage. Peter’d be so proud.”

Tony sighs and gingerly plucks the envelope off the table. “This had better not be anthrax, Leeds.”

“Dude. Why would your brain even go there? Who hurt you?”

He doesn’t dignify that with a response, prying the envelope open. Inside is a cheap kids’ birthday card with Batman on the front, except the “HAPPY BIRTHDAY” has been obscured with copious amounts of white-out and in its place, “YOU’RE INVITED” is scrawled in Sharpie. A Santa hat made of construction paper is glued on top of Batman’s head.

“What the fuck,” Tony mutters under his breath as he opens the card.

The inside is somehow worse, reading “ALL SIGNALS LEAD TO ACTION-PACKED GOOD TIMES.” On the facing side is a clever yet very unsettling drawing (MJ’s signature style) of Robin dressed as a Christmas elf. And then in Peter’s unmistakable messy scrawl: “You’re invited to the Parker-Jones-Leeds Annual Holiday Extravaganza! December 24th, show up whenever, we don’t care. Festive attire MANDATORY.” Underneath is May’s address, printed in Ned’s much neater handwriting.

Ned takes Tony’s stunned silence well in stride, procuring a plastic grocery bag from his backpack that is filled with more green envelopes. “These are for the rest of the Avengers. Can you deliver them?”

“First off, hell no. I’m not playing postman, and I wouldn’t be caught dead with these monstrosities. Second, I have some questions. Many questions.”

“I may or may not have answers,” Ned says serenely. “Fire away.”

Tony studies the card in his hands, turning it this way and that as if looking at it from a different angle will make it less disturbing. No dice. He swears elf-Robin’s eyes are following him.

“So...annual? You three have done this before?”

“Yeeees,” Ned says, flapping his hand in a ‘don’t worry about it’ sort of gesture. “More or less. Sort of. Less guests, and cooking, and planning, but we’ve got the basics down.”

“How are you planning to cram all of the Avengers into May’s apartment?”

“Easy,” Ned replies, with a confidence that serves only to make Tony feel even more concerned. “We’re cleaning Peter’s room and turning the bunk beds into, like, makeshift couches for more seating. And we’re moving the desk and dresser and stuff into May’s bedroom so that there’s more places to stand.”

Tony sighs. “I hate to ask, Fredders, I really do, but...does May know about this?”

“Oh, yeah, totally. She’s making us do all the planning and prep. Says throwing your first dinner party is a milestone of adulthood, or something.”

“But you aren’t adults.”

“We will be after this. Trial by fire!” Ned pumps his fist.

“That’s really making me want to come to your terrifying party.”

“You thrive on chaos and messy situations. It’s right up your alley.”

Damn. Tony Stark been called. Out.

“What’s on Steve’s card?” he deflects hastily.

Ned grins wide. “Kittens running through a field. He’s gonna love it. It was a condolence card in its former life, but I’m pretty sure you can’t tell after all the white-out.”

“What the fuck kind of condolence card has kittens on it?”

“Man, don’t ask me.” Ned drops the bag of holiday cards on the table and plops down next to Tony. “What are we working on today?” He peers over Tony’s shoulder, trying to make sense of the tiny circuitboards spread out over every available surface.

“The medscan tech in the Avengers suits. Right now A.I.s like F.R.I.D.A.Y. and Karen are able to detect really immediate superficial things like fluctuations in vitals, lacerations, contusions, et cetera - but Pete and I are hoping with some work we can get the scanners to go a bit deeper. Pick up blood clots, viruses, even cellular abnormalities.”

“Woah,” Ned says, with a low whistle. “Why are you trying to cram all that functionality into the suits, though? Not that a Spider-Man suit that detects cancer isn’t rad and all, but don’t you have actual full-size scanning chambers in the med facilities here?”

“Yeah, and we’re working on those too, of course. But the suits have more potential as distributables - easier to transport and airdrop and hopefully cheaper to produce someday - so as soon as we make a breakthrough on the chambers, Pete and I try and translate it to the suit tech. You up for running some simulations on diagnostic markers of acute myocardial infarction?”

“Hell yeah,” Ned crows, reaching into his bag to dig out his laptop. “I’m guessing you’re trying to replicate results on a variety of patients, right? Oh man, we should call MJ, she wrote a sick paper recently on how routine diagnostic procedures developed in North America are like, total failures when it comes to women and different ethnicities-”

Tony can’t help smiling. These kids. They’re amazing, is what they are. “You want to use the lab computers? I know you subscribe to the “more monitors, the better” philosophy.”

“Well...” Ned looks over at his laptop, and then at the sleek, shiny array of screens surrounding a gorgeous white leather chair that Peter has dubbed the Mission Control Chair. Then he looks back at his laptop. “All my stuff is on here. Can I just, you know...hook my laptop up to all the fancy monitors?”

And so it comes to pass that Ned situates himself in the Mission Control Chair, surrounded by some of the highest-end tech available outside of Wakanda, tapping away happily on his beat-up old brick of a laptop. When Peter arrives after band practice he sees that they’re in total focus mode, so in lieu of a ‘hello’ he starts right in with a suggestion on the wiring Tony’s working on as he slides onto the bench next to him.

The three of them have really got a great system: Ned is the software guy, crunching code, running simulations and coming up with endless outcomes and theoreticals. Peter is the jack of all trades: equally talented in biology, chemistry, and physics, he has an idea for just about every situation and they tend to be just as brilliant as they are off-the-wall. And Tony is the mechanic - the muscle, he thinks sometimes, the one who corrals all that genius teenage energy and uses his hands to shape it into something tangible.

Around dinnertime Morgan wanders in, presumably to fetch them, but instead she ends up on the bench between Tony and Peter serving as lab assistant.

“Wire-wound resistor, please, sweetheart,” Tony says distractedly, groping around for it without really looking. Morgan puts it in his palm and then pats his hand, which is so cute that he just has to take a break and kiss the top of her head. His baby knows what a wire-wound resistor is, good God.

“What do you think, Momo?” Peter muses, tapping his chin with his finger. “Should we go down the rabbit hole of scanning for elevated levels of B-type natriuretic peptide?”

“Stick to troponins,” Ned calls from the Mission Control Chair. “We’re not reinventing the wheel here. Troponins are way more reliable.”

“How ‘bout copeptin?”

“Petey. Stick to troponins,” Morgan says sagely.

“Ha. You tell him, Mozilla,” Ned cackles.

“Look at you nerds,” Rhodey says from the doorway, where he’s leaning with his arms crossed. “So cute. I just want to beat you all up and steal your lunch money.”

“You went to MIT,” Tony says, only half paying attention, as he’s working with an extremely finicky connection one-handed. “Pot, black, kettle, stones, glass houses, blah blah blah.”

“Eloquent.”

“Thank you.”

“Uncle Rhodey! Wanna come help? Do you know what a copeptin is?”

“No idea, Maguna,” Rhodey says breezily, sliding in next to Tony and helping him hold the connection steady with sure fingers. “Banner?”

At this Ned jerks and nearly drops his laptop. He looks up at the doorway, eyes enormous.

“Oh for the love of God, Brucey bear, you can’t just waltz in here and give my intern a myocardial infarction,” Tony grumbles.

“What?” Bruce gapes from the doorway, looking nearly as stunned as Ned. “Oh - you - you know who I am? Are you Peter’s friend Ned?”

“You - you know who I am?” Ned says, although it comes out as little more than a squeak.

“Of course he does,” Rhodey says. “Not often he gets to meet his entire fanclub gathered in one room.” He gestures towards Peter and Ned with a grin.

“I, um,” Ned stutters, “really liked your paper on time-reversed GRB light-curve characteristics as transitions between subluminal and superluminal motion. It was sick.”

“Yeah,” Peter chimes in, eyes full of stars, “Dude, we read it twice. Like...the way the model accounts for stretching in the pulse residuals...just wow.”

“There’s two of them,” Bruce says, looking a little like he might cry. “Wow. This is...”

“Why don’t you two fill us in on your little project?” Rhodey cuts in, before anyone can actually cry. “Banner and I can stick around and help. More the merrier, right?”

Ned has gone quite pale and his mouth has formed into a little ‘o.’ The prospect of spending a prolonged period of time with Dr. Bruce Banner and Colonel James Rhodes has apparently broken his teenaged brain entirely. He looks at Peter helplessly, and Peter is exactly zero help - even after the weeks he spent living at the compound, it seems that enough genius Avengers piled into the lab at the same time is still enough to reduce him to an over-excited mess. (He’s already just narrowly avoided knocking over his soldering iron while gesticulating.)

By contrast, Morgan remains thoroughly unimpressed. “Yeah, I guess you guys can stay,” she says offhandedly. “But you have to listen to Daddy and me. Daddy is the Lab President, and I’m the Secretary of Lab Safety.” She gestures imperiously at Rhodey. “Uncle Rhodey, go get some goggles, or you’re not allowed to help with soldering.”

“Yes, Madam Secretary,” Rhodey says with a salute, while Bruce awkwardly pulls up a rolling chair next to Ned.

“So...you’re working on...”

“Simulation of Mr. Stark’s medscan tech on an 87-year-old Polynesian woman experiencing a myocardial infarction,” Ned says, his voice still hilariously high-pitched. “We’re, uh...scanning for troponins...”

“Neat,” Bruce says (and he is indeed one of the only people Tony knows who will say ‘neat’ and genuinely mean it.) “Have you thought about looking for copeptin too?”

“Ha! ” Peter crows with a fistpump, this time actually knocking over a pile of wire connectors with his elbow.

Tony finally abandons his finicky connection for Rhodey to take care of. He just can’t manage it one-handed - his bad hand is still too stiff and clumsy. To take his mind off the frustration, he watches Ned and Bruce as they neatly hurdle over the awkward small-talk stage and straight into the science.

It’s fascinating and more than a little unsettling to watch Bruce these days. He and the Hulk have synchronized into a sort of constant give-and-take that shifts by the hour, sometimes even by the minute. When Bruce goes into Science Mode (like he is now,) the Hulk recedes into almost nothing and Bruce is only slightly taller than usual with just a tinge of gray to his cheeks. During training it’s nearly all Hulk. These days Hulk is...not sweet-tempered, exactly, but mostly amiable (with a particular fondness for Thor.) Most of the time they hover somewhere in-between.

Tony knows Ned well enough to know that the huge-eyed stare has nothing to do with the Hulk and everything to do with Bruce, who is currently leaning over to make a few adjustments to Ned’s code. Kid’s nothing if not predictable.

Three hours and five pizzas later, Peter and Ned finally work up the courage to hand Rhodey and Bruce their party invites. Bruce giggles himself nearly to tears at his card (Which features Godzilla on the front, of course with a construction-paper Santa hat glued on, and reads "SEASON’S GR-R-R-R-R-EETINGS") and Rhodey takes one look at his and reaches over to swat Peter upside the head. “Who dropped you on your head as a kid?” he says, the corners of his lips twitching in a poorly-suppressed smile.

“May,” Peter answers promptly, and that sets Rhodey off in earnest.

“Bedtime, Mo?” Ned says, raising an eyebrow. Morgan is drooping sleepily against his shoulder, fiddling absently with a spare breadboard.

“No,” she says, and yawns. “Um...maybe.”

“You going to this party, Stark?” Rhodey says.

“Duh,” Morgan cuts in, before Tony can respond. “I got my invitation three whole days ago. Are you going, Daddy?”

“Jury’s out,” Tony says, peering over his glasses at Peter. “That hurts, Pete. Why’d I get mine so late?”

“We thought having a VIP list made things seem more legit,” Peter says with a shrug, not looking up from the tangle of wires he’s fussing with. “After a review of our criteria, Morgan was the only one to make the cut. I dunno what to tell you.”

“Festive attire mandatory?” Bruce says, finally deciphering Peter’s handwriting. “What does that mean?”

“You’re green. Don’t overthink it.” Tony bends down to pick Morgan up. “Okay, Ms. VIP, it is definitely time for bed.” She doesn’t even protest, and just snuggles sleepily into his shoulder. “Tedward? You want to crash here tonight?”

Ned looks like Christmas has come early. “Yeah. Yeah! Let me call my mom.”

“Halt,” Tony says, holding up a hand. “On the condition that you goons go to bed exactly when I say so, with no complaining, and homework first thing tomorrow morning. No staying up late talking or I’ll get F.R.I.D.A.Y. to blast Enya until you can’t hear each other anymore.”

“Wow, someone’s salty about not being on the VIP list,” Peter grumbles, at the same time Rhodey and Bruce chorus “Yes, dad.”

Tony’s pretty sure Morgan can’t see, so he flips them all the bird while he carries her out of the room.

The penthouse walls are fairly well-soundproofed, but Tony does eventually hear the faint sound of Enya blaring at three in the morning. And he swears he can almost hear Peter yelling “Oh come on! ”

Teach those little assholes to leave Tony Stark off a VIP list.

-

The weather is steadily getting colder, and even though F.R.I.D.A.Y. is excellent at regulating the temperature indoors, there’s still a pervasive sort of chill that clings to the walls and floors. Tony frowns, wondering if he should install heated tile, but he knows if he brings it up Pepper will just laugh at him and tell him he’s watching too much HGTV.

“You okay, kid? You’re looking a bit peaky today.” He reaches out to poke Peter in the arm. The kid has his upper half draped ungracefully across the kitchen island, and he’s mindlessly shoving dry cereal into his mouth directly from the box.

“What does that word even mean?” Peter groans. “Doesn’t a peak imply a high point?”

“Peaky means ailing, ill, indisposed, run-down-” F.R.I.D.A.Y. jumps in helpfully.

“No, no,” Peter sighs. “I mean, like, where does it come from?”

“The etymology originates with the common nineteenth-century word peaked-”

“Yes, thank you F.R.I.,” Tony says, waving a hand impatiently. “Quit dodging my question, Pete.”

“I’m not dodging anything,” Peter yawns. “I’m too tired to dodge. Captain Rogers could throw another shipping container at me and I’d just let it hit me at this point.”

Tony raises an eyebrow.

“And then hopefully I’d get enough brain damage to not be aware of the inevitable destruction of our planet by our own hands.” Peter buries his face in his arms. “Why didn’t we listen to Al Gore?”

“Jesus. Eat your cereal,” Tony orders, because he has no idea how to respond. Somehow actually living through an apocalypse has made Gen Z humour even more fatalistic and weird than it had been before. “Are you going to get a bowl and some milk, or keep eating it dry like a sociopath?”

Peter responds by reaching into the box and for another handful of Reese’s Puffs.

After breakfast, Tony takes Morgan for a walk around to the compound in a futile attempt to burn off some of her insane energy. Maybe she’s an energy vampire, he muses. Sucking my life force, and probably Peter’s. That’s where she’s getting it all.

“Let’s get this bread!” Morgan yells, cartwheeling directly into the back of Sam’s knees as they enter the gym. Sam sighs and turns around.

“What are you hopped up on, huh, you little turd?” Sam nudges Morgan with his toe. She’s still flat on her back from the impact with his legs, giggling. “Iron Man let you have that sugary cereal for breakfast?”

“No,” Morgan says, giggles vanishing abruptly. “Only Petey’s allowed to have the fun cereal.” She glares at Tony, crossing her arms.

“That’s even worse,” Sam sighs. He picks Morgan up by the ankle and dangles her upside-down. “Up your parenting game, Stark. That little nerd does not need sugar first thing in the morning. Hey, Romanoff. Catch.” He tosses Morgan, who goes sailing with a shriek into Nat’s waiting arms.

“What am I supposed to do with this?” Nat says, keeping a straight face and holding Morgan out at arms’ length.

“Good morning kiss, please,” Morgan says, although it comes out more as an order than a request.

“Quit throwing my kid around like a football,” Tony grouses, as Nat covers Morgan’s cheeks with kisses.

“Which one?” Sam says. “Tell you what, you teach Spider-Man to get out of a grapple hold, then I’ll quit throwing him-” Nat shakes her head at him in warning. He cuts himself off.

“You two want to keep her for a while?” Tony says, deciding to ignore the entire exchange.

“Look alive, Captain Steve!” Morgan screams as Nat gently pitches her at Steve.

“How come she’s Auntie Nat, but I’m Captain Steve?” he says, catching Morgan easily and frowning at her.

Morgan tilts her head. “What, you wanna be Auntie Steve?”

“Never mind,” Steve sighs, and shifts her under his arm like he’s carrying a bundle of firewood. “We’re doing falling drills and acrobatics today. You in, half-pint?”

“Yeah!”

Steve smiles at Tony in a conciliatory way. Last weekend’s training had been difficult, and they’d had heated words again afterwards. Tony knows that he’s extending an olive branch by easing off on the combat drills for the day.

“I’ll get Spider-Man,” he says, quirking a half-smile back at Steve. “I’ll even make sure he’s mostly awake by the time he gets down here.”

“First rule of the workplace: under-promise and over-deliver,” Sam says, rolling his eyes.

As Tony turns to leave, he hears Morgan tell Steve, “Sam says that if I ever call him Uncle Sam he’ll have me arrested for treason against the United States of America.”

Peter arrives for training decked out in a gigantic and horrible red holiday sweater, extremely thick socks, his warmest pair of sweats, and a hat. “You know you have heaters in your suit,” Nat points out. Peter wordlessly peels back the sleeve of his sweater to reveal the suit underneath.

“Well, someone’s got to bring the holiday cheer, and the red is on-brand,” Steve says, clapping his hands briskly. “All right, stretching, then we’re going to work on handsprings and falls.”

Tony heaves an internal sigh, resisting the urge to snidely ask Steve how he even knows what ‘on-brand’ means. (There’s personal growth for you.)

Handsprings are his least favourite thing right now. He can’t seem to consistently get enough force pushing through both palms and often ends up careening wildly to the side. To make matters worse, his colleagues are aware of this tendency and have cleared a wide berth around him in order to avoid getting knocked over. Normally he feels like he’d at least be able to have a sense of humour about it, but he’s getting frustrated. Not being able to work on delicate circuitry without Peter or Rhodey assisting, waking up eight times a night from aches and pains, the scarring he knows now will likely never fade entirely from his face, the endless physiotherapy that he knows is helping but he’s never even been able to remember to eat consistently, much less remember a bunch of annoying exercises. It’s all adding up into a tense knot under his ribcage, radiating stress out into every part of him.

(Somewhere deep down he’s aware that it’s much more than these little things. It’s all the big things, the ones that are so much less fixable than a gimp arm. But if he thinks about those things in any detail he starts to see stars - literally and in his mind’s eye - so he keeps his eyes fixed firmly on the tangible irritation of his errant limb.)

Peter casually shuffles in beside Tony, yawning and shoving wayward curls out of his face. He normally doesn’t bother stretching despite Steve’s many lectures on the topic, but this time he sort of makes a half-assed go at it.

If it were anyone else, Tony would be very irritated by the kid’s ability to flip and tumble with singular grace even while apparently half-asleep. But having Peter right there makes him able to see the humour in the situation, especially when he predictably veers off course during a back handspring and Peter just casually pirouettes out of the way in a blur of hideous Christmas sweater. Tony manages to stick the landing, barely, and then he can’t help but smile - half out of relief and half out of amusement.

After training is finished, he and Peter make the executive decision to ditch Morgan. She somehow still hasn’t managed to settle down in the slightest and is currently having the time of her life in a mock swordfight with Steve, so they decide to leave Captain America to his fate and trudge to the elevator together.

“Twin Peaks?” Tony says.

“No. Can’t think that much. The Office.”

“Peter, no.”

“Peter yes.”

They settle on the couch, Peter building himself a burrow four blankets deep and Tony shifting about ninety times to arrange his sore joints just right, and then they realize they’ve forgotten the snacks in the kitchen.

“Fuck,” Tony says, letting his head drop back against the couch.

“Fuuuuuck,” Peter says pathetically into a pillow, his voice muffled.

After a moment Peter sticks one arm out of the blankets towards the kitchen and makes a clenching motion with his hand, furrowing his brow in concentration.

“Sorry, kid, it’s already been established that you’re not Force-sensitive,” Tony sighs, beginning to struggle to his feet.

“Hey,” Peter protests. “Sit down. I’ll get the food.”

“No, you’ll lose all the body heat you’ve built up in your nest. What is it with you and the nesting, anyways? Are you sure you didn’t get bitten by one of those things from Alien? You remember that scene where they find all the cocoons?”

“It’s called a xenomorph,” Peter sighs after him.

Halfway through the second episode of The Office Wanda drifts into the living room, looking like she might not be entirely sure where her feet have taken her or why. Peter lifts the edge of one of his blankets, inviting her in. (“Thank you, мали паук,” she says, so quietly that Tony can barely make it out.) They switch to Full House, because that is inexplicably Wanda’s favourite show, and Wanda in turn proves very useful because she actually kind of does have the Force and when they run out of salsa con queso more comes floating into the room from the kitchen with a few twists of her fingers.

“Thanks,” Tony says as he plucks the jar out of the air.

“You got it, dude,” Wanda says with a thumbs-up, in such a perfect imitation of Michelle Tanner that Peter dissolves into helpless laughter. Wanda just smiles and leans into Tony’s shoulder as she neatly snags the last Oreo right out of his fingers.

Sometimes, Tony thinks, you don’t have to talk about it. Sometimes it’s just one of those days, where it’s too cold and everything hurts and nothing goes your way, and the best (only) cure is watching cheesy old sitcoms with your fellow sufferers.

-

Over the last month Tony has had several firm talks with Peter about Christmas presents, as in, the Avengers are not doing Christmas presents and Peter don’t even think about it and yes, gift-wrapped bundles of homemade holiday treats count as presents and are therefore verboten. The Avengers made a no-Christmas-presents rule after a disastrous Secret Santa exchange many years ago and no, he won’t tell Peter about it so stop asking god damn it, and if Peter wheedles it out of Bruce or Rhodey Tony will know and there will be consequences. Et cetera, so on and so forth.

“But I can get one for Morgan, right?” Peter cajoles in the middle of one such talk, clasping his hands in front of him beseechingly.

Tony sighs. “Yes, but you may not get a loophole-exploiting present for Morgan that is also actually for Pepper and I, because: say it with me.”

“Tony and Pepper have already been given the greatest gift of all, spending Christmas with the people they love most,” Peter drones along with Tony, rolling his eyes as far back as they can go. “Neither of them have need of any further material goods and they hope Peter will respect their wishes in this matter.” He pauses for a moment, then pivots abruptly. “So you’re coming present shopping with me, right?”

“Pete.” Tony stares at him in open-mouthed shock. “We’re been having the same conversation for the last ten minutes, right? Didn’t we just establish-”

“Not for you and Pepper,” Peter says brightly. “Or any Avengers. That means my Christmas list is narrowed down to Morgan, Aunt May, MJ, Ned, Betty, our landlord Mr. Goldstein, Mrs. Kovacevik in the apartment down the hall, Mr. Harrison, the Miller kids from the building next door-”

“And you want my help with this why, exactly? You do know about my gift-giving track record?”

“I don’t need any help,” Peter says. “I’m an excellent gift-giver. You’re really missing out, you know. Some company would be nice though.”

And that’s how they find themselves wandering around Manhattan during the absolute peak of Christmas-shopping madness. Even Morgan had better sense than to join them, tilting her head and saying “Daddy, are you crazy?” when informed of their plans.

Peter has come prepared for the total onslaught of sensory overload of stores at Christmastime, with earmuffs to block out some of the noise and the special glasses Tony had designed for him, plus two sweaters, a large wool overcoat, a lumpy striped scarf that can only be a May original, and two pairs of gloves to combat the windy chill. Somehow he manages to sail right past “ridiculous dork” and all the way around the bend to “ironic hipster dork.”

“Let’s get a joint present for Happy,” Peter says, pointing at a craft store. “If we mail it express it should get to him before Christmas Day, right?”

“You and everyone else are mailing express this week, so probably not,” Tony grouches. “And what could Happy possibly want from that store?”

“He and May are doing another online crochet-along this month,” Peter explains, “and May says he refuses to upgrade from his old aluminum crochet hook even though it keeps catching on the yarn. There’s this really cool new set of bamboo ones out-”

After the Snap, Happy had learned that his estranged sister and one of her children had survived. He’d resigned with Tony’s blessing and moved to Madison County to help support them. Tony knew that the Parkers kept in touch with him, but not that Happy and May were apparently doing joint craft projects long-distance. “Okay, okay,” Tony cuts in, before Peter can get into the gory details of knitting equipment. “Joint present it is. The needles are from you, and I’ll contribute the courier fees.”

Peter has his backpack stuffed so full of presents that Tony has no idea how he’s going to fit any more, but there are apparently still at least three more stops on the list. Every gift has had an immense amount of thought put into it. “Mrs. Kovacevik did really well with her indoor lavender mint plant last year and was talking about trying different varieties,” Peter rambles as they duck into a tiny gardening shop that is inexplicably open in December, “So I thought if I could find chocolate mint that would be a logical next step, right? She has this great window in her kitchen that gets full sun, it’d be perfect. But growing mint from seed is pretty difficult, so it has to be a cutting. Hey, mister, do you have any mint cuttings right now? Oh, cool, is that applemint? Tony, what do you think, applemint or chocolate mint?”

After their second-last stop, in which it takes Peter literally an hour to deliberate between three pairs of earrings for May at an extremely offbeat thrift shop, they decide to break for a late lunch.

“You know, eating faster doesn’t actually mean you can fit more in there,” Tony says mildly, swiping one of Peter’s fries.

Peter swallows a bite of his fourth hamburger. “Yes it does,” he argues, “that’s like the whole strategy behind competitive eating.”

“Oh, are we competing?”

“Maybe,” Peter says evasively, reaching for his milkshake.

“Whatever you want to ask me about, kid, I suggest you get on with it before Nathan’s Famous starts sending its talent scouts after you.”

Peter nearly chokes on his swig of milkshake. “How’d you know?” he splutters, after recovering a little. “And don’t say that you know everything because you’re a dad now. I asked Mr. Lang about the dad hive-mind and he says it doesn’t mean you know anything, just that you get lamer and there’s nothing you can do about it.”

“Yikes,” Tony says. “Just because he’s given up on life doesn’t mean the rest of us have to.” He leans forward on his elbows, resting his chin on interlaced fingers, and fixes Peter with an expectant stare. “So? What’s bouncing around in that cranium of yours?”

“Um,” Peter fidgets in his chair, half-looking like he wants to shovel more fries in his mouth as a distraction. He takes a deep breath. “Okay. So there’s one more stop I gotta make but it’s kind of a long one, and it’s something I usually do by myself so if you don’t want to come that’s totally fine, really, but this year I kind of thought it might be nice for us to do it together. Or something. But if it’s too weird or it makes you uncomfortable and you don’t wanna come there will be, like, zero hard feelings, I swear. I totally get that it’s a big ask and I did it with May a couple of times but she sort of...prefers to handle Christmas a different way, it’s not like we disagree on it or anything and we have our traditions we do together too, it just isn’t her cup of tea and it’s fine and we talked it out, so if it’s not your cup of tea then-”

“What is it, Pete?” Tony prompts gently.

Peter takes another large sip of milkshake before answering. “I, um, every year I pick out Christmas presents for Uncle Ben and my mom and dad and deliver them to, uh, the cemetery. And I just kind of sit with them for a while. They’re buried at Maple Grove, you know, the one off Queens Boulevard and Hillside Avenue. It’s not too far if we take the F line. May says the dead aren’t tied to their burial places, so she likes to visit them at the places that mattered to them while they were alive, but it’s...to me, it’s kind of peaceful there, and...”

It takes a moment for Tony to be capable of human speech. “You...you want me to come with you?”

“Like I said, you really don’t have to. I know a graveyard is kind of a crazy place to go on a weekend like this, especially when it’s, like, this cold-”

“No no no,” Tony cuts him off. “I’ll go. Wow.” He exhales. “It means a lot that you asked me.”

“Well, yeah, who else would I ask?” Peter says, trying and failing miserably to sound casual. His choice of words only makes the whole thing even more touching.

They take the F-Line, and for once Tony doesn’t give Peter shit about preferring public transit over one of Tony’s very nice cars, because he has the distinct sense that taking the train is part of the ritual. It was probably something Peter and Ben had done together fairly often, seeing as the Parkers (like most New Yorkers) were clearly not car owners. So he squeezes in next to Peter and ignores the old guy across from them openly reading a porn magazine and the slush piling up on the floor of the train car. They get off at the Union Turnpike - Kew Gardens station and Peter on an afterthought picks up a Christmas wreath from a stall set up outside the Queens District Attorney’s office.

Peter and Tony walk side-by-side through the graveyard, close enough that their shoulders are brushing together. Peter’s right - it is peaceful, even though they’re not the only ones here; families walk together through the fresh snow, laying wreaths and candles and brushing powder off headstones. Peter makes left and right turns with practiced ease, leading them on a winding path through the graves until they reach five lined up together. Mary Parker, Richard Parker, Ben Parker, a blank headstone, and an empty plot.

“That’s gonna be May’s,” Peter says quietly, gesturing to the blank one. He points to the empty plot next to the blank stone. “And that one was gonna be mine, when May thought I was gone, but she never really got around to figuring out a headstone and stuff. Like I said, she’s not big on cemeteries.”

“Doesn’t it...” Tony has no idea what to say, and he fumbles for words to convey what he’s feeling. “Doesn’t it bother you, seeing that?”

“Nah,” Peter says, and he looks like he means it. “It’s kind of nice knowing that I’ll be with my family in the end, no matter what. I like the thought of us all being together here.”

Tony considers that for a long moment, staring at the row of graves. “You’re not going to MIT, are you?”

“I’ll still apply.” Peter bumps Tony’s shoulder gently with his. “But New York is my home. Everything that’s important to me is here. Everything I want to protect.”

“Friendly neighbourhood Spider-Man,” Tony says with a rueful smile. “Guess the neighbourhood is kind of key, isn’t it?”

Peter smiles back at him, and leans down to fish a few items out of his backpack. He sets one on each grave and then sticks a bow on each gift. For his mother, a Christmas-tree ornament that appears to be a miniature bust (Beethoven, if Tony had to guess by the wild hair and surly expression); for Ben, a camping knife with a beautiful wooden handle; and for his father, a book of short stories by Katherine Mansfield.

“I asked the caretaker once what happens to stuff like this, that gets left on the graves,” Peter says, crouching down and folding his arms over his knees. Tony follows suit and gets down beside him. “She said that if it isn’t claimed for a couple of months she tidies it up, but usually people come through and take things long before that happens.” He tilts his head, looking at the presents neatly lined up. “That made me feel better about leaving stuff, knowing that eventually someone’s going to use it and it won’t just sit here forever.”

“Between you three and May, you built a damn good kid,” Tony addresses the gravestones.

“Nah, I’m terrible,” Peter corrects him, although his cheeks are turning rather pink and he’s smiling. “Despite everyone’s best efforts. Mom, Dad, Ben, this is Tony. He’s, um, he’s really important to me.”

“It’s an honour to meet you,” Tony tells the Parkers. It had never occurred to him, the one time he’d visited his parents’ graves, to actually talk to them - he’d just stood there, and stared, and wondered what he was supposed to be feeling. But with Peter here next to him, talking feels like the most natural thing in the world.

“You’ve probably seen him on TV and stuff,” Peter says, “but he’s even better in person. And his wife Pepper is somehow super nice and a total badass at the same time, and his daughter Morgan is the cutest kid in New York, no, probably the entire world. I’m not biased at all, that’s just a fact. Morgan knows that I’m Spider-Man but she would never snitch on me. She’s got my back.”

“Morgan’s good with that stuff,” Tony adds. “She lives at the Avengers tower and hangs out with superheroes on the regular. You can trust her to keep Pete’s identity on the down-low.”

Peter launches into a story about how Morgan had pushed another kid on the playground for saying Spider-Man was lame, but had clammed up and refused to answer any questions about her crime until Tony and Pepper had gotten there and smoothed things over. Tony interjects at appropriate points, and then it cascades into another story, and another. Soon they’ve been there talking and laughing for close to an hour. It somehow feels like an actual conversation; warm, pleasant, inviting, all the feelings Tony associates with home, and family.

“Wow, it’s cold,” Peter chatters, as the sun begins to sink behind golden-orange clouds. “I can’t remember if I told you guys this last time, but the spider stuff has like, this one little downside - I get cold super easily. It’s a pain in the ass.”

Tony puts an arm around Peter, pulling him to his feet. “You’re a pain in the ass,” he says fondly.

“Yep,” Peter laughs. He looks down at the graves. “He loves me anyways, though. He has to, because we’re family.” Peter looks back up at Tony, with a smile as bright as the sun. “May says you’re an honorary Parker, but not to tell you because you’d get all smug about it.”

“Ah, kid,” Tony sighs, resting his head against Peter’s. “Don’t worry, secret’s safe with me.”

Peter waves goodbye to his parents and Ben, and then reaches down and laces his fingers with Tony’s as they walk back along the peaceful path through the snow-dusted graves.

Chapter Text

XII. SHURI

“I can’t believe it. Cap just told me that Thor got a VIP invite. This is ridiculous.” Tony lets the lab door bang dramatically shut behind him, crossing his arms and glaring.

“It’s not ridiculous. He’s coming from space. That’s commitment to holiday cheer.”

“He doesn’t even know what he’s committing to, Asgardians have no concept of Christmas. This is slander on the Stark name and I won’t stand for it.”

“It’s not,” Peter defends Ned offhandedly from the corner, where he’s sewing something onto the gigantic sweater pooled in his lap. “Morgan’s on the VIP list, so the Stark reputation is intact.”

“Don’t be obtuse. Appeasing a five-year-old tyrant is one thing, playing favourites among the Avengers is another. Nat’s going to be devastated.”

“Agent Romanoff is above giving half a fuck about VIP lists,” MJ says from her perch on top of a storage shelf.

“What the hell are you doing up there? I swear to God, this place gets more like a horror movie every day,” Tony sighs.

“I’m practicing perspectives.” MJ scratches away in her sketchbook and snorts. “Guess what, you look stupid from up here too.”

Tony chooses to ignore that, turning on Ned again and fixing him with the sternest Stark frown he can muster. “How did you even get a message to Thor, anyways?”

Ned grins sheepishly. “Uh...Dr. Banner and Colonel Rhodes may have let us use that intergalactic broadcaster the military’s been working on...like, just for a literal minute...”

“For fuck’s sakes.” Tony rolls his eyes heavenward. “Please tell me you did not invite that trash panda and its gang of idiot friends.”

“Relax, Tony,” Peter says without looking up from his project, “They were super flattered and all but they can’t make it. They’re just gonna like...swing kinda close by Earth and launch Thor in our general direction. Did you know he can breathe in space? Apparently he found out when-”

“Oh, no, you do not tell me to relax, Parker. Did you think this through at all? What were you going to do if the Guardians didn’t have important idiot things to do in space? How were you going to fit André the Giant and an entire tree into May’s apartment? And a crotchety cyborg? Oh, no, wait, you also invited Barnes so make that two crotchety cyborgs-”

“Thor is a literal god and the second-hottest Avenger,” MJ cuts him off. “So he gets to be a VIP. Now be quiet, we’re working in here.”

“Second-hottest?” Peter argues. “He’s like, seven feet tall and has the face of an angel-”

“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that and remind you three that this is my lab,” Tony interjects. “You know, equipped with state-of-the-art scientific tools and some of the most powerful computers in the world. And you’re in here doing, what, arts and crafts?” His eyes flick from MJ, who has completely tuned him out as she happily sketches away, to Peter, who has a couple of sewing pins in his mouth. Ned at least has the decency to be fiddling with some circuitry.

“No, this is science,” Peter says around the sewing pins. He carefully sticks them back in their pincushion and holds up the sweater to face Tony. “Merry Christmas!” Peter yells at the sweater. It comes to life in a blaze of miniature Christmas lights and what sounds like three separate songs playing at the same time.

“Oh, shit,” Peter says forlornly as Tony steps behind Ned for protection. “I thought I fixed the music.”

Tony watches the sweater in horrified fascination as the lights blink in and out with increasing speed and the songs jumble together into a horrifying dirge. “I can’t tell if that thing’s going to blow up or become sentient.”

“Happy New Year,” Peter is busy yelling at the sweater. “No, stop, Happy New Year-”

“Dumbass, the kill phrase is ‘and a Happy New Year,’” MJ calls out. The sweater powers down abruptly.

“You know what,” Tony says, “I just remembered I have things to do, important things, like not being trapped in an enclosed space with you three and a homicidal piece of holiday apparel. F.R.I.D.A.Y., you’re in charge.”

“Yes, boss,” F.R.I.D.A.Y. chirps, sounding more amused than an AI has any right to.

-

Christmas Eve Day dawns cold and cloudy, with flakes of snow drifting lazily down.

“That’s going to be a hell of a storm later,” Tony comments, gazing out the window at the close grey sky.

“What, can you feel it in your bones, old sailor?” Pepper snarks, smacking him on the rear as she passes by on her way to the kitchen.

“Hello, HR?” Tony says, lifting his StarkPhone to his ear. “The CEO just manhandled me, I’d like to file a complaint.”

“Sir, this is accounting,” the phone says back, startling Tony so much he almost drops it, and then a distinctively loud laugh echoes across the line.

“May?” He must have accidentally answered his phone before even noticing it had rung.

“That was some timing,” May cackles. “Nailed it! Please tell me your robot security was recording that.” Louder, she says, “Ms. Robot, would you send me a video?”

“Leave F.R.I.D.A.Y. alone, you infernal woman,” Tony grumbles, flipping the phone to speaker and setting it on the dresser as he hunts for his favourite warm socks.

“Yeah, yeah, you miserable old grouch. What time are you and Pepper coming over?”

“If I’m old, you’re old,” Tony retorts. “And the invitation said come whenever, didn’t it? That’s actually ideal, you know, because I like to be fashionably late and Pepper likes to be obnoxiously early, so no matter when we arrive we’re both getting our way.”

“You have a gift, Tony. It never ceases to amaze me how you can spout so much bullshit and yet never actually directly answer a question posed to you.”

“I don’t know what time we’re coming over. What time will the kids be finished decorating and cooking and doing all the annoying messy stuff?”

“You Grinch,” May says, clearly appalled. “Decorating and cooking is the fun stuff. You are unbelievable. I was going to tell you that if you came now you could help with the gingerbread houses, but now I’m thinking you’d just murder all the Christmas spirit with your bare hands.”

“Please,” Tony sniffs. “That’s barbaric. I’d euthanize the Christmas spirit humanely, with gloves on.”

Morgan H. Stark, VIP, screams in the background: “DADDY!”

Tony bellows back, “MORGAN!”

“Ow, my ears, why are you Starks so loud?”

“Daddy, get over here! You and Aunt May are talking too long!”

“Sounds like an order,” Pepper says lightly from behind him. She’s holding the exact pair of warm socks he’d been looking for. “From a VIP, no less.”

“You know, I don’t get this VIP thing,” Tony says, as they’re pulling out onto the Expressway. “Peter says that Morgan sleeping over at their place last night was an ‘early access’ perk, but it just seems to me like she got herself roped into helping them set up. Not all it’s cracked up to be, is it?”

“Oh, my God,” Pepper groans, rolling her eyes as far back as they’ll go. “You’re never going to get over this, are you?”

“Then again, Thor didn’t get early access, but he also doesn’t have to help set up. I can’t tell who’s getting the better deal.”

“Thor didn’t get early access because his E.T.A. is six forty-eight p.m. The Guardians are slinging him from a moving spaceship, the timing has to be exact or he could overshoot and land in northern Canada, or miss Earth entirely.”

Tony sort of wants to know how Pepper knows this, but one of the foundational pillars of their marriage is that Pepper loves the small finicky details that bore Tony to death, and he knows he’ll regret asking.

They somehow manage to find street parking only a block away. They’ve taken their most unobtrusive sedan and have bundled up in long coats and hats - Tony has impressed on each Avenger multiple times that they need to show up separately and in some semblance of inconspicuous clothing, so that no one is spotted in the vicinity of the Parker apartment. Now he’s wondering if he should be nervous about Thor hurtling in from the literal stratosphere, but there’s not much they can do about it at this juncture.

“Daddy!” Morgan squeals as May opens the door, barreling into his knees. “We made gingerbread, wanna taste it?”

Tony sniffs the air suspiciously. It does smell pretty good, not a hint of burning.

“Ned and MJ are the head chefs,” May says, rolling her eyes. “Peter and I are barely allowed in there.”

“We let you mix the dough,” Ned calls over his shoulder. He’s wearing a violently pink apron with yellow cupcakes on it and is very engrossed in cutting gingerbread.

“Oh, well, in that case.” Tony scoops Morgan up with a kiss and makes his way towards the tiny kitchen.

“Ned,” MJ says impatiently. “Can you do that somewhere else? The turkey needs to go in the oven. You’re in the way.”

“The gingerbread needs to be trimmed while it’s still warm. You and your turkey can sit down.”

“Do not tell me to sit down, Ina Garten-”

“Ina Garten?” Peter laughs from his spot at the table, where he’s mixing food colouring into various bowls of frosting. Tony guesses he’s been relegated to a job in which he can do minimal damage. “Ned has big Rachael Ray energy.”

“Wow, rude,” Ned protests.

“Yeah, especially coming from Guy Fieri over here,” May chimes in, knocking Peter’s head affectionately with her knuckles.

Once the turkey is safely roasting away in the oven, they start in on the gingerbread houses. True to form, Guy Fieri draws red and yellow frosting flames up the side of his and decorates it with candy corn sticking out of the roof like spikes. “I’m going for a Mad Max aesthetic,” Peter explains, carefully impaling Sour Patch kids on toothpicks and decorating the lawn with their corpses.

“Ben would be so proud,” May says, rolling her eyes.

“Hell yeah he would,” Ned agrees. “Remember when he did an Alien gingerbread man? Iconic. The black frosting was disgusting though.”

“How did he make that again?” Peter tilts his head and studies the bowls of frosting critically.

“He mixed every colour, and a lot of it. Don’t even think about it.” May’s warnings come too late, as Peter is already reaching for the tiny bottles of food colouring.

Tony and Morgan are working in a team. Pepper has abandoned their trash fire of a house to pair up with MJ. This means that there is no one to temper Tony’s weirder impulses, or Morgan’s for that matter.

“Wow,” Peter says, hypocritically, glancing up from his own horror show. “That’s, uh...”

Morgan raises an eyebrow at him and continues delicately pressing banana marshmallows into her side of the roof, which is slathered with purple frosting half an inch thick. Tony’s side of the roof is scarlet red and he’s working on a turret made from spare dough.

“That’s a genetic inability to compromise,” Pepper finishes for him, humming happily as MJ puts the finishing touch on one of the Monet-esque flowers they’re painting in frosting on the walls.

“Whatever,” Tony scoffs. “Peter’s worse, that’s why he’s the only one doing a house by himself.” Team Pepper & MJ have constructed more of an art piece than a house, while Ned and May have gone the classic route, complete with adorable frosting trim made to look like icicles hanging from the eaves. (Peter had been on Team Ned & May for a grand total of two minutes before his barbaric sensibilities had gotten him kicked off.)

Once the houses are done, for lack of a better word, Ned takes command of the kitchen once more with MJ as his Gordon Ramsay-esque sous chef. The two of them capably juggle turkey and various side dishes, with Pepper leaping into the action and Tony allowing himself to be ordered around by those more competent than himself. Morgan is tasked with keeping Peter and May out of the kitchen, which she has chosen to accomplish by donning battle armour (one of Peter’s very old baseball helmets overtop of the Spider-Man mask) and adopting a combat stance (legs planted firmly apart, brandishing a foam bat.)

“Aw, come on, I just want to try the cranberry sauce,” Peter complains, trying in vain to dodge Morgan’s swings.

“Unauthorized! Unauthorized!” Morgan yells, going for his knees with the bat.

“Jesus, Stark, you call this stuffing? Where the hell is the rosemary?”

“Someone help, MJ is bullying me, I need an adult.”

“Karen, please class Petey as a Level One threat.”

“May! Where do you keep your flour sifter?”

“What the hell is a flour sifter? Why would I have something like that?”

“Don’t worry, in a pinch you can just use a mesh pasta strainer.” That’s Rhodey, walking straight through the unlocked door with Nat and Bruce in tow.

“Uncle Rhodey and Auntie Nat can come in. Uncle Bruce, you’re too big to fit in the kitchen, go sit down and watch Christmas Prince with Aunt May.”

“Sweetie, Uncle Bruce doesn’t want to watch Christmas Prince, he wants to watch Shrek the Halls.”

“Hilarious, Pepper.”

“Auntie Nat isn’t allowed in here either, she’s going to criticize my knife skills. Morgan, add her to Karen’s kill list.”

“Karen says she doesn’t have a kill list.”

“Add her to yours then.”

“Ten-four, Daddy. Unauthorized! Unauthorized!”

And so it goes, with more Avengers arriving by the hour. Steve and Barnes arrive together in matching knit sweaters, which Barnes only looks marginally grumpy about. Scott and Cassie show up and immediately throw themselves into the fray, decorating snowflake cookies with gusto. Then Wanda and Sam wearing felt reindeer antlers and blinking miniature Christmas-light necklaces, and Carol Danvers in a faded leather jacket and snowflake leggings, Stephen Strange (who has interpreted “festive attire” as expensive slacks and a dark red button-down) and Wong (far more willing to play ball in a bright green suit jacket printed with Christmas trees.) And then-

“Bitches, I have arrived.”

“Dude-”

“DUDE!”

“What the fuck, you made it, you absolute fucking legend-”

Incoherent teenage screaming, and then-

King T’Challa looks helplessly at Tony as his sister takes a running leap into MJ’s arms, knocking her into Ned and Peter. The four of them sink into a shrieking heap, laughing and punching each other.

“We received an invitation in the mail,” T’Challa informs Tony and Pepper solemnly.

“My condolences,” Pepper replies.

“You three mailed one of those horrible things to Wakanda? ”

Tony’s query falls on deaf ears. The screaming pile of teenager has grown to include Cassie and Wanda, and now the phones are coming out and they’re doing some kind of mass selfie while Peter yells “MERRY CHRISTMAS!” to activate his nightmare sweater.

“I’d better not see that on anyone’s InstaSnap story or whatever,” May threatens, hurling a pillow at them. “Secret identity, Peter!”

“We won’t,” comes a chorus of voices that suspiciously doesn’t include Peter’s.

“Peter,” Tony warns.

“Uh oh, Spider-Man, looks like Daddy Stark is laying down the law.”

“Excuse me? Which one of you said that? Never say that again or I’m suing you all for emotional distress. Jesus. Peter. Acknowledge what I just said, or so help me-”

“Oh my god, fine, I was gonna post it on Spider-Man’s insta-”

“You’re not wearing your mask, dumbass.”

“Oh, right...”

“This is alarming. Is any other adult in the room alarmed by Spider-Man’s total lack of self-preservation instincts?”

“Wow, imagine Tony Stark being alarmed by someone else’s lack of self-preservation instincts,” Rhodey drawls unhelpfully. Tony thinks he hears a faint mutter of “Daddy Stark” coming from somewhere else in the room, and his suspicion is confirmed by Peter breaking into snorting laughter. He walks over to the teenager heap and sticks his socked toe right under Peter’s ribcage, eliciting a yelp, then makes his way over to where Morgan is defending a plate of cookies to see if he can steal one while she’s occupied smacking Steve with her foam bat.

Just before dinner is served, at approximately six-forty-five p.m., Tony hears a distant boom.

“Thor!” Morgan and Peter yell in unison, taking off towards the door. Shuri scrambles after them before T’Challa halts her abruptly with his hands on both her shoulders.

“Remember what you promised me on the ride over?”

“Discretion,” Shuri says, rolling her eyes. “Winter coats are the definition of discretion, brother. No one will see us.”

T’Challa sits down next to Tony with a heavy sigh as the Thor Welcome Party grows to include Cassie and Ned. Scott hovers around futilely trying to make sure everyone’s wearing enough layers. Steve eventually elects to go with them as a chaperone. The rest of the parents and guardians have given up trying to herd their respective idiots and have started in on the spiked eggnog.

“Where did he land, anyways?” Nat asks Bruce. “Is it bad that we heard the impact?”

“The idea was that he’d be able to slow himself down enough after entering the atmosphere to manage a pretty precise landing, and he’s wearing a protective suit,” Bruce says. “He’s aiming for Forest Park. By this point I think I’ve spent enough time with the guy to know that he’s incapable of making a quiet entrance, so I wouldn’t worry about the noise. Probably.”

“Reassuring.”

“I guess in retrospect we could’ve portaled him in,” Wong muses, stroking his chin.

“What, and deny him the fun of being launched haphazardly through space by a merry band of morons who were more likely than not to overshoot and send him to a different solar system?” Tony takes a swig of his eggnog. “No, it’s better this way. Trust me.”

Just as MJ puts the finishing touch on the last pot of mashed potatoes, the door bangs open.

“HAIL, MIDGARDIANS!”

Tony leaps to his feet and fights through the crowd of snow-frosted teenagers in order to wrap his friend in a bear hug. “Merry Christmas, Lebowski,” he says, grinning up at Thor as Peter’s sweater launches into a garbled Christmas carol in the background.

“Merry Christmas, Stark,” Thor says with delight, squeezing him back painfully. “Your nicknames remain confusing as ever.”

Greetings are exchanged and Thor sheds his oversuit as he regales them with the story of his arrival (which involved more than a few near-misses and Rocket getting half his whiskers burnt away.) The kitchen crew begins to dole out plates. The kids have made two turkeys, three gigantic pots of mashed potatoes, enough stuffing to kill a bear, and a literal pitcher of gravy. There was never any hope of fitting everyone at May’s tiny table, so they’ve stowed it in her bedroom and everyone eats spread out across couches, tables and the floor. When they’re halfway through the meal the buzzer rings and Peter opens the door to greet a deliveryman bearing a staggering amount of Chinese food.

“The second course,” he announces proudly, handing out containers of lo mein and ginger pork at random. Tony’s got to give it to the kids - they really did think of everything.

“I had forgotten how well I liked traditional Midgardian food,” Thor says happily, dipping a spring roll in some cranberry sauce. “Thank you for this feast!”

“Yes, let’s hear it for the chefs,” May whoops, raising her glass, and a roar of cheers goes around. Ned ducks his head shyly. MJ, sandwiched between Nat and Carol, owns it and does a grand sweeping bow.

“Wow,” Peter says to Shuri, as Tony settles down next to him with a third helping of turkey. “Is it weird that Thor is even more attractive now that he’s like, a space pirate?”

“No,” Shuri says dreamily. “That’s a whole-ass aesthetic, is what that is.”

Tony looks appraisingly at Thor. He’s still rocking the larger physique, and he’s tied his hair into a bun and cropped his beard short again, decked out in a beat-up old leather bomber jacket and scuffed boots. It’s an aesthetic, all right, but more importantly Thor looks happy - he smiles easier and laughs longer than he used to. It’s a good look.

Once all of the plates have been emptied (and most of the takeout boxes, courtesy of the enhanced individuals in the room) Tony and Steve lead the charge on cleanup so that May doesn’t have to worry about it in the morning. He finds himself elbow-to-elbow with Barnes at the sink.

“That thing waterproof?” he says, quirking an eyebrow at the metal arm. It’s possibly the first time he’s ever initiated a conversation with Barnes.

“What do you think?” Barnes grunts back, plunging the arm into the soapy water and emerging with a dingy sponge. “I’ll rinse. You dry.”

Tony tries not to notice the misty-eyed way Steve is watching them from the corner of the kitchen. Any other day he’d give Cap hell, but on Christmas Eve he supposes he’ll tolerate it.

After dinner is dessert - a wealth of adorable perfectly-frosted sugar cookies created by Ned and MJ, two rum cakes contributed by Rhodey, cannoli (the one and only thing May can safely cook), peppermint brownies from Carol, cupcakes from Scott, and some rather tasty peanut butter cookies that Peter waits until everyone tries a bite of before announcing that he made them himself.

“Peter’s good at baking,” Ned valiantly defends his friend, when Steve can’t hide the surprise on his face quite well enough. “He’s fine following instructions. Cooking is just too open-ended for him.”

“I’m too creative,” Peter says loftily. “Ahead of my time.”

“You have a disturbed mind and you need a tight leash,” MJ corrects.

“Whatever,” Peter says, slinging Morgan over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry. “Morgan’s the only one who believed in me, so we’re going to go hang out in the VIP room.”

“I didn’t think your cookies would be good,” Morgan says. Peter ignores her and marches down the hall towards his bedroom.

“There’s a VIP room?” Thor says brightly, downing his eggnog in one swig. “As my friend Ned has explained, a VIP is like a king, with all the privilege that entails.”

Thor’s friend Ned currently looks so blissed-out that Tony thinks he may actually die of happiness, so it’s up to MJ to lead the charge. “Yeah, come check it out, it’s very fancy. Get in losers, we’re going shopping,” she addresses Shuri, Cassie and Wanda. The girls all break out laughing as they follow MJ to Peter’s room.

“I am a king,” T’Challa sighs, flopping down next to Scott in a most un-kingly manner. “What were the criteria for this list, anyways?”

“It’s a mystery to all of us.” Rhodey is supremely unconcerned. “Anyways, the kids clearing out means we can drink more.”

“What’d you bring, Strange?” Carol turns the bottle of whiskey over in her hands. “JP Wiser 35-year. Nice.”

“Canadian whiskey?” Sam whistles. “Now that’s some next-level hipster bullshit.”

He’s singing a different tune a few fingers and three more glasses of eggnog in. Literally. He and Wong have started to yodel along with the Christmas carolers on the television, getting louder over Steve’s protests.

“Are you idiots trying to get May in trouble with her upstairs neighbours?”

“Man it doesn't show signs of stopping, and I brought me some corn for popping,” May, Scott and Pepper belt out together, drowning him out. The three of them have gone full wine-mom and are curled around a massive bowl of popcorn that they’re refusing to share.

“Don’t look at me like that, Captain America,” May says, with a teasing wink. “If anyone comes to complain, you just answer the door and flirt your way out of it, okay?”

“What? Why am I the designated flirter? Why can’t Nat do it?”

“I don’t have America’s ass,” Nat deadpans. “May. Hit me up with some popcorn.”

May tosses a kernel, which Nat catches perfectly in her mouth. At the same time a bout of yelling erupts from the VIP room, which Tony takes as his cue to go check on the kids.

He’s nearly taken down by Peter, who is doing a series of backflips down the hall. “What the-”

“Back at it at Krispy Kreme,” MJ deadpans from the doorway. Wanda is sitting on the floor at MJ’s feet laughing so hard Tony thinks she might choke. Inside the room Tony hears the squawking of a clarinet playing what he unfortunately recognizes as the Nintendo Mii Channel theme and then a crash.

Thor pops his head out. “We are re-creating iconic vines,” he booms. “I’ve just done a most excellent one, according to the children. Cassandra, please tell Stark what an iconic vine is. Something to do with theatre, yes?”

“I know what a Vine is." Tony glances at Peter, who is sticking to the wall.

“Rest in peace, Vine,” Peter says solemnly, and crawls back into his room via the ceiling.

The kids eventually burn off their sugar high and troop back in from the VIP room, draping themselves all over every available surface and settling in for more cheesy movies.

“Eggnog?” Steve says, holding out his mug to Ned.

Ned looks up at him with round eyes. “This is alcoholic. I’m being offered an alcoholic beverage by Captain America.” He takes the mug reverently. “Woah. This is the best day of my life.”

“You’ve set a record for best days this year, haven’t you?” Pepper says fondly, leaning down to plant a kiss on top of his head.

“It’s just a taste,” Steve defends to Nat, who is giving him an incredulous stare. “An all-American rite of passage.”

“That it is,” Nat agrees. “I just thought their first drink would be with me. Fake IDs, dive bar...”

“What? ”

“Come on. It’s safer for them to get it out of their system supervised by one of the world’s top agents, isn’t it? I wasn’t going to let them go off to college without having a few cheap beers with me.”

“Can we still do that?” MJ says hopefully.

“Yes,” Nat says, at the same time Steve says “Absolutely not” and May says “Yeah, what the hell.”

Scott shrugs and hands his mug over to Cassie. “Eggnog, peanut?”

As the revelry continues, Tony finds himself migrating to the fringes, choosing a quiet spot in the kitchen. Strange is already there, nursing a tumbler of whiskey. His expression is inscrutable as usual, but there’s something softer there as he watches Wong and Shuri playing a fiercely competitive card game that seems to involve a lot of hand-slapping.

“Aren’t you usually in the middle of any given party?” Strange says, his tone bored.

Tony shrugs and settles into the chair next to him, snagging a cookie. “Usually. What’s it to you?”

Strange doesn’t answer, but he doesn’t leave, either.

“I’m surprised you came, actually,” Tony says, after a few minutes of awkward silence.

“Yes, well, that makes two of us.”

“You know...I never thanked you for figuring out how to save the universe, and...for making it happen.”

“Are you going to now?”

“Not when you put it like that. Are you going to thank me for actually doing the saving?”

“No.”

“Asshole.”

Strange snorts, and they settle back into silence, but it’s companionable this time.

Tony notices that Barnes is also on the edge of the party, leaning against a wall in his ridiculous knit sweater. He looks...broody, as usual. With Steve completely engrossed in something Cassie and Peter are showing him on a StarkPad, Tony wonders if Barnes maybe looks a little lost, too.

“How's the arm healing?” Strange says in the same disinterested voice. “The fact that you can still use it all is rather unlikely.”

“Oh, ye of little faith,” Tony says, flexing his hand into a fist experimentally. It stays clenched. “Ah, shit.”

“I assisted in your treatment after the Snap,” Strange continues. “The nerve endings were basically fried. The damage was extensive and wide-spread enough that I figured you’d just, you know, go ahead and die.”

“Wasn’t that the plan?” Tony isn’t angry, just genuinely curious, and also more than a little surprised that the Avengers’ auxiliary douchebag had deigned to help with his treatment.

“No, not at all. The plan was for you to do the final Snap.”

“Which should have killed me.”

Strange looks down at his own scarred hands, and then back up at Tony. “That’s the thing about medicine, Stark. We try not to think in terms of should or should not, and instead focus on what can be done in the moment.” He pauses. “And then we do our best to accept the outcome, whatever that might be.”

“Lordy. Where does all that wisdom come from? Living in a monastery? Does it come from the cape? Or do you only get a cape when you’re wise enough?”

“You’re insufferable, you know that?”

Tony laughs, taking Strange’s glass and downing the rest of it. “Barnes,” he calls. “Hey. Robocop.”

Barnes’ whole body tenses, and he looks warily at Tony.

“Get over here. Join the fucked-up-hands club. Miles better than the VIP room. We have nice Canadian whiskey, while those losers are over there getting trashed on bottom-barrel ‘nog.”

After a moment of assessment, Barnes stalks over and takes a hesitant seat next to Strange. Tony pours generously for all three of them without bothering to ask them if they like their whiskey on the rocks or not. Drinking whiskey neat is for overcompensating businessmen and psychopaths and he won’t stand for it.

“Wanna bet on who passes out first?” Barnes inclines his head towards the living room.

“Morgan,” Tony says.

“I meant drunk.”

“I’m not betting with you jackasses,” Strange sighs.

“I’ll put a hundred on Wong.”

“I don’t have a hundred on me. Five on Lang.”

“Deal.”

Tony wins. He sits and laughs and makes unhelpful comments as Carol helps Strange load Wong into a portal. Bucky coughs up a five, which he crumples and flicks directly at Tony’s head.

“Can we take one of those back to the Tower?” Bruce asks hopefully.

“No,” Strange says, as he opens one more portal for Scott and Cassie. He flips them the bird and then vanishes in a shower of orange sparks.

“There there, Dr. Banner,” Shuri says, patting his arm. “This is your opportunity to show me the marvels of New York public transit.”

“We have a designated driver who doesn’t metabolize alcohol.” Bruce gestures at Steve. “If you really want to get pee on your shoes, we can take the train later this week.”

“You white boys have no sense of adventure.”

“Your brother has no sense of adventure. We’re going by car,” T’Challa cuts in, wrapping an arm around Shuri’s shoulders. “Say goodbye to your friends.”

Nat volunteers to take Ned and MJ home, and they leave with Ziploc bags of leftover cookies for Nat to bring to the Barton home, where she’ll be spending Christmas morning. As the rest of the party disperses, Pepper takes Morgan to May’s room to tuck her in. She, Tony and Morgan are spending the night, and then Christmas morning with the Parkers.

Once Carol has literally blasted off and the rest of the Avengers have piled into Sam's rented minivan, Tony realizes that Pepper never returned from putting Morgan to bed. He finds them curled up together in May’s bed, snoring softly, so he kisses them both and makes his way back out into the living room.

May and Peter are on the couch, building a gigantic pile of blankets as the opening credits of Die Hard 2 come to life on the TV screen. Tony watches for a moment from the entrance to the living room, not sure if this is his cue to go to bed after all.

“Quit lurking, it’s creepy,” May calls. “Turn off the lights and get in here.”

Peter grins at him. “Come on, it’s starting!”

Tony flicks off the light switch, leaving only the flickering glow of the Christmas tree in the corner, and sits down in the empty space Peter and May have left between them. He loops an arm around each of them and they settle in.

Long before the movie finishes Peter is completely passed out, half-sprawled in Tony’s lap. May reaches over and runs her hand through his tangled curls.

“Kid is such a cuddlebug,” she says, chuckling. “No concept of personal space. When he was little, Ben and I used to joke that he had no idea what the couch cushions actually felt like because he was always in someone’s lap.”

“You’re lucky he never grew out of it,” Tony laments. “Morgan whacked me with a Barbie when I tried to pick her up the other day.”

“There should be a law against children growing up too fast. I swear to God sometimes I look at Morgan and see her as a little tiny baby with those big bright eyes. And I remember when Peter was Morgan’s age. Now they’re both so grown up and smacking Captain America around. Unbelievable.”

Tony snorts. “That’s my legacy, right there.”

May leans her head on his shoulder and crunches another mouthful of popcorn. “So,” she says with her mouth full, “Making your peace with Bucky Barnes, huh?”

“Absolutely not.” He pauses, takes some popcorn. “Maybe. I have no idea. What’s it to you, Parker?”

“Oh, nothing,” she hums, grinning smugly. “It’s just, you know, Christmas brings people together-”

“Finish that sentence. I dare you.”

“Happy Christmas Eve, you miserable old Grinch.”

“It’s past midnight. Merry Christmas, you-”

He never gets to finish that thought, because the phrase activates Peter’s sweater, which comes to life in a blaze of lights and song and wakes Peter up in a flail of tangled limbs just as McClane blows up a jet onscreen.

Chapter Text

The first Saturday dawns bright and clear, and New York is full of fucking aliens. Again.

“Oof. Rude,” Peter says over the comms, as one collides with him at full force in midair. “Excuse you, E.T.-”

“You’re in the main channel, Spider-Man,” Steve sighs. 

“Oops. Sorry, sorry, I know, no quips in the main-” Peter’s voice goes dead as he switches over to his private channel with Karen, where he is free to spout off at the mouth to his heart’s content.

“Can one of the aerial Avengers give us a bird’s-eye?”

“I’m trying to fry their signal,” Tony says, doing an impromptu barrel roll to dodge a pocket of aliens as F.R.I.D.A.Y. attempts to get a lock on their ship’s bridge. “Falcon?”

“Goin’ up. Okay. So we have like, a million of these little motherfuckers and a giant - uh - mechanical goat? What the hell? Okay. The little dudes are coming from the ship - looks like the ship has a tractor beam - oh shit they’re beaming up civilians -”

“Spider-Man, get on it.”

“On it!”

Peter starts reeling the captured civilians back in with his webs. Tony hears an anguished “Oh, gross,” from a nearby airborne woman as a web attaches itself around her ankle.

“Getting probed by aliens would be grosser!” Tony calls cheerily after her as she’s pulled back down into Peter’s waiting arms.

“Aaaaand the goat has started running. Hey, the inside of its mouth is lighting up, that can’t be good-”

“Where is it going?”

“Why the hell would I know?”

“No, Falcon, what direction-”

“Straight ahead, it’s like fifty feet tall, y’all can see which way it’s going without me telling you. Listen to me. I’m ninety percent sure that thing is about to shoot a giant laser out of its mouth.”

“Ant-Man-”

“Yep-”

Scott explodes into giant form and throws his arm around the metal monster’s head, aiming it upwards so that the laser roars away harmlessly into the sky. The Machine Goat gives what sounds like an irritated growl and wrests itself out of Scott’s grip, continuing its charge away into the city.

F.R.I.D.A.Y. has managed to lock onto the bridge, and Tony propels himself closer, dodging the small aliens all the while. 

“Iron Man, status update.”

“Give me a minute. I’m going to try and disrupt the tractor beam functionality.”

“Ten-four. Scarlet Witch, can you slow that thing down at all? If we let it do any more property damage we’re going to have some serious paperwork on our hands.”

“And by we you mean me,” Tony grumbles, “because apparently no one else understands how to fill out a simple form-”

“No bitching in the main channel,” Nat sing-songs obnoxiously. “By the way, if you kick the little guys directly in the head, they just sort of poof.”

“Huh,” Bucky says, with a chuckle. “So they do.”

Tony looks at one of the small aliens as it drifts past. It looks like something out of a 50’s sci-fi comic, about four feet tall, complete with a little hooded robe and big lamp-like eyes. Sort of cute in an irritating way.

Rhodey is flying Wanda along behind the Machine Goat. She’s managed to slow it down considerably. “Falcon, can you tell if it’s charging up to fire again?”

“Uh...no, doesn’t look like it is. In fact, looks like it’s changing direction and looping back around to Liberty Park.”

“Okay. Scarlet Witch, just keep slowing it down, but we’ll let it come back away from the buildings for now if that’s what it wants to do.”

“So, uh, hey,” Tony says, cutting off his repulsor beam and squinting up at the smoking bridge. “Good news and bad news. Which do you want first?”

“Good news,” Hulk says, at the same time Bucky says “Bad news.”

“So, the tractor beam is disabled-”

“Yeah, I know, you could have warned me that there would suddenly be a bunch of civilians dropping out of the sky,” Peter gripes. 

“But our Flatswood friends are now pissed-”

Impossibly, even more tiny aliens have started to swarm out of the ship, like angry ants. They float in a way that doesn’t seem to obey any laws of physics. Individually they’re a bit of a joke, but there are so many of them and they seem extremely interested in the fleeing civilians.

“Oh no,” Wanda says faintly as the Machine Goat breaks free of her magic and takes off at an absolute tear. 

“Okay, hear me out,” Sam says. “I say we just let the goat do its thing and come back to it later.”

“What? ” several Avengers splutter in unison.

“No, yeah, I see what you mean,” Rhodey chimes in. “It’s only fired once so far, and I’ve been watching it go - it’s running in circles. I think if we just don’t piss it off it’ll-”

“Keep running in circles and leave us alone?” Scott pipes up hopefully.

“Yeah, something like that.”

“That’s a hell of a gamble.”

“We don’t have much choice, there are too many of the small ones to deal with,” Steve grits. “Spider-Man has his hands full protecting civilians right now, he needs some backup. Black Widow, White Wolf, Hulk, get on it. Scarlet Witch and Ant-Man, with me. Iron Man, Falcon and War Machine, let’s try and get the ship down and bring the fight to the ground. Has anyone heard from Strange?”

“Bet that asshole’s waiting to see if it’s worth breaking a nail over,” Sam grunts.

“Language,” Rhodey replies in a mock-scandalized tone. “There are minors present.”

“Oh come on, I’m eighteen in two months-” 

“Don’t remind us, Iron Man will have to stop and shed a manly tear and he’s supposed to be up there wrecking a ship.”

“Clutter in the channel,” Steve grumbles, before Tony can mount a verbal defense.

They make short work of the ship, and it goes listing directly towards the city (because, of course.) Sam leaves Tony and Rhodey to try and guide it down into the park, zipping off to join the Avengers on the ground. With some backup power from Wanda, they manage to steer it into a very ungraceful crash landing that nearly takes out Peter as he swings by with an armful of terrified civilians.

Tony chokes and opens his mouth to yell, but is beaten to the punch by several of his colleagues.

“Jesus Christ Spider-Man-”

“Get out of the way, dumbass, you have a death wish?”

“It’s fine! I had plenty of time-”

“Pay attention, Spidey! You’re giving me grey hairs over here!” 

Peter makes the most teenage noise of exasperation Tony has ever heard before switching himself off the main comm, presumably so he can vent to Karen and chatter at the nonplussed people he’s rescuing. Somehow Tony finds it very comforting that Spider-Man has been thoroughly chastised without Iron Man having to say a word.

Nat infiltrates the ship in short order, Bucky by her side. Unfortunately, these aren’t the type of aliens that are controlled by some large mother-brain that can be taken out in one go. Of course not. It couldn’t have been that easy. The thing is that there’s just a literal metric fuckton of them and the Avengers are going to have to take every single one out.

“What is their deal? ” Sam groans.

“They’re still trying to abduct people even with their tractor beam down,” Scott marvels. “Look, that one just tried to grab a guy twice its size with its teeny claws.”

“Ahahahaha - oh god, that tickles-” Spider-Man has been swamped by about ten of the little things, all trying to drag him back to their wrecked ship with bodily force.  

The Machine Goat is still running in circles, showing no real sign of aggression. Sam and Steve have figured out the hard way that if you hit it, it will hit back, but if you leave it alone it just...keeps going around and around.

So they buckle down and resign themselves to the slog of murdering hundreds and hundreds of tiny angry aliens that seem to have no goal other than capturing civilians - and also don’t seem to realize that their ship is crippled so the whole effort is futile in every sense of the word.

“This was a good one to call in Spider-Man for,” Steve says in a private comm to Tony. “He’s doing great.”

“Yeah,” Tony says, not even bothering to disguise the pride in his voice. “Our friends here even had the decency to invade just after he got out of an AP Chem test. Thanks, that was very considerate of you,” he adds to one of the little fellows just before blasting its head off. “Solid move."

Finally, after what seems like an hour, the small aliens have been wrangled down to a manageable crowd that Peter and Natasha are assigned to corral while the rest of the Avengers set their sights on the Machine Goat.

“Feel bad,” Hulk says. “Just wants to run.” 

“That may be so, big fella, but until someone builds it a wildlife preserve where it can run in peace, maybe meet a lady mecha-goat and sire a couple of mecha-goat abominations-”

Steve cuts Tony off. “Okay, we’re halting that train of thought right there. It’s causing massive damage and that’s all we need to know. So, its laser function seems to be triggered by a damage threshold, but it doesn’t seem to have any actual capability to assess a threat before it happens - which means...”

“We have to take it down in one go, before it can fire again, but we have some time to strategize,” Bucky supplies. 

“Yep. Any ideas?”

“I bet its weakness is its underside!” Peter chimes in.

“What, you think this is a video game?” Sam scoffs. “What the hell kind of aliens would build a laser-firing mecha-goat and just...leave it unprotected underneath?”

It turns out, these aliens would. Whilst swinging around Peter had caught sight of some loose wiring dangling under its belly, and Rhodey confirms with a quick flyby that the metal panels protecting its underside are of what looks to be a much softer composition than the armor on its back and flanks.

“No one said these guys were very bright,” Peter says almost apologetically as Sam lets out a colourful string of curses. 

Bucky whistles. “Well done, Peter-Man.” 

“Oh my god I said that once, by accident, please let it die-” 

Through a combination of Wanda slowing the beast down from a mad gallop to a manageable stomp and Hulk, Rhodey and Tony whaling on its tender bits, the Machine Goat finally topples just as its laser fires once more. At the last second, Scott goes Giant-Man, grabs its head and aims it into the crowd of aliens that Peter and Natasha are containing. 

Peter’s Spider-senses give him plenty of warning, and he grabs Natasha and pirouettes out of the way as the laser melts the remainder of the invading army.

“Spider solidarity,” Peter cheers, just before Nat knees him in the stomach and forces him  to release her.

“Nice, Ant-Man,” Steve praises. “Give Spider-Man a little more warning next time, if only so that he can avoid intestinal damage.”

“Ow,” Peter groans pathetically, flat on his back in the dirt. 

“Sorry, kid. Reflex.” Natasha squats down next to him and pats him on the head before heading towards the approaching Quinjet.

Once they land back at the Tower, Steve gives them all an hour to shower and take care of any pressing medical issues before convening for debrief. Peter trails behind Tony, Rhodey and Sam, chattering their ears off as they head towards the men’s locker room.

“Why a goat? Isn’t it weird that they’re from, like, a whole other planet and of all things they choose to build a giant mechanical goat? You know what though, now that I think of it, it’s kind of arrogant to call it a goat in the first place. It looks like a goat, but that’s probably just us Terrans applying our own labels to extraterrestrial creatures-”

“Terrans?” Tony says. “What, have you been talking to the Guardians again?”

“It’s not like they made up the term. That’s what everyone else in space calls us.”

“Less talking, more washing behind your ears, chatty Cathy,” Sam says, shoving Peter bodily into a shower stall. “Man, you stink. Your old man hasn’t taught you about deodorant yet? Stark, you’re supposed to talk to them about deodorant when the armpit hair starts to grow, keep up.”

“He doesn’t have any yet,” Rhodey cackles.

“Shut up!” Peter’s voice comes out a little too high, so he coughs and tries again about an octave lower. “Shut up, I do have armpit hair, you assholes.”

“Whatever, baby-faced wonder.”

“Leave him alone, not everyone can grow a flawless goatee,” Tony sniffs. “It’s a gift.”

“My mother always said I was gifted.”

“I said flawless goatee, Wilson, not mediocre goatee.”

“Ex-cuse me, tin can?”

Once they’re all decent and dressed in clean sweats and tee shirts, they troop back up to the meeting room. Tony gives into his anxiety, just a little bit, and holds Peter back for a moment before they head in.

“You good? You haven’t been to medical.”

“Oh, yeah, I’m good,” Peter says easily, then quirks an eyebrow and gives Tony a once-over. “Are you good? The only real hit I took was from Nat, but that ship hit the ground pretty hard-”

“Yeah, well, Iron Man is built to take pretty hard hits,” Tony says, clapping Peter on the back. “So is the Iron Spider, by the way.”

“Oh my god, this again?” Peter sighs, rolling his eyes skyward. “I told you, the Spider-suit is for everyday, the Iron Spider is for special occasions-”

“I just don’t see why you wouldn’t go for more armor all the time-”

“The red and blue one is more relatable, I have an image to consider-”

“Are aliens not a special occasion? What is a special occasion, then, pray tell?”

The debate is broken up when Hulk throws a giant green arm around each of their shoulders as he passes by, dragging them into the room. “Fight later,” he says cheerfully. “Debrief now.” 

The mandatory damage control debrief is an essential but pain-in-the-ass stipulation that Wanda had proposed for the ARROW Initiative, in which they review combat footage alongside an estimated tally of property damage and civilian injuries compiled by F.R.I.D.A.Y. Then, they submit a report to the ARROW oversight committee, detailing where mistakes were made in combat and suggestions for how they’ll improve next time. Frankly, it sucks. The debrief has to be completed within six hours of a mission, when they’re all exhausted and grumpy, and picking apart your own mistakes is never appealing even when you’re not exhausted and grumpy; but no one can deny that since the debrief was instated their collateral damage statistics have improved by leaps and bounds.

They each take turns being debrief secretary, jotting notes and then writing up the final report to submit to the committee. This time it’s Bruce’s turn.

“I think it’s Hulk’s turn, actually,” Bruce grumbles. “He’s the one fighting.”

“Hulk is illiterate. Nice try.” Nat chews on a pen and rewinds a section of footage. “Scott, taking out all those little guys at once with the laser beam was inspired, really, it was, but-”

“Yeah, yeah,” Scott grumbles. “What’s the damage?”

“You nearly took out a horse chestnut sapling from Amsterdam.”

“So?” Sam snorts, leaning back in his chair and propping his feet up on the table.

“Sam. That’s the Anne Frank tree,” Bucky says incredulously. “What do you mean, so?”

“The what now?”

And so on and so forth, until two hours and twelve pizzas later they’ve reviewed every scrap of footage and come up with the requisite six bullet points of improvement. 

“Okay, I think we’re done here,” Steve says happily. “Bruce, you have enough to go on for the final report?”

“Yep,” Bruce says, significantly less grouchy after downing an entire Buffalo chicken pizza. (While not specified as such in the ARROW Initiative, common courtesy dictates that whoever is serving as secretary for a debrief gets to choose the takeout.)

Morgan is waiting outside like a little vulture as they all file out. She immediately hurls herself at Bucky’s legs.

“Uncle Bucky,” she says, very seriously. “Will you be my model?”

Bucky squints down at her. “Me? What about Steve?”

“I took pictures of Captain Steve last week, duh,” Morgan says with withering condescension. “I can’t do the same person two weeks in a row.”

“Morgan, baby, the Avengers are tired,” Tony says, kneeling down next to her. “We just finished a bunch of very annoying bureaucratic bullsh-”

“It’s fine,” Bucky says gruffly. “I’ll sit for a few pictures, can’t be that hard, can it?”

Morgan’s current photography phase has been inspired in no small part by Peter’s growing interest in photography, and Peter’s pictures are...mind-blowing, to say the least, featuring harrowing mile-high selfies and New York sunsets shot at impossible angles. In a classic case of sibling idolization (and maybe a little sibling one-upmanship) Morgan has been roping the Avengers into modeling for her in more and more daring poses. Last week Steve had been forced to hold a handstand on the balcony for a full half-hour while Morgan figured out the right settings for her little camera.

So, yeah, it could be that hard.

Tony could enlighten Bucky but he chooses not to. When you have an extremely bright, devious and hyperactive almost seven-year-old, you take free babysitting where you can get it.

“Okay, well, have fun,” he says brightly, making his way over to the common area as Morgan drags Bucky away.

Peter is sprawled out on the couch in his usual way, gangly limbs thrown akimbo to the point where it looks like he might fall off any second. He’s already dead to the world and snoring.

“It wasn’t that tough of a mission, was it?” Steve says, coming to stand beside Tony with his arms crossed. “Seems like it took a lot of out him.”

“No, that would be finals,” Tony says, leaning down to gently rearrange Peter’s arms and legs so that he’s in less danger of flopping onto the floor. Peter snorts and throws an arm over his eyes but otherwise doesn’t stir.

“Things sure have changed since I was in high school,” Steve muses. 

“Yeah, no shit. They don’t have to share slates with their deskmates anymore for starters, and also classrooms have central heating instead of coal stoves.”

“I went to a city school. We didn’t have to share slates.”

“Not helping your case, Laura Ingalls.”

Steve rolls his eyes. “No, I mean, high school seems so...competitive, these days.”

“Yeah,” Tony agrees. “Real grinder they put the kids through.” He allows himself a proud grin. “Pete’s doing pretty well for himself, though. Tied with MJ for valedictorian.”

Steve whistles. “Wow. Should we put a security detail on him, just in case?”

“MJ wouldn’t take him out over valedictorian.” Tony tilts his head pensively. “Probably.”

Nat passes by and very, very casually drops a blanket over Peter’s sleeping form. She takes in Steve and Tony’s matching grins with a dangerously lifted eyebrow before turning and stalking off to her quarters. “I just feel bad for clocking him in the internal organs,” she calls over her shoulder, flipping them the bird. “Why do you two have to make everything weird, huh?”

Steve frowns at that and glances at Tony. “Do we make everything weird?”

“Yes,” Sam says instantly. 

“You pair of sappy old fucks,” Rhodey echoes from the other side of the room, without looking up from his magazine.

-

The second Saturday is family breakfast, which means May, Pepper and Morgan are up at an ungodly hour blaring music from the kitchen as the smell of burnt waffles drifts through the house. Even on the off-chance Tony could sleep through those two factors, there’s no ignoring the squealing bundle of energy hurling itself directly into his chest.

“Daddy. Daaaaddy. Dad. Dad. Dad.”

“Morgan, Morgan, Morgan,” Tony grumbles.

“You have to get up or Aunt May’s gonna set off the fire alarm.”

“That’s fine, we have sprinklers.”

Morgan wiggles under his arm and cuddles right up next to him. Okay, that’s fucking cute. Especially since she’s fast approaching the age where she won’t even hold his hand in public anymore - he’ll take cuddles when he can get them.

Once his defenses are well and thoroughly lowered, Morgan puts her little face right next to his and says, “Water damage is expensive.”

“Okay, okay. God, has anyone told you that you’re just like your mother?” Tony sighs, heaving himself out of bed and giving Morgan a kiss on the cheek before setting her down on the floor. “Let’s go get Peter.”

Morgan cackles and takes off at a sprint.

“Be nice,” Tony calls after her down the hall.

Judging from the strangled noise coming from Peter’s room, Tony’s words have gone unheeded. He pokes his head into Peter’s room a moment later.

“Peter. Peter. Petey. Petey. Pete.”

The groan Peter makes is long, miserable, and sounds kind of like a piece of machinery on the brink of failure. Morgan is sitting on the middle of his back and insistently poking his ribs.

“Come on, Petey. It’s breakfast.”

“Not getting up for burned waffles,” Peter mutters, stuffing his head under a pillow.

“What will you get up for?”

“Paella.”

“We don’t have that. Pick something else.”

“Tonkotsu ramen.”

“That’s not a real food, you made that up!”

“Did not,” Peter says from under his pillow, but Tony can hear the smile in his voice. “It’s noodles with pork bone broth, and seaweed, and sometimes an egg-”

Morgan has lost patience and resorted back to poking. “Peter. Get. Up. Quit. Making. Up. Foods.”

Thanks to the iron will of Morgan Stark, Peter turns up in the kitchen approximately ten minutes later. He flops down next to Pepper, promptly lays his head on his arms and goes back to sleep at the kitchen table. 

“How can he sleep through this?” Tony says, gesturing to Peter’s slouched form. He’s taken over the waffle cooking and switched the music from Best of Broadway to Black Sabbath. To his immense, heart-swelling pride, Morgan is singing the words to Hole in the Sky and doing an air-guitar solo, while May sits cross-legged drumming along on the floor.

“Window in time! ” Morgan yells, dropping to her knees for extra drama.

“That’s my baby,” Tony says to Pepper, pointing at Morgan. “Look. That is my daughter.”

“You said she was my daughter last week when she corrected your pronunciation.”

“See!” Tony throws his hands up. “There it is. Genetic flair for pedantry.”

Pepper grins saucily at him over the rim of her coffee mug. “We keep you honest. Right, Peter?” She puts an arm around Peter and pulls him up and into her side, tucking his head under her chin. Peter mumbles something incoherent that sounds like ‘yeah.’

“Why are you so tired, huh?” Pepper frowns down at him but doesn’t get an answer. “You alive in there, baby?”

“If I didn’t know better I’d think he was coming down with something,” May says, as Morgan finishes her guitar solo and collapses laughing into May’s lap. She wraps her arms around Morgan and blows a raspberry into her cheek. “But your brother has freaky mutant DNA and can’t get sick,” she sing-songs. 

“Avoid the common cold with this one weird trick. Doctors hate him!” Tony interjects in his best commercial voice.

“Hey. You two quit ganging up on him. He can’t help his freaky DNA,” Pepper says, putting her other arm around Peter and drawing him in closer. She plants a kiss on his tousled head. “Are you just going to sit there and take this, Mr. Parker?”

“Mhm,” Peter mumbles again.

The smell of food fails to wake him up in any significant way (unusual) and MJ’s arrival later in the morning registers barely more than a wave from under a pile of blankets on the couch (even more unusual.) At this point May sends him back to bed.

“Sorry you came all the way out here, love,” Pepper says to MJ as Peter shuffles off down the hall wrapped in a blanket, muttering apologies. 

“MJ can still stay and study here, right?” Morgan says, her small limbs wrapped around MJ’s legs. “If you study here, I can read all the flash cards and you won’t have to argue with Petey about whose turn it is. Also Daddy will make us a really good snack. And then later you and me and Mommy and Aunt May can hang out with no boys allowed and Daddy can go into the lab.” Here she shoots Tony a pointed glance.

Tony raises an eyebrow. “You want me to make you a good snack, you have to suffer my company. Those are the terms.”

“Yeah, I’ll hang out for a while,” MJ laughs, and gestures vaguely at Tony. “You can stay. I guess.”

“Jubilations,” Tony snarks. He wraps an arm around MJ and she knocks her head against his shoulder, which is about as close to affectionate as she gets.

Everyone ends up gathered in the living room. Tony makes a halfhearted attempt at hacking his way through some Department of Damage Control forms from their last mission, while May and Pepper elect to forego work entirely and curl up with books.

“Ad hon-honanim?” Morgan pauses, scrunching up her nose at the flash card in her hand. MJ watches her expectantly. Morgan tries again. “Hom. In. Em. Ad hominem.”

“That’s it, buddy. Ad hominem: an argument based on the failings of an adversary rather than on the merits of the case.”

“That’s right!” Morgan yells, although there’s no way she read the card fast enough to corroborate MJ’s answer. She reaches out for a high-five, which is summarily granted. 

“Hamar-tee-ah.” 

“Nope.”

Morgan furrows her eyebrows and stares at the card for a minute. “Hammer-tee-ah?”

MJ grins and shakes her head. “Nein, fraulein.”

“What else could it be?” Morgan says exasperatedly.

“What other words do you know that end in t-i-a? Think of a word your Dad uses in the lab.”

Another minute later and Morgan lights up: “Inertia! You say it like inertia! Hamartia.”

When Tony had met Ned and MJ, he had done his usual Tony Stark analysis, where he had immediately sorted them into categories and tried to fit their friendships with Peter into easy-to-understand archetypes. The same system he used to make sense of the Avengers. He’d pegged Ned as the organizer of the group, MJ as the instigator lighting a fire under them, and Peter as the heart - the emotional glue holding everything together. 

Now, watching MJ patiently guide Morgan towards finding her own answers - helping, but never stepping in with an answer, no matter how long Morgan takes - Tony has a sudden realization that’s been crystallizing in the back of his head for years. He was right about Peter. He’d had Ned and MJ backwards. Ned is the fire, with boundless enthusiasm and raw energy propelling them all along. MJ is the solid backbone. Endless patience, an analytical mind, and an ability to see five steps ahead no matter what the situation.

If there’s anything Tony has learned over decades of knowing Pepper Potts and Natasha Romanoff, it is this: to look closely. When someone spends their life in careful scrutiny of the people and situations around them they often escape coming under any scrutiny of their own, because it’s assumed that they’re taking care of it. Whatever ‘it’ is.

So Tony looks a bit closer and notices that MJ is tired. 

It’s subtle. Especially in contrast to Peter’s heart-on-his-sleeve brand of expression. Where Peter has spent the past few days napping on every available surface, MJ stops to rub her eyes every few flashcards. Where Peter excuses himself from mealtimes with an easygoing grin, MJ mixes up instances of dramatic and situational irony in Shakespeare and mutters ‘stupid’ to herself so quietly it’s almost impossible to hear. Tony casually puts his papers aside and texts Pepper and May.

[Parker-Stark-Potts Council of Elders]

(TS) 14:31 
I think the kids are up to something.

(May Parker) 14:32
fucks sakes when are the kids not up to something

(Pepper Potts) 14:32
When are they not?

(Pepper Potts) 14:32
Ha ha @May

(May Parker) 14:33
So i’m not the only one seeing it huh

(May Parker) 14:33
they’re all exhausted

(May Parker) 14:33
and not finals exhausted, more like “ned fell asleep while eating his spaghetti and peter didn’t notice” exhausted

MJ stops reading aloud with Morgan and glances around at them. “What are you three texting about? None of you are subtle, you know.” She raises an eyebrow and fixes Tony with a calculating look.

“I found a really cool new meme and sent it to our group chat,” May replies brightly. “Wanna see?”

“Nah, I’m good,” MJ says, adjusting Morgan in her lap. “Hey, little dude. Let’s switch. I’ll be Banquo and you be Macbeth.”

“Yeah!” Morgan cheers. “Can I be Banquo again when he’s a ghost, though?”

(TS) 14:34
Nice bluff, Parker. 

(May Parker) 14:34
Thank you. i’m comfortable and secure in my identity as an uncool old lady. unlike you

(TS) 14:35
You’re just jealous that the memes I send are actually funny. 

(TS) 14:35
What do we say - three-pronged approach? May tackles Pete, I go after Ned, and Pepper cracks MJ?

(May Parker) 14:36
we could also alert their actual parents

(May Parker) 14:36
Ha i’m kidding god could you IMAGINE

(Pepper Potts) 14:36
Not to mention, I think it’s a Spider-Man thing.

(TS) 14:37
You do? What makes you think that?

(Pepper Potts) 14:38
Spidey senses... ;)

(May Parker) 14:38
Superhero stuff. Tony’s problem then

(TS) 14:39
What?? 

Really, though, Tony knows that May is right. He’d also had a suspicion that Peter’s malaise of late has something to do with Spider-Man. This one is up to him. In the unorthodox little family they’ve built, this is how it goes: Pepper sits with MJ for hours agonizing over college application essays, and where the line is between ‘authentic’ and ‘emotionally exploitative’ is when it comes to writing about personal growth. May and Ned binge-watch Friends together while eating Potchi candy and crying over Ned’s breakup with Betty Brant. Tony and Peter fight about the inherent responsibilities that come with vigilantism as Tony stitches up gashes and pops dislocated shoulders back into sockets.

(Sometimes Tony feels like he has the easiest time of it, between the three of them.)

As Tony watches Morgan leap around the living room in a sheet, getting very into her role as Ghost Banquo, he formulates a strategy. Usually when it comes to this kind of thing he goes after Ned first, because Ned predictably cracks like an egg and spills whatever Peter is up to. But now he’s thinking it’s no coincidence that Ned hasn’t been by the Tower in a couple weeks.

Those little shits are onto him. Whatever they’re doing, it’s important to them that Tony doesn’t figure it out. Tony could of course go after Peter next, but that’s probably exactly what they’re expecting. 

“Hey, MJ,” Tony says, long after Morgan has gotten bored of Shakespeare and curled up next to May with the little pink retro GameBoy Peter built for her sixth birthday.

“Hey, Tony,” MJ replies distractedly. She's scribbling furiously on a worksheet, like there's some kind of self-imposed time limit.

“I have it on good intel that Romanoff and Barnes are hanging out in the basement bar. Want to take a break and crash their party?”

MJ perks up at the mention of her favourite Avenger and then almost immediately deflates. “I dunno. I still have a lot of German to get through.”

“Natasha speaks seven languages,” Tony dismisses, waving his hand in the air. “I’m sure German is one of them. Come on. Take a break.”

“MJ, honey, you’ve been working so hard,” Pepper says - deliberately casual, not looking up from her book. “Clear your head a little then come back. Morgan and I will get some snacks going. I’m thinking peanut butter cookies?”

“All right, all right,” MJ sighs. “Auf geht’s, Iron Man.”

Morgan had been looking like she really wanted to come crash the party as well, but is completely distracted by a mention of her favourite snack. “Yeah, peanut butter cookies!” she cheers. 

‘Nice,’ Tony mouths at Pepper. She winks back and follows a chattering Morgan into the kitchen.

“Do you think Petey will wake up and come help us? His peanut butter cookies are the best.”

“He might, if you go wake him up nicely with no jumping.”

The moment MJ and Tony step out of the elevator into an empty bar, MJ figures out what’s going on. She doesn’t panic, because panic is really not MJ’s thing. Instead she looks shrewdly at Tony and then very slowly and deliberately takes a seat in one of the booths.

Tony busies himself rummaging around behind the bar. “What do you want? I have a nice new Italian soda syrup - elderberry flavour - it’s actually disgusting but Pepper likes it, so that means it’s probably just beyond my heathen palate-”

“A rye and ginger, please.” MJ stares him down, daring him to say no. 

In the name of diplomacy Tony pours some ginger ale into a tumbler, garnishes it with a slice of lime, and doses it with just a splash of very nice rye. He fixes himself a coffee and sits down across from MJ.

MJ takes a sip and wrinkles her nose. “Huh. This is actually pretty good.”

“Your expression is telling me otherwise.”

“I was kind of in the mood for something disgusting,” MJ admits. “I thought it would be a good distraction from the conversation we’re about to have.”

“You don’t even know what a rye and ginger tastes like? You’re such a nerd. Is it bad that I’m a little disappointed you kids haven’t hit the important developmental milestone of getting wasted on cheap booze in a city park at night? Please tell me at least one of you knows how to roll a joint.”

“Peter does.”

Tony chokes a little on his coffee.

“I’m fucking with you.” MJ grins. “You can dish it but you can’t take it, huh?”

“You’re funny.” Tony leans forward onto his elbows and fixes MJ with a friendly smile. “So, are we doing this the easy way or the hard way?”

MJ takes a noncommittal sip of her drink.

“Michelle, I’m going to call it how I see it,” Tony says, keeping his tone casual, but using her full name so that she knows he means business. “You three are up to something. Clearly. You and Peter look like the walking dead and I know it’s not a coincidence that we haven’t seen Ned’s rosy little face around for weeks.”

“We’re high school seniors and it’s finals time. I don’t know why any of this is surprising.”

Tony has to give it to her - MJ is completely unflustered, her dark brown eyes meeting his easily. “As you know,” he continues, as if she hadn’t spoken, “I’m big on contingencies. So if we leave this conversation as it is, I’m going to have to run through every scenario and work through a really tiresome process of elimination. Are you guys doing something illegal? Probably not, seeing as none of you dweebs can even roll a joint, but I don’t know that so I can’t rule it out. Are you doing something every responsible adult in your life would disapprove of? Almost certainly. Hence the, uh, cloak-and-dagger.” He swigs down some coffee. “So, what conclusions am I supposed to draw here? Are you going to help me out, or are you going to let my infamously overactive imagination run wild?”

“What are you going to do if I tell you? You can’t actually ground any of us, you know,” MJ says with an amused smile. 

“No,” Tony agrees, “But there are lots of ways I can make your life difficult. Annoying people I care about is a specialty of mine. Especially when it’s for their own good.”

An odd little expression crosses MJ’s face at that, but she recovers quickly.

“I’ll make you an offer: stop whatever it is you’re doing and I won’t ask any questions about it,” Tony says.

“Oh for God’s sake, Stark, you are the nosiest motherfucker I have ever met in my life, there is no way you’ll be able to keep that promise,” MJ groans. “Stop, you’re embarrassing yourself. Counteroffer: I’ll tell you exactly what we’re up to if you promise not to freak out, and also not to commit any insane high-tech invasions of privacy after I tell you.”

Tony considers that. “You’ve got a deal, Jones.”

“So,” MJ begins, her tone as casual as if they’re discussing the weather. “You know the Kangaroo?”

Oh, does Tony ever know the Kangaroo. Hard to miss a gigantic beefcake of a man with a godawful bowlcut, dressed in a huge furry vest, leaping around New York and terrorizing its denizens with every petty crime under the sun. Since Tony has a news alert set for Spider-Man, he’s aware that Peter’s been fighting the moron nearly every week, but - much like his namesake - the Kangaroo never seems to stay down for long.

“Oh come on, don’t tell me that jackass is giving Pete enough trouble that all three of you needed to get involved.” Tony frowns. “What, is Ned hacking into his secret database of marsupial videos? Are you analyzing his jumps to figure out how he does that ridiculous-looking two-footed kick?”

“No, no,” MJ says impatiently. “Peter’s letting him win.”

“Obviously. I figured Spider-Man was going easy on him to avoid giving in to the temptation to straight up murder him out of annoyance. But would you please tell Pete to at least use the stun webs-”

“Tony, shut up. The Kangaroo is a distraction.”

That gets Tony’s attention. He shuts up.

“Dumbfuck’s fallen in with the yakuza,” MJ continues. “They’re paying him to draw vigilantes and the NYPD out at scheduled times, and he always rotates between Hell’s Kitchen, Queens and the Bronx. Deadpool noticed the pattern and got ahold of Peter, and-”

“Wait,” Tony splutters, nearly knocking over his mug, “Deadpool-”

“You promised not to freak out,” MJ scolds. When he clamps his mouth shut so hard that his lips form a tight line, she takes it as a signal to carry on. “Anyways, it was Daredevil who made the connection with the casinos. Turns out the yakuza are using casinos to launder money, but ever since that dirty money report was commissioned by the Attorney General last year, the casinos are getting skittish. Hence - distractions, to take some of the heat off. I have a theory that they’re ramping up the amount of money laundered because they’re investing in alien tech. Ned’s working on cracking their encrypted chatrooms and then we’ll know for sure.”

Tony had put his head in his hands at the word ‘Daredevil’ and with every passing word since has had to try harder and harder not to start literally pulling his hair.

“MJ,” he says in a strangled voice. “This is not me freaking out. This is me asking a clarifying question. May I ask a clarifying question?”

“Deadpool says that if we get the FBI involved before we figure out their M.O., we’ll just drive them deeper underground,” MJ says, accurately reading his mind. “He’s right. We need to give the FBI a rock-solid tip off so that they can be in exactly the right place at the right time, with the right evidence available, or the yakuza will weasel out of it like they always do and come back next time with a bigger distraction than a hopping dumbass in tan leather pants.”

“Okay,” Tony says, fully aware that his voice is bordering on hysterical. “Okay. Yes. We should all listen to what Deadpool says, because he is clearly not a dangerous maniac and clearly has the best interest of three minors at the forefront of his deranged little mind. Oh, no, wait - luckily the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen is along for the ride, because who else would be the voice of sanity in this venture-”

“Peter is perfectly safe,” MJ says in a soothing voice. “The big guys won’t let him do anything other than fight the Kangaroo and make the yakuza think their diversion is working.” 

Tony takes a deep breath and lifts his face from his hands. “Michelle Jones,” he says, in the most even tone he can muster. “Give me one reason why I shouldn’t call your and Ned’s parents, and May, and have them ground all three of you for life. Hell, give me one reason why I shouldn’t climb into the Iron Man suit this very minute then fly directly through the wall of Deadpool’s shithole apartment and punch his fucking lights out.”

“Well, seeing as we’re all turning eighteen soon, they can’t really ground us for very long,” MJ says practically. “Second, telling our parents what’s going on would compromise Peter’s secret identity. Third, the last time you told Peter not to get involved in something he ended up hitchhiking into space.” She knows by the look on his face that she’s got him well and truly cornered, so she lays a consoling hand on his arm. “You can punch Deadpool if it would make you feel better. He’d probably even like it.”

“Oh god,” Tony moans, letting his forehead drop onto the table with a thunk. He rests his head against the cool tabletop for a moment, and then pulls himself together. “Okay. I’m going to ask you more clarifying questions, and I want you to know that I am directly on the verge of a meltdown, so I need you to answer them with as little bullshit as possible.”

“You’re going to ask why we didn’t tell you and the Avengers.”

“Two for two, Madame Leota.”

MJ leans back and sips at her drink again. “This is below the Avengers’ paygrade, right?” Tony opens his mouth to protest, but MJ cuts him off. “I know I’m right. If Peter wasn’t involved, you would leave it to guys like Deadpool and Daredevil.” At Tony’s disgusted expression, she amends her statement. “Okay, maybe Luke Cage. Jessica Jones. Whatever. The point is that you guys can’t swoop in and get involved in every one of Peter’s fights, because if criminals start picking up on the fact that going after Spider-Man gets the Avengers involved, Peter’s going to start attracting bigger and bigger threats. Either to draw out the Avengers on purpose or because the smaller fry will disperse out of Queens into other areas where they only have to contend with local vigilantes. You get where I’m going with this, right?”

He does. And he hates it. “We don’t get involved in every one of Peter’s fights,” he argues uselessly. “There’s just...a difference between muggers and crime syndicates.” MJ just raises an eyebrow at him. “Why...” he starts again and takes a deep breath. “Why now, kid? Couldn’t you three just...wait another couple of years, before taking on big stuff like this? At least graduate high school first?”

MJ’s dark eyebrows knit together. “We didn’t go looking for trouble. It’s just that people are getting hurt, and we have a chance to stop this now. Daredevil didn’t want us on the case at first, you know? But they really needed Spider-Man, because everyone knows that Spider-Man doesn’t kill. He’s the only one who could keep fighting the Kangaroo for this long without tipping the yakuza off and forcing them to upgrade to a bigger diversion.”

Tony watches her for a moment, takes in the deep furrow between her brows and the firm little twist of her mouth. It’s an expression he’s seen on Peter’s face many times. All the fight goes out of him. 

Tony reaches over and takes both her hands in his. “MJ,” he says, squeezing her fingers. “I know I can’t win this battle with Peter. None of us can go back and undo what happened to him, and so we’re all making the best of his, uh...” Tony makes a crawling motion with his fingers, “unique circumstances. But you and Ned...you’re just normal kids. Neither of you can climb walls or take a bullet. It scares me to think of either of you in a room with someone like Deadpool.” He knows the question is useless, but he has to ask. “Is there any way I can talk you out of this?”

“Peter already tried,” MJ replies, squeezing his fingers back. “We have each other’s backs, Tony. Peter wouldn’t let anyone hurt us, and we won’t let anyone hurt him.” She releases his hands and slides out from the booth. “I think it’s time for some peanut butter cookies, yeah?”

Tony slides out of the booth too, and for a brief moment they stand there looking at each other, before MJ surprises him by suddenly throwing herself into his chest. Tony wraps his arms around her and rests his head against hers. She’s nearly as tall as he is, now.  

“Um...thanks,” MJ says awkwardly, muffled by his shoulder. “For...for trying to talk us out of it.”

“I will always try to talk you out of doing stupid, dangerous shit. You know I love all three of you idiots, right?”

“Gross. Let me go.”

“No. I’m not letting go until you repeat after me: If this shitshow goes south, I promise I will call Tony immediately.”

“I promise, but only if you promise not to tell Peter you know. When you freak out, he freaks out, and we need him on top of his game right now.”

Tony releases MJ and holds her by the shoulders for a moment. “Okay,” he says.

“Okay,” she replies. 

“Now that I know, does that mean Ned can start coming around again?”

“What, you miss him?”

“Absolutely not. And if you ever tell him that I’ll sue you for slander.”

MJ laughs, punches his shoulder, and heads towards the elevator.

-

The third Saturday finds a pile of teenagers strewn across the floor of the Avengers common area, surrounded by books and pencils and flashcards.

“Computational steering,” Peter calls out.

“A procedure for using a computational model to improve the design of an actual system by continually resetting model parameters to improve system performance,” MJ answers, clapping a hand over Ned’s mouth. “Oh god, ew, he licked me!” she shrieks, withdrawing the hand promptly.

“Dude! I had that one, why would you kill my streak?”

“Because you don’t need the practice in AP CompSci and I do, you douche canoe. It’s not a competition, this isn’t AcaDec-”

“Says the one who just tried to suffocate me so she would get the answer first-”
 
“Oh Ned, you know MJ is never competitive, she was so thrilled when we tied for valedictorian-”

“Oh my God shut up,” Cassie grumbles from where she’s curled up in an armchair with Wanda. “We’re actually trying to study over here while you three play academic Hunger Games.”

“Insuperable,” Wanda mutters, nose stuck in a thick textbook. “Incapable of being surmounted or overcome.” She sighs. “Oh dear, that’s ominous...”

“Aw, you’re doing great,” Peter says sweetly, leaving MJ and Ned to bicker as he scoots over and plants himself on the floor at Wanda and Cassie’s feet. “The SATs are way less scary than they sound, anyways.”

“Oh, stop that, you’re a literal genius,” Cassie moans and buries her face in her hands.

“You’re a genius too, sweetheart,” Scott pipes up from where he and Tony are playing Mario Kart.

“Not helping, Dad.”

“Blue shell! Eat it, Lang.”

“Hey! No fair. I was busy parenting.”

“Lame. Distractions are for the weak,” Tony cackles. He makes sure to hit Scott’s Princess Peach with another few shells as he passes by.

MJ makes a face. “Yikes. That little exchange explains so much about Morgan. And Peter.”

“Peter was at least seventy-five percent parented when we met, his eccentricities are all May and Ben. All I can take credit for is his ability to throw a great punch.”

“Negative,” Ned corrects. “We all know that’s Agent Romanoff. Him running around the city in spandex is your fault, though.”

“I built him a very cool metal suit. It’s not my fault he refuses to wear it.”

Peter makes a long and drawn out noise of exasperation and hurls himself face first into a nearby throw pillow.  

“Effluvia? That can’t be a word. Can it?” Wanda’s face is now so close to the page that she’s going a little cross-eyed. 

“Rule number one of the English language, it’s ridiculous and makes no sense, ever. If you keep that in mind you’ll be fine,” MJ says. She and Ned have devolved into a half-hearted slapfight that neither of them really have the energy to put any force into. 

Wanda sighs. “Maybe I’ll forget about the SATs and just get my GED...”

“Ow, you got me like, right in the clavicle,” Ned complains. MJ switches tactics and goes in for a vicious pinch right under his armpit. “Dude! What the fuck! Tony, make MJ stop.”

“MJ, stop,” Tony says absently. He’s in third place and catching up fast.

“He started it.”

“I don’t care who started it. I’m ending it.”

“I’ll end you,” MJ mutters, flopping onto her back and letting her open notebook drop directly onto her face.

“Hey, look, you’ve annoyed two of them to death,” Rhodey says from the kitchen island, casting an eye over Peter and MJ’s sprawled-out forms. “If you take out Ned that’s a triple kill. I bet you get some kind of combo bonus.”

“He won’t. Ned’s the favourite child,” Cassie deadpans. 

“Damn right he is,” Rhodey says proudly, pretending to wipe away a tear. “Off to MIT in the fall, I can’t believe it. God, it seems like only yesterday when you two dorks were tripping over Legos and quoting Star Wars every other sentence, and now one of you is MIT-bound and the other one is the black sheep of the family.”

“I’m going to Columbia, not Caltech,” Peter grumbles from under his pillow. “I find your lack of faith disturbing.” He sticks his arm out towards Rhodey and makes a Vader-esque claw motion with his hand. Tony obliges him by hurling a stray eraser at Rhodey’s head, which connects with startling accuracy.

“Man, what the fuck, Tones!”

“Oh my God,” Peter gasps through peals of laughter, “That was so cool. You’re my favourite Avenger, you know that?” He’s giggling so hard that he’s rolled on his side clutching his stomach, which is so damn cute it sets off everyone else in a chain reaction until even MJ is in tears of laughter. 

Worth it, Tony thinks as Scott knocks him off the side of the course and into oblivion.

-

Later that night Peter starts doing that thing where he sort of trails around after Tony but in a very casual teenage way: always seeming to just be wherever Tony is, for conspicuously unrelated reasons. Like how he needs to be rustling around the kitchen for snacks at exactly the moment when Tony is making himself an evening coffee; or intently reading a random architecture magazine with his back to Tony while he’s in the living room picking up Morgan’s toys; or claiming that Morgan’s taken one of his collectible action figures and he absolutely has to look for it in her room while Tony reads her a bedtime story. 

“Staying the night, Petey?” Tony calls over his shoulder, as Peter bangs around behind him in the lab, working on apparently the world’s noisiest project.

“No. Um. I don’t know. Am I?”

“I don’t know. Are you?” Tony’s been trying this new thing where he attempts to get Peter to actually vocalize what he wants.

Peter turns to look at him, frowns, and then turns back to whatever he’s working on. He hates Tony’s new thing. 

A couple more minutes of clattering and clanking, and then the answer comes: “Yes. Please.”

But damned if it isn’t working, and damned if it doesn’t make Tony realize how often the kid just goes along with whatever Tony wants - especially before Tony learned to spot the subtle difference between agreement and acquiescence.

Tony gives him a bit of a break, letting him tinker for a while, before mustering up the offensive again.

“So, what do you want to talk to me about?”

Peter drops his screwdriver into the bowels of the piece of machinery he’s working on. “Shit. I mean, nothing. What do you mean?”

“Try again, Captain Obvious.” Tony kind of wants to turn around to see the look on the kid’s face, but he knows it’s easier for Peter to start talking if no one’s scrutinizing him and he has something to do with his hands. It’s no coincidence that many of their heart-to-hearts take place in the lab while Tony’s attention is half-fixated on something else. Again, he marvels at how a kid who shares none of his DNA can be so like him.

Peter retrieves his screwdriver and then sets it down on the table with a little exhale.

“Do you wish I was going to MIT too?”

Not what Tony had been expecting.

Over the course of the evening he’d been working on a speech for when Peter inevitably came clean about the Kangaroo situation. It was a great speech, too; he was going to be cool about it, since MJ had already taken the brunt of his panicked disapproval. He’d offer various unobtrusive ways to help without tipping anyone off that the Avengers were involved, tell Peter he was proud of him, maybe sneak in a little lecture about hanging out with lunatics like Daredevil and Deadpool. The abrupt change in direction throws Tony for a bit of a loop, and he has to take a second to think. 

It’s undeniable that a little part of him had been excited to show Peter the campus, have an excuse to regale him with stories of all the mischief he and Rhodey had gotten up to during their time there, speculate together what the year’s masterpiece of a graduation prank would be. 

But he can get all that out of his system with Ned. What he really wants is for Peter to choose what makes him happy.

“No,” Tony says, and means it with all his heart. “No, I don’t.”  

“Why not? You used to talk about me going there all the time,” Peter argues. 

“I talk about a lot of things, and about ninety percent of it is unmitigated bullshit,” Tony says with a shrug. “Running my mouth is my core personality trait.”

“So you’re not, like...disappointed that I’m not following in your footsteps, I guess?”

“Anyone who could have the fucking audacity to be disappointed about their kid getting into Columbia deserves to be drawn and quartered. Or doused in boiling tar. Something appropriately medieval.” Tony turns around to look at Peter, but is met with the sight of the kid’s hunched back. “Rhodey’s just kidding, you know. He’s nearly as proud of you as I am.”

“I know,” Peter says slowly, carefully. “It’s just that...it kind of feels like two paths are laid out in front of me, you know? And I can see down both of them equally clearly, and I’m scared to pick one because it means I’ll have to take it all the way to the end, and maybe I find out once I’m there that I picked wrong.” 

“Yeah?” Tony prompts him, very gently. 

“Yeah.” Peter takes a deep breath, twirling a bit of scrap metal around his fingers, over and over. “It feels like there’s two of me right now existing in the same body. There’s Peter Parker who goes to Columbia, and stays the friendly neighbourhood Spider-Man. Just...nice and easy, you know? As easy as this stuff gets, anyways. And then there’s the Peter Parker who goes to MIT. Probably gets a Master’s degree. This Peter Parker comes back to New York, sure, but only to start shadowing Pepper at board meetings and training with the Avengers full-time. And...this Peter can also make a real difference, not just to Queens but to the whole world. It won’t be easy but it’ll be fulfilling a...” Peter searches for the words. “A great responsibility.”

Tony turns that over in his head for a moment as he watches the slight rise and fall of Peter’s shoulders. Steady breaths in and out.

I wanted you to be better. I was wrong. You always have been.

“On Titan,” Tony begins, watching Peter carefully, because Titan is still hallowed ground that is not easily tread even now. “On Titan, when Strange was sitting in the air. Glitching out. You remember that?”

“Yeah,” Peter says quietly. “He was looking at all the different futures.”

“Fourteen million, to be exact.” Tony pauses for a moment. “What I’m trying to say is, there’s more than two Peter Parkers. There’s hundreds, thousands, maybe millions. There’s a Peter who spends the next five years practicing to audition for Juilliard on his clarinet, and a Peter who decides college isn’t for him and he wants to go backpacking through Australia. There’s a Peter who goes to MIT and gets two Master’s degrees only to realize at the end that he wants to settle down and build a farm in Iowa. Another one who goes to Columbia and gets married and has a kid and then takes over Stark Industries in his thirties. And one who goes to a state school because joining the Avengers is all he wants to do at the end of it, corporate ladder be damned.”

Peter considers that for a long moment. “I don’t know if that makes me feel better or kind of terrified.”

“It is terrifying,” Tony acknowledges, to Peter and to himself, “because it means you have more decisions to make and nothing is a guarantee. But there’s an upside to that. You deal with a lot of curveballs, but sometimes those curveballs are...” he takes a breath, willing himself to keep going around the lump in his throat - “sometimes you decide in your thirties you want nothing to do with kids, and then those curveballs come a decade later as a YouTube video of a little hellion in dollar-store pyjamas stopping a bus with his bare hands.”

Peter turns his head just enough so that Tony can see him smiling. Tony reaches out and rests a hand in the middle of his back. He knows they can both read between the lines.

-

On the fourth Saturday Tony sits across from Sam in the basement bar. It’s eleven o’clock in the morning, so they’re sipping from steaming mugs of coffee.

It is not a therapy session. It’s not. 

“It didn’t bother me when we lived out at the lakehouse,” Tony says tersely, as he adds another little plastic cup of creamer to the pyramid he’s building. “And then we’re just trying to enjoy a nice family camping trip and suddenly I’m missing out on marshmallow-roasting because I need to lose my shit in private and try not to scare the kids.”

“You were pushing it,” Sam says, not unkindly. “You took them swimming at the lake earlier that day too, yeah?”

“Yes.” Tony frowns and knocks his pyramid over and starts again.

“So, having your face underwater and being under open stars - two of your biggest triggers - in an unfamiliar location, and you’re probably sleep deprived because no one sleeps well when they’re camping-”

“Peter had his heart set on camping,” Tony argues, as if that explains all of his poor decisions in one go. 

“Pete is the most easygoing teenager on the damn planet and would’ve been over the moon if y’all took him to Chuck E. Cheese. You had your heart set on camping to prove you could do it.”

This is not a therapy session because Sam is an asshole and no self-respecting therapist would see the stricken expression on Tony’s face and respond with the king of all shit-eating smug grins.

“Uh huh. There it is, the classic Stark denial. Too bad, you’re human with limitations and can’t do anything you want any damn time-”

“Oh fuck off, you avian menace,” Tony mutters. “He really wanted to go. What, am I gonna be the asshole who bans fun forever because I’m scared of nature?”

“You know, for someone who has no problem telling people to fuck off, you’re god-awful at the whole ‘boundaries’ thing,” Sam muses, stirring more sugar into his coffee. “You just gonna let a seventeen-year-old sweet talk you into doing something you really don’t want to do?”

“No. No. He just...doesn’t ask for things very often.”

“You don’t give the kid enough credit.” Sam frowns. “When something’s important to him, he’ll push it. You know this. How many jams have we had to get the little asshole out of because of his whole Spider-Man doesn’t kill spiel? How many times have you and Bucky and Steve tried to impress into his thick fucking skull that sometimes it’s kill or be killed? Tried to make him see he’d actually be costing a lot more lives by depriving Queens of its resident spandex enthusiast?” 

Okay, so they’re not talking about camping anymore. Maybe they never were.

“Remember when the kid opted out of gun training with Nat?” Sam’s tone is gentler now. “I sat him down and had a long talk with him about it. Told him that gun training is just a safety thing - if he’s ever in a situation where he needs to use one, it’s better to know than not. Pete looked me straight in the eyes and told me he’d cross that bridge when he came to it. Cool as a stupid, good-hearted cucumber.”

Tony gives a resigned sigh because he can finally see where Sam is going with all this. “Yeah,” Sam says, reading his mind. “We all have our things, Tony. All of us. You remember Nat wouldn’t watch Black Swan when it came out. You know T’Challa refuses to let Shuri come with him to U.N. meetings. Rhodey still won’t fly quite as high as he used to. We gotta talk to each other, man. That’s the only way we can avoid hurting each other. It’s part of being a team.”

It’s not a therapy session, because in official Avengers parlance it’s an ‘individual status touchbase.’ Or ‘status,’ for short. Officially, they’re a way of debriefing with individual team members and ironing out issues as they arise. Unofficially, Sam uses the mandated hour to bully people into using effective coping strategies and lecture them about communication.

And it’s working. 

Nat often heads straight to the shooting range after her status, and Bucky sometimes puts holes in the drywall after his. But on the other hand, Tony Stark now trusts the former Winter Soldier to babysit his daughter. Natasha will open up every now and again about how much she misses Clint, Wanda is taking her SATs with the goal of eventually attending state college; Bruce has started using the new intergalactic tech to call Thor and talk long into the night. (About what is anyone’s guess.) 

They’re getting there. Slowly, painfully, and all together.

“Who do you talk to?” Tony asks.

“I’m the most functional Avenger, so I see a legit therapist,” Sam answers with a grin. “See what y’all dipshits could have if you quit being so twitchy about mental health professionals? Instead you’re stuck with me. Too bad.”

“Amen to that,” Tony sighs, heaving himself up from his chair. “I’m dismissing myself, by the way.”

“Yeah, I gathered. I have a bet with Steve on which one of you is gonna be the first one to sit here the whole hour without storming out.”

“I’m not storming. I’m sauntering,” Tony calls over his shoulder. “And - thanks,” he says, more quietly.

“I heard that, Stark, and I’m gonna lord it over you.”

Oh, I bet you are, you dick, Tony thinks. But he also knows what it means that Steve has delegated these individual meetings to Sam, and he knows that it’s a really, really good thing.

-

The fifth Saturday is MJ’s eighteenth birthday party, which Tony had been summarily banned from planning over text the week before.

(TS) 13:18
You only turn eighteen once. Where’s your sense of adventure?

(Wednesday Addams) 21:46
you only turn every age once

(TS) 22:08
I cannot believe you left me on read for eight hours. Just for that I’m going to throw you the most bougie birthday party this city has ever seen.

(TS) 22:09
x o x o, Gossip Girl

(Wednesday Addams) 23:46
i can’t tell if i hate you more for this text or myself for having watched every season of that show

(Wednesday Addams) 23:47
anyways pepper promised me she would end you if you put a toe out of line wrt my birthday so save your upper east side impulses for ned’s 18th 

(Wednesday Addams) 23:47
he’ll appreciate all the teeny cocktail sausages/string lights/sanitized indie music

(TS) 00:03
Damn right he will. Now, just as an exercise in curiosity: what would your ideal eighteenth birthday party look like?

(Wednesday Addams) 00:15
oh, you know. carjack some dickhead’s tesla, joyride it to manhattan, set it on fire and ditch it in front of the charging bull sculpture. hit up tiffany’s on 5th ave with a few cans of spraypaint. then back to queens for a dollar slice at romeo’s :)

(TS) 00:16
Jesus Christ. Romeo’s? Really?

Tony, Ned and Peter show up on the morning of MJ’s birthday in a rented Tesla. 

“You’re sick,” MJ says, folding her arms as Tony rolls down the window. “Sick in the head, Stark.”

“Wanna drive it?”

“Can I actually carjack you? Like Grand Theft Auto style, and leave you crying on the side of the road?”

“No. With a learner’s permit, you need me in the passenger seat. You can leave Ned and Peter crying on the side of the road if you want.”

“Why would I have a learner’s permit? Our public transit is world-class.” MJ opens the unlocked driver’s side door and makes grabby hands towards the wheel. 

Tony raises an eyebrow, then shrugs in concession and climbs over into the passenger seat.

“What? You’re actually letting her drive? That’s illegal. I get a turn too, right?” Peter begs from the backseat. Tony has an abrupt flashback to the last time he’d tried to teach Peter and Ned to drive in an empty SI parking lot - there’d been a lot of swearing, slammed brakes, screaming, and possibly some tears, before Peter had loudly declared that no one drives in New York anyways and fled the still-running car.

He twists around and stares incredulously at Peter. “Kid, are you taking too many hits to the head lately? Are we both remembering the last time-”

“Time is money. Onwards!” MJ slams on the accelerator, throwing her passengers back against their seats.

Once the initial shock wears off it turns out that MJ is actually a pretty decent driver. Tony makes her stick to side streets nonetheless as they trundle towards the Bronx.

“Where’d you learn to drive?” Tony says suspiciously as MJ neatly signals and then pulls into an alleyway near Parsons & 14th, letting Tony take over before they hit the Cross Island Parkway. 

“Video games,” MJ deadpans.

“Hey,” Ned scoffs. “Dude, we’ve played way more GTA 6 Online than you have-”

“Arcade racing simulators,” MJ says over him. “That’s why I can work the pedals, unlike those two losers.”

“I could probably fly a plane better than you, though,” Peter muses. “I got pretty good with the planes in GTA. Hey, Tony, can I try piloting the Quinjet?”

“Yes.”

“Really?”

“God, you’re gullible,” Tony says, throwing his head back and laughing over Peter’s protests as he accelerates way over the speed limit and merges onto the parkway. 

Their first stop is the Edgar Allan Poe cottage in Fordham Heights. Pepper, May and Morgan are already there waiting for them. MJ reaches over and scoops Morgan out of May’s arms.

“You know where we are, little dude?” MJ asks Morgan, settling her on her hip.

“Yeah!” Morgan says. “Edgar Allan Poe’s house. Hey, did he really die from rabies? Or did he get murdered?”

MJ leans in conspiratorially and says, “No one knows what actually killed him, but he died in this very cottage.”

“Cool! ” Morgan cheers as MJ carries her into the house.

“He died in a hospital in Baltimore,” Ned says to Pepper, raising an eyebrow. “She completely made that up.”

Pepper sighs. “To entertain my darling, gruesome little girl, apparently.”

After the Poe Cottage, in which MJ acts as a sort of unofficial tour guide (although how much of the tour has been invented wholesale is impossible to determine) they set a course for Lower Manhattan - specifically a tiny, crammed bookstore boasting the sign: “Unoppressive Non-Imperialist Bargain Books.”

Pepper and May decide to take Morgan for a walk around Manhattan to burn off some energy, but Tony elects to stay and check it out. “You probably can’t come in here without bursting into flames,” MJ says as they squeeze in through the narrow doorway, making the sign of the cross at Tony. 

Tony spreads his arms as much as he can in the cramped space and does jazz hands. “Think again, Jones. My unholy power knows no bounds.” 

Peter, Ned and MJ don’t seem to mind the death glares from the very unfriendly hipster manning the till, and take their time perusing the selections. After they each choose an armful of books, debating on the prices (which range from a dollar fifty to a whopping twelve dollars), Tony reaches into his wallet for his credit card.

“Excuse me,” Peter says politely, elbowing bodily past him with a handful of crumpled tens. “This one’s on me.” He takes Tony’s selected books and adds them to the pile.

Tony starts to protest, but Peter cuts him off. “Happy MJ’s birthday, everyone!”

“Hell yeah,” Ned says. “Hey Peter, does your SI internship pay time and a half for working on a national holiday or what?”

“I can’t tell if I’m being extorted or tricked into accepting a gift,” Tony complains.

“God, do you even hear yourself?” MJ says, punching him affectionately in the arm. He thinks. It’s hard to tell her affectionate punches from her regular ones. 

After a rendezvous for lunch with May, Pepper and Morgan, the party makes their way to the last stop: the Morbid Anatomy Museum in Brooklyn. 

“Ooh,” May squeals, tapping on a glass jar that contains an embalmed human hand. “Pep, look, you can see the arthritis in this one. What a beauty.” 

“Don’t tap on the glass, you’ll scare it,” Tony calls from across the room, where he’s inspecting a badly taxidermied owl.

“Tony,” Pepper scolds. She looks a little queasy. May takes advantage of her momentary distraction to crawl her fingers up Pepper’s arm, mimicking an escaped disembodied hand. Pepper makes a strangled noise and nearly knocks over a very tall skeleton, and then May has to sit down because she’s laughing so hard, at which point Ned delivers an impressive lecture on being disruptive in museums. Peter, Morgan and MJ casually wander away, pretending not to be affiliated with any of them.

They finish off the day at Romeo’s pizza, crammed shoulder to shoulder around a cheap folding table, throwing down what are possibly the greasiest dollar slices in Queens. Afterwards MJ bestows a rare hug on each of the adults. “This was actually the best birthday ever,” she says to Pepper the party mastermind, fighting a smile. “Like seriously fucking dope. Even though we didn’t do any arson or vandalism.”

“Oh, kid,” Pepper says, kissing MJ's temple. “We’ll do arson and vandalism for your twenty-first. Promise.”

After dropping off Ned and MJ, Tony and Peter return the Tesla and pick up Tony’s Audi. Peter is chattering a mile a minute as they get into the car. “So I Googled it afterwards, and it turns out Poe’s cat actually did die like, exactly when Poe did. MJ didn’t make that one up. The cat’s name was Catterina. He really loved that cat. Kind of changes how you look at the guy, you know? Spooky scary dude who just really loved his cat, Catterina. Schmood. I kind of like him now. Hey, Tony, did you ever think about getting a cat? I really love cats, I’m just saying. I would visit about 85% more often if you guys had one. I’m not sure if that’s an incentive or not. Let’s just pretend it is. Or you could get a dog, I’m not picky, I’m not a cat person or a dog person, I’m just an animal person-”

“You want to get something to eat?” Tony cuts him off. “I bet you’re still hungry, you walking garbage disposal.”

“Are you trying to distract me from the cat thing? I will not be distracted. Listen, it could eat all the rats in the Tower. It’s a really good idea.”

“There are no rats in the Tower,” Tony says, scandalized. “Who the hell do you think you are, you punk?”

Peter laughs. “There are rats everywhere. It’s New York. The rats own the tower and just let you live there.”

“Offer for food expiring in five...four...three...”

“Hot dogs!” Peter yells, then continues on at a normal volume, “Or if you got a dog, you could train it to hump Sam’s leg on command.”

“Huh.” Tony considers that. “Tempting.” 

“Where are we going?” Peter asks after a while. “We’ve passed like, five perfectly serviceable hot dog stands.”

“Tony Stark doesn’t do ‘perfectly serviceable.’ Have some class, Parker.”

“Oh man.” Peter’s eyes boggle. “Are we going to Nathan’s at Coney Island?”

Tony merges onto Belt Parkway. “It’s the best one.”

“Hell yeah it is!” Peter crows, pumping his fist. Then he narrows his eyes suspiciously and turns to Tony. “Hey, how come we’re going way out of the way to my favourite hot dog stand? What’s the occasion?”

“It’s a national holiday. Michelle Jones Day.” 

“Bullshit. There’s an occasion. Or you want to talk to me about something.”

“I do not. I do not want to talk to you about anything, God, what I would do for just ten seconds of silence in this car-”

“Come on, Tony, what’s the deal-”

“There is no deal, can’t I just take my kid out for a late-night second dinner before he goes off to college and never visits me again because he’s too busy studying and dropping acid on the weekends-”

“I just said I would visit you if you got a cat-”

“Here’s my agenda,” Tony says, deadpan. “I decided it would be way easier to lump your and MJ’s eighteenth birthday parties into the same day. This is it. This is your birthday party. If you get mustard in my car it’ll be your last one.”

Peter frowns. “That’s not fair. You have to take me to Nathan’s again on my birthday or I’m disowning you.”

“Lordy. Two hot dog stand visits in the same summer? Look who’s getting a taste for the finer things in life. What, you think I’m made of money?”

Peter leans over and pretends to inspect the inside of Tony’s ear canal. “You know, I thought you might be, but my extremely enhanced senses are only picking up empty space in there.”

“Speaking of disowning.”

After purchasing their hot dogs they take their bounty to the pier and settle at one of the benches. For a Saturday night it’s pretty quiet, only a couple of fishermen, and it’s dark enough that Tony isn’t worried about being recognized (like they had been at the Poe house - luckily Pepper had warded off any photos with the promise of autographs.)

“Jesus Christ,” Tony says into the still night air, taking a bite of his hot dog.

Peter looks around, as if expecting the man himself to materialize on the end of the pier. “What?”

“Nothing. Am I not allowed to casually take the Lord’s name in vain?” 

Peter tilts his head and waits for a minute, watching Tony with that trademarked ridiculous earnestness as he shovels down his second hot dog.

Tony sighs. What he wants to say is, You’re growing up too fast, please just slow down. In the not-too-distant past he would’ve done absolutely anything to be able to throw an eighteenth birthday party for Peter, but now that it’s only a handful of weeks away he finds a part of himself dreading it.

What he says instead is, “Hey, remember when you were just a little guy and you crashed one of my planes right over there?”

“Oh, the memories,” Peter laughs. “It feels like a really, really long time ago.” His mouth twists into a little furrow. “I guess it was?” 

“Time is relative,” Tony says.

“You would know.” A pause. “I’m sorry I killed your plane.”

Tony grins sidelong at him. “No you’re not.”

“Nah. Well. Maybe a bit,” Peter says, smiling back.

“You have nothing to be sorry for.” Tony finishes his hot dog and crumples up the foil wrapper. “I was an asshole. I didn’t listen, I took away your suit, and that was the consequence.”

“You weren’t an asshole,” Peter argues. Tony raises an eyebrow. “Okay, kind of, but you were trying to do the right thing. Trying to look out for me.”

“Well, road to hell, good intentions, blah, blah. The point is, I didn’t know you as well as I do now.” Tony shrugs. “Which is no excuse. I should’ve been more involved from the get-go, and then I would’ve known that there was really no stopping you from anything once you put your mind to it, and then we could have figured something out together instead of me leaving you on your own feeling like there was no one who could help you.”

Peter sighs. “You know about the Kangaroo.”

“How could I not? I have a news alert set for Spider-Man,” Tony hedges.

“Ned squealed,” Peter groans, putting a hand over his face. “How did MJ’s ‘snitches get stitches’ talk not work on him? I was terrified, and it wasn’t even directed at me.”

“Ned did not squeal,” Tony says. He figures the jig is up and he might as well protect Ned from a prison-style beating. “I’m good at figuring things out, Pete. You know this.”

“So are you gonna tell us to stop working the case?” Peter says, peeking through his fingers a little. “You can’t ground me, you know. Unless you tell May. Which, uh, please don’t.”

Tony laughs and drops his head back, looking skyward. “Yeah, I know. Not your real dad, get out of my room, etcetera.”

“Aw, come on, no, that’s not what I meant,” Peter says, dropping his hand from his face. “Tony, you...actually, you-”

“I’m not going to tell you to stop, because I already know that’s...not an effective strategy.” Tony cuts him off with a grimace. “I may be a stubborn old fuck and a disaster, generally speaking, but I rarely make the same mistake twice. Plus I’ve read a couple of parenting books since the last time we were in this situation.”

The tension leaks out of Peter’s posture. He puts down his remaining hot dog and moves over towards Tony, leaning his head on Tony’s shoulder. “Yeah? What did the parenting books tell you about teenage vigilantism?” He looks up at Tony with big, bright eyes, a tiny grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.

Tony puts an arm around Peter’s shoulders and squeezes. “One had an entire chapter titled, ‘Do not let your teenage vigilante within five hundred feet of Deadpool.’ Actually, that chapter has a rather detailed footnote warning against people with nicknames like ‘the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen,’ come to think of it.”  

“Daredevil probably hates Deadpool even more than you do,” Peter says, amused. “I kind of like him, though. He grows on you. Like an extremely sarcastic and disturbed fungus.”

“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that,” Tony sighs. “I know I have very little bargaining power here, kid, but will you make a deal with me?”

“Wasn’t it you who told me never to agree to making a deal without hearing it first?”

“No, that was Pepper.”

“Oh. Yeah, that does sound like Pepper.”

Tony leans his head against Peter’s. “I’m not going to helicopter-parent you, Pete, or go too overboard monitoring the situation-”

“That implies you’re going to go at least a little overboard-”

“Who do you think I am? Let me finish. I will try my best not to be overbearing if you promise to ask me for help if you need it.”

“Okay,” Peter says unconvincingly.

Tony lets go of Peter’s shoulder and flicks him in the back of the head. “Hey. Listen to me. I don’t mean ‘Iron Man blows stuff up’ kind of help, as much as I want to. I mean any kind of help I can provide, whether it’s intel...advice...better insults, to really crush the Kangaroo’s soul...”

“Okay,” Peter says again. He sounds like he really means it this time. “Crushing the Kangaroo’s soul sounds good. That guy is such a dick. Can you believe he took out a kid’s lemonade stand the other day? Just leaped in out of absolute-fucking-nowhere, wrecked the stand, then hopped off to help with a bank robbery. Why would he do that?”

Tony sighs. “He was trying to piss you off. Everyone’s seen the YouTube compilations of Spider-Man playing foursquare with gangs of gradeschoolers. Guess he wanted to hit you where it hurt.”

“Well, it worked,” Peter says sourly. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything so rude in my entire life.”

Peter has been to space and watched a giant purple nutsack decimate half the universe (himself included.) This kid, Tony thinks, suddenly overwhelmed with affection, this fucking kid. 

-

The sixth Saturday is unbelievably muggy both outside and inside the Parker apartment. Tony and May are sprawled on their backs on the floor drinking gross warm beer and trying to angle May’s army of cheap standing fans for optimal cooling.

“I’m actually dying,” Tony groans as he mops sweat from his forehead. “This is it. Survived a nuke, a Titan and god knows what else, only to meet my end as a puddle on your floor. Tell Pepper and the kids-”

“Yeah, yeah,” May says, smacking him lazily on the shoulder. “You know, this is what happens when you spend too much of your life in air-conditioned environments. You get weak. Then nurses like me have to pull doubles because of all you frail seniors collapsing from heatstroke.”

“We’ve been over this. If I’m old, you’re old. Hey, how come you have less grey hairs than me? Peter’s responsible for nearly half of mine. I’d think you’d have gone completely white by now.”

May turns her head and grins at him. “I’m better at expressing my feelings than you are. I let it all out, you suck it all in and then it manifests as grey hairs and joint pain.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Tony chuckles, fanning her with his spare hand. “You mean if I yelled more, my joints wouldn’t hurt? You don’t think that’s the decade-plus of flying around and getting shot at?”

“Well. Yeah. Probably that, too.”

“You know what’s stressing me out?”

“Oh, we’re letting it all out now, are we? Who knew the secret to unlocking your emotional repression was vanity?”

“Anyone could’ve told you that. Have you never read a tabloid?”

“I’ve read many tabloids, thank you very much. That’s how I know Pepper is just your beard and you’ve really covering up a ten-year-long affair with Steve.”

Tony snorts. “Okay, but have you read the one where Cap and I are actually in a polyamorous marriage with that douche Strange, and Spider-Man is our adopted child?”

That sends May into full-on howling laughter. “Wooo,” she gasps between chortles, “I never knew I needed that theory in my life until now. It makes sense. If a man with a blue suit and a man with a red and gold suit and a man with a red cape love each other very much, the result is a baby with a blue and red suit-”

“Dummy,” Tony says, swatting back at May, “Get it right. Adopted child, not biological, and I think you need to brush up your Punnett squares-”

“So what’s bothering you, Mr. Dr. Captain Strange?” May rolls over onto her side and adjusts one of the smaller fans. “Is that helping? I don’t think it’s helping.”

“You would be right,” Tony says wryly, “and It’s Mr. Dr. Captain Strange-Stark-America to you. We’re a modern family.” He pauses. “Pete’s graduation is stressing me out.”

“We’ve been over this, you gigantic drama queen,” May sighs. “You’re already throwing him an eighteenth birthday bash with all the Avengers from every corner of the universe. Let him to go Eugene’s house after graduation and have fun with some kids his own age for once.”

“Who the hell is Eugene?”

“You know. Eugene. The kids have some silly nickname for him. Lightning McQueen. Flynn Rider. I don’t know. His father is a VP at Mount Sinai, and a real piece of work at that-”

“Oh, Flash,” Tony says. “Anyways, no, not that. It’s not about the party. It’s just - do you think he’ll even make it to the ceremony?”

May chews her lip and pushes her glasses up the bridge of her nose - her classic thinking pose. “He’d better make it,” she mutters darkly after a moment. “And if he has a black eye or god-knows-what in his graduation pictures, I’m really going to give him a piece of my mind...”

Tony has told Pepper and May about the kids’ rogue mission, because of course he has - those impossible dumbasses need more than one adult looking out for them, and New York’s twin menaces in red leather do not count. Things seem to be ramping up lately. Maybe even coming to a head. He still can’t get any of the kids (even Ned, who was apparently profoundly moved by MJ’s “snitches before stitches” speech) to give him more than extremely vague updates, but...it’s just a feeling. 

All three of them are simultaneously tired and wired, alternating between catnapping and jumping out of their skin when anyone so much as looks at them the wrong way. Peter seems to have a new fracture or sprain every other day, and May recently caught MJ crying in the kitchen over literal spilled milk - a cup of her favourite strawberry milk knocked tragically off the counter by a wayward elbow. Ned spends every waking hour with his face an inch from his laptop screen, waving off adults with the vague excuse of ‘studying’ even though his last final wrapped up a week ago. 

A text message pings in his pocket. Bruce, forwarding him a Twitter livestream of Spider-Man, and then another text: ‘You sure Pete doesn’t need any help with this lunatic?’ 

Tony was careful to only tell May and Pepper about truth behind Spider-Man’s hopping nemesis, but lately he has a niggling suspicion that the only Avenger nosier than himself (ahem, Natasha) has figured it out and tipped off the rest of the team.

“Pete’s fighting,” Tony says tiredly, waving his phone in May’s general direction. “Wanna watch?”

“You know I can’t watch live,” May says. “Only later, after I know he’s kicked some ass.”

Tony slides his phone back into his pocket. “Food Network re-runs?”

“Yes please.” 

May holds his hand for three episodes of Cupcake Wars. The prolonged contact is sweaty and disgusting, but neither of them has it in them to let go.

Later that night Peter lets himself in through the lab window. Tony is up waiting for him, without even making the pretense of working on a project. The first-aid kit is propped open and ready to go.

Peter heaves a weary sigh and glances between Tony and the kit. “Um...hey,” he says, still clinging to the wall. 

“Hey yourself,” Tony says. “Are you coming down or do I need to get a broom?”

“Broom, please,” Peter mumbles. “I think I’m stuck.”

This happens every now and again - Peter gets stressed out and can’t relax enough to unstick himself from whatever he’s stuck to. Usually little things like flashcards during an intense study marathon or a coffee cup when he’s running late for school. On one notable occasion the inside of a dumpster, after underestimating an angry mutant hillbilly calling himself ‘Banjo’ who hollered in a thick Appalachian accent while suplexing Spider-Man into said dumpster. (That one had really made the rounds on Twitter.)

Tony crosses the room quickly and puts a bracing hand on Peter’s back. With his other hand he tugs the mask off gently and tosses it into the corner. “Deep breaths, bambino,” he says, rubbing Peter’s arm, which is as tense as a wound piano wire. “I’ve got you. Come on down and we’ll check out the damage. It’s okay. We’re gonna patch you up.”

Peter takes a deep breath and manages to peel one hand off the wall. He starts to cry as the other hand loosens its grip, and then his feet come free and he crumples down into Tony’s waiting arms.

“Oof,” Tony says, struggling a little with his armful of Spider-Man. “You been working out, Petey?”

Peter laughs wetly at that and takes another deep breath, scrubbing at his face with a gloved hand. It just smears the dirt and tears and blood around his face, creating a sort of gruesome mud. “I think I’ve been stabbed.”

“Yep,” Tony says, glancing down at the blood spreading from Spider-Man’s suit onto his own worn band tee. “Sure looks like it. Seems to have missed the femoral artery though. Good for you.”

Tony sets Peter down on the bench and helps him strip down to his boxers. “Oh, heavens to Nelly,” he says, raising an eyebrow. “Someone’s been getting his ass absolutely handed to him by a marsupial fetishist.” Peter’s abdomen is absolutely covered in dark red-and-blue splotches and angry welts, but the more pressing issue is the rivulets of blood coursing down his leg.

Peter doesn’t answer, just mutely accepts the gauze Tony hands him and presses down hard on the stab wound in his left thigh. He puts his head in his other hand, clearly trying and failing to slow his breathing and quell the shuddering of his shoulders. Tony can’t help but ramble as he digs through the first-aid box for saline solution and antiseptic. “You know, I’ve been thinking about what you said about the Iron Spider. I get it. Armour isn’t exactly the right aesthetic for a walking GPS service for lost grandmothers. But I wonder if there isn’t a way we can make your regular suit a little more...uh...stab-proof?” So sue him, running his mouth is not only a personality trait but also his primary coping mechanism.

“I fucked up,” Peter sobs into his hand. 

“Whoever stabbed you fucked up,” Tony argues, trying to get a handle on his wildly beating heart. “When the hell did Crash Bandicoot upgrade to knife-wielding?” 

“It wasn’t him.” Peter rubs his knuckles furiously into his eyes. “He led me to an abandoned warehouse and they were waiting there. At least fifteen of them.”

“Yakuza,” Tony supplies, his stomach dropping to his ankles. He finishes cleaning the wound in seconds and then replaces Peter’s hands over fresh gauze. “Pressure.”

Peter nods miserably, pushing his palm down into the gauze. “They’re onto us. They know I’m letting the Kangaroo off easy. I can’t believe I followed him, I just didn’t think-”

“No, your vigilante pals Dumb and Dumber didn’t think.” Tony frowns as he loops a long bandage around Peter’s leg, over his hands, and ties a loose reef knot. “You’re exhausted. And how long were you supposed to hold off Bouncing Betty anyways? Lift your leg a little, there, that’s it. Why weren’t either of those dickheads shadowing you for backup?”

“The yakuza are keeping them busy in their own neighbourhoods,” Peter says, gazing at Tony reproachfully. “They know neither of them will engage with Kangaroo.”

“Yeah, whatever,” Tony grumbles. “Spider-Man doesn’t kill, but that doesn’t mean Spider-Man doesn’t kick ass on the regular. This whole setup was only thinly plausible to begin with. On the count of three, I’m going to pull the bandage tight, you get your hands out from under there. One...two...”

“Three,” Peter grunts, removing his hands and flinching in pain as the bandage pulls taut. It does the trick, and they watch as the bleeding gradually slows to a manageable trickle.

Tony looks up into Peter’s face. He’s still crying, but his face is totally expressionless, the tears falling in a silent stream. Tony reaches up with a clean rag and dabs at one of the cuts on Peter’s cheek. “Come on, Petey,” he says, feeling a distinct wrench in his chest. “None of this is your fault. You need rest. Put a pin in this for - for just a little while. Let dumbass-squared handle it.” Just until you’ve graduated, he thinks, useless as he knows it would be to say.

“You’re right,” Peter says flatly. 

Tony stops dabbing, hand frozen in midair. “What. Did I just hear you correctly?”

“We’ve got to make our move, and soon. This isn’t working. It’s unsustainable. We’ve gotta end it.”

“Um,” Tony says, “That’s not exactly what I was going for, kid-”

“I can’t,” Peter interrupts, moving his face from Tony’s hand, “I can’t keep...” He gestures helplessly between Tony and himself, gory red splattered generously on both of them. “I’m sorry, Tony. This is...a lot. I know dropping in like this isn’t fair to you.”

“Hey. No. Halt.” Tony puts his hand up in a ‘stop’ gesture. “Patching up the younger generation of superheroes is part of the terms of my half-assed quasi-retirement.” He pauses, holds Peter’s gaze, makes sure he’s really paying attention. “And patching you up is my job for the rest of my life. You hear me? You, forty years old, crawling into the window of my retirement home and getting blood on my nice carpets. That’s how it’s gonna be. It will break my heart if you take that away from me. Capisce?” 

Peter studies his face intently - looking for what, Tony doesn’t know. “I can hear your heart pounding,” he says. “You talk a big game, but this stresses you out.”

“Yeah, and it stressed me out when Morgan fell off the monkey bars and took out another kid on the way down,” Tony counters. “Too bad. Being a dad is stressful, that’s just the way it is. Anyways, your options are kind of limited, aren’t they? It’s me, or May, or Bruce, or Helen. Helen’s legally allowed time off, I still don’t know who the hell signed off on that, and Brucey isn’t really a medical doctor-”

“And May...” Peter trails off, with no real conviction. Oddly, his expression has completely and abruptly softened - like night to day.

“May works very hard sewing people back up at her day job, and deserves all the time off she can get,” Tony says firmly. “I’m retired. I need to keep my brain busy or I’ll go senile.”

Peter smiles, bright as the sun. “I thought you said you were half-assed quasi-retired.”

“Same thing,” Tony says airily, waving his hand. “Now are you going to let me feed you or what? Your charming little demon of a sister apparently hates tomato sauce this week, so we’ve got a nice baked ziti just rotting away in the fridge.”

“As tempting as that sounds, I promised Ned and MJ we’d all meet up after patrol tonight. Ned’s finally cracked the encrypted yakuza chat servers and Daredevil sent along some really promising legal documents that might help MJ with-”

“What the hell does Daredevil know about legal anything?” Tony scoffs. 

“A surprising amount,” Peter says thoughtfully. “I don’t really question it, but dude knows his stuff. You think I’m good to walk on this?” He flexes his leg, clearly pleased when it doesn’t trigger a fresh spurt of bleeding.

“No,” Tony says, although he knows it’s futile. “Will you please at least let me drive you home?”

“Tony,” Peter says, getting to his feet and pulling Tony up with him. “I love you, you know that, right?”

Tony gathers him into a tight hug - as tight as he can without jostling any bruises or cracked ribs. “It’s always nice to hear it, kid. And you know I-”

“Yeah,” Peter whispers, giving him one last squeeze. “I do.”

It’s only after Peter has crawled out the window and Tony is setting to work with the bleach that he realizes what he’d said - the thing that had made Peter’s face flicker instantly from hard to soft and endlessly vulnerable. And he realizes that he’d meant it, utterly and irrevocably, after dancing around it for seven long years.

Well, how about that, he thinks.

-

On the seventh Saturday Midtown School of Science and Technology’s graduation ceremony is scheduled for exactly one o’clock p.m. It’s a beautiful June day - just enough of a breeze to provide some relief from the week’s heatwave, but not quite breezy enough to carry Midtown’s signature summer odor into the auditorium. The sky is clear and blue, birds are singing, Morgan has even allowed herself to be wrestled into an adorable little lace dress for the occasion (and hasn’t managed to stain it yet.)

The only problem is that no one has seen Peter since six a.m., when he had scrambled out the doorway with his backpack and half a granola bar hanging out of his mouth, yelling vague excuses over his shoulder. 

(TS) 11:34
Peter.

(TS) 11:37
Petey-pie.

(TS) 11:37
Light of my life, cuore mio, my favourite radioactive arachnid mutant creature.

(TS) 11:38
We’re in the gymnasium and we don’t have a visual on you. Can you confirm that you’re onsite?

(TS) 11:58
If you miss this ceremony I swear to God I will kill all three of you and then drag you back from the afterlife to walk the stage next June with kids a year younger. I will get graduation photos for my wallet one way or another. Do I make myself clear?

(Peter-Man) 12:18
wow, that’s dark,,,even for you

(TS) 12:19
You kids are a bad influence. Are you here?

(TS) 12:27
Peter. Benjamin. PARKER.

Tony slides his phone into his pocket with a sigh. 

“You can still ground him for over a month before he turns eighteen,” he reminds May, not for the first time that day.

“You ground him,” May grumbles. “See how you like being the bad cop.”

Tony grimaces. “I’m not good at bad cop. The last time I tried bad cop-”

“Yeah, yeah, Peter blew up your little jet,” May says, rolling her eyes. “You don’t have to take the suit away, just tell him he’s not allowed to go out with friends and hide all his Nintendos.”

“They’re not all Nintendos - whatever. I can’t ground him, I’m not his...” Tony trails off, not exactly sure how to finish the sentence.

They lapse into silence for a moment, and then May reaches out and squeezes his wrist.

“That thing I said,” she murmurs, watching the mill of excited kids in gowns and caps. “A couple years ago, about you...and about Ben.”

You’re not his father, Tony.

“When Peter was small,” May continues, “it seemed so important to keep the categories straight. He was just such a tiny, sweet, innocent little thing, asking every day where his mama and daddy went. I guess it just seemed cruel to redefine that for him. So we were careful to always be Aunt May and Uncle Ben, because that was what made sense to a child. But he’s...he’s a man now. Whatever he wants all of us to be to him...he can define it for himself.” She brusquely wipes a tear from the corner of her eye, jostling her glasses. 

“For the record, you’re the best mom a kid could ask for,” Tony says quietly, bumping her shoulder with his. 

“Well, so is Pep.” She breathes a fluttery little laugh. “A child can never have too many, you know? Mothers, fathers. It’s not like we cancel each other out.”

Tony suddenly feels like he may cry himself. “No, we don’t. It’s like how - how having another kid doesn’t take away from how much you love your first - you just find out how much more capacity you have.”

“Okay, stop it, I’m going to wreck my mascara.” May sniffles and punches his shoulder. “Pull it together, Stark, for the love of God.”

Pepper leans down from the row behind and plants a kiss on each of their cheeks. “I have waterproof mascara,” she says, reaching back to dig in her purse.

“Yes, but is it my shade?” Tony replies, fanning himself with one hand. “You know the midnight black washes me out-”

“You are a saint, Pepper,” May says, eyeing Tony acidly as she takes the proffered mascara, makeup wipe, and small pocket mirror. “A saint, you know that?”

“Oh, I figured it couldn’t hurt to be prepared on a day like today.” Pepper smiles wryly, inclining her head slightly towards the back corner of the auditorium. “Even people who prepare for everything always seem to think they’re above a tear or two. You’re not my first taker on the mascara.”

Tony tries to turn his head and glance subtly where Pepper is indicating, but May ruins it by twisting her whole body around and leaning forward, squinting and adjusting her glasses. “Is that-”

“For fuck’s sakes, I thought I told them they couldn’t come,” Tony says, as Natasha acknowledges them with a fleeting grin. She’s wearing a wig, hat and sunglasses, but the quirk of her mouth and the set of her shoulders is unmistakable. 

Steve Rogers is sat next to her wearing a fake moustache and round thick glasses that very obviously do not have lenses.

“Oh, that’s pathetic,” he groans, turning back around and slamming a palm to his forehead. “I can’t believe she let him out of the Tower like that.”

“I think Sam and Bucky are in the vents,” Pepper says lightly. A distinct thumping noise sounds from above them. 

“They are.” Morgan sheepishly looks skyward and then at her parents. “Um...Uncle Bucky made me swear to keep it secret, but...I think my swear still counts ‘cause I didn’t really tell you, right?”

Pepper squeezes Tony’s shoulder. “Don’t worry about it too much, babe. Captain America attending a high school graduation in disguise and superheroes infiltrating the ventilation system aren’t things that would even occur to a civilian. People don’t notice things they’re not looking for.”

“They’re noticing that,” Tony says with an increasing edge of hysteria as he spots Bruce sitting by himself in the front row. “Pepper, you were there when I sat them all down and told them they couldn’t come, weren’t you?”

“He signed on as a guest speaker. Did you not read the program?” May cuffs him upside the head with said program. “Relax, you’re being neurotic.”

“Yeah, you’re right,” Tony grumbles, “I think the most conspicuous person here is the one assaulting Tony Stark with a rolled-up piece of paper.”

People are indeed shooting covert glances at them and whispering behind their hands. May makes direct eye contact, smiles angelically - which shuts them up - and then smacks Tony again. 

Tony elbows her back, and then Pepper threatens to separate them, so he occupies himself by scanning the auditorium again. 

Peter still hasn’t showed. Or Ned, or MJ.

Something catches Morgan’s eye and she starts yelling and waving before Pepper can calm her down. Tony follows her gaze and forces himself to breathe deep and count to ten as he sees Scott and Cassie Lang. Scott is decked out in such a Dad outfit that the effect is bordering on cosplay. Khakis, polo shirt, windbreaker, baseball cap, a watch for Christ’s sake, and a beaming smile to top it all off. Tony reasons to himself that the effect lends credibility to the slight figure next to Cassie - Wanda, who is very carefully dressed in her most normal teenager clothing.

Still, even though he doesn’t know the exact range of her mind-reading powers, Tony sends a very loud and very stern thought in Wanda’s direction.   

May is texting furiously next to him, her brows pinched into a deep furrow over her glasses.

[Ironfam]

(May Parker) 12:43
Okay....since none of you are texting me back how about i put you on blast in the family chat, huh????

(James Rhodes) 12:44
Knew I didn’t see em

(James Rhodes) 12:44
Where the hell r u punks

(Pepper Potts) 12:44
James, turn around so Morgan can wave at you :)

(TS) 12:45 
Peter so help me God I will put your suit through the shredder.

(May Parker) 12:46
Edward Manalo Leeds. i am so disappointed. 

(May Parker) 12:46
i was counting on you to keep your idiot friends in line.

(Ned Leeds) 12:58
:(

(Several people are typing...)

(Pepper Potts) 12:58
Where are you?!

(May Parker) 12:58
NED!!!!!!!!!

(TS) 12:58
Pick up your phone ASAP!!

(James Rhodes) 12:58
Band’s starting. short one clarinet. U want that on ur conscience forever parker?

(Michelle Jones) 13:01 
we’re trying to wrap it up just

(May Parker) 13:01
MICHELLE JONES if you tell me to CHILL

(Michelle Jones is typing...)

The unmistakable strains of ‘Pomp and Circumstance’ drift in from the field. The wide double-doors to the auditorium are flung open. The soon-to-be graduates file in - all nervous laughter, scanning the crowd for parents, tripping awkwardly over too-long gowns, the occasional instrumental honk or squeak from an excitable marching band player.

Pepper has disappeared from her seat, leaving Morgan to crawl down into May’s lap. Tony casts around frantically until he finds her in what looks like a hurried and intense discussion with Principal Morita. Morita looks somehow even more stressed-out than usual. He pushes his glasses up his nose as he sighs and shakes his head. Pepper, towering over him in six-inch heels, is making the kind of tight and controlled hand gestures she usually makes in SI negotiations. Tony can’t see her face but he’d bet his last dollar she’s wearing her most intimidating expression.

May leans over. “Whatever they’re talking about, Pepper’s winning,” she murmurs. 

Pepper slides back into her seat just as ‘Pomp and Circumstance’ ends. Morita announces awkwardly from the stage that there will be a slight change in program. The valedictorians will speak after the diplomas have been handed out. 

Then he launches into his own speech, which is imbued with the sort of bone-deep weariness that could only be achieved by the principal of a school full of errant geniuses - many of whom vanished into thin air and reappeared five years later in the middle of a school basketball game.

Still no Peter. No Ned. No MJ.

The superintendent makes a speech, and then a handful of teachers, including a profoundly disturbing little number by Mr. Harrison that gets a hair too deep into the details of his divorce for an auditorium filled with hundreds of people.

Bruce is last up to the mic. He’s gotten a little more comfortable with public speaking since...well, since getting larger and significantly greener. It’s still by no means his forte. He rambles for a while about future career paths in the sciences, which turns more into a ramble about the future of science than anything, but since he’s delivering his speech to a roomful of nerds the effect is sort of charming and roundly tolerated by his audience at first. Then he starts tripping over his words and offering godawful platitudes (highlights include ‘Talk to someone if you feel sad’ and ‘Dehydration is no joke, kids’) and Tony feels a surge of affection for his friend as he realizes that Bruce is stalling. 

Bruce can only keep it going for so long, before one of the P.E. teachers works up the courage to approach and practically pry the microphone out of Bruce’s big green hand. Spider-Man and company are nowhere to be seen.

They begin calling kids up to the stage, one by one. 

[Ironfam]

(Pepper Potts) 15:26
Wesley Ikemoto just got his diploma. We’re running out of alphabet here, Michelle.

(James Rhodes) 15:28
Should we b worried that none of them have replied in like an hour

(James Rhodes) 15:28 
One of u give me a signal that ur alive or tony and i r gonna suit up and crash ur party in a big way

(May Parker) 15:31
Answer now or i am coming with them!!

(Michelle Jones) 15:35
you guys please we’re kinda hiding in a sewer rn and our phones are on silent so

(Several people are typing...)

(Ned Leeds) 15:35 
no stop abort slow ur roll

(Ned Leeds) 15:35
not hiding in an about to be murdered way

(Ned Leeds) 15:35
hiding in a...badass super spy kind of way

(Ned Leeds) 15:36
promise we r wrapping up soon love you guys :heart: :sunglasses: :detective:

Michelle Jones is called, and there’s a few seconds of silence before Morita sighs and goes on to Patrick Jones.

Leeds, Edward turns into Lewis, Jeremy, onward to Malek, Adnan and O’Neal, Aisha, and finally sailing past Parker, Peter.

No one’s texting now. They’ve even given up exchanging nervous glances with each other and the various Avengers scattered throughout the auditorium. May cradles a sleepy Morgan close, a tenderness which is totally at odds with the furious set of her chin. Tony drums his fingers on his thigh at a frenetic pace. Pepper’s mouth has pressed into a very thin line and she is sitting very, very still.

Zhou, Elaine receives her diploma - a round of cheers - the band starts to play. Morita casts a helpless glance at Pepper and shrugs.

Still no sign.

Natasha abruptly materializes behind Pepper and whispers something into her ear. Pepper raises an eyebrow and hands Natasha her purse. Nat squeezes Pepper's shoulder then gracefully slips out of the aisle and out a side door.

As the band nears what is obviously a concluding cadence, the side door re-opens. 

Principal Morita’s hand twitches towards his face in a way that suggests he’s narrowly stopped himself from smacking his palm into his forehead as three capped-and-gowned forms reach him and start whispering, complete with frantic apologetic gestures. He pinches the bridge of his nose between two fingers instead, takes a very deep breath, and then nods.

One of the gowned forms looks back towards the audience. Tony sighs in an exactly even mixture of frustration and overwhelming relief. 

That would be one Peter Parker. 

Looking fresh as a fucking daisy, somehow, like he’s been napping in a hammock for the past few hours instead of skulking around in a sewer hiding from the Japanese mafia.

“To conclude the ceremony, our valedictorians will now speak,” Morita says tonelessly into the microphone, his voice the voice of a man who has given up on life entirely.

(Tony doesn’t blame him. Teenagers are exhausting.)

“Oh, for fuck’s sakes, you three,” May hisses beside him. Her eyes widen and she covers Morgan’s ears a second too late.

"Please welcome Peter Parker, who is heading to Columbia this fall," the superintendent says, raising an eyebrow skeptically, "and Michelle Jones, bound for Harvard."

Peter and MJ pause to give Ned a tight hug before walking to the stage. MJ at least has the decency to look tired, but she’s holding it together. Peter, on the other hand, looks like a nervous fidgety wreck - suspiciously rosy skin and bright eyes aside.

“Yeah, so, we’ve been trapped in this sweltering auditorium for long enough,” MJ says into the microphone, with such conviction that her classmates look around at each other as if trying to figure out if she’d been there all along and everyone had just missed her somehow. “So we’re doing a joint speech, instead of two.”

“Um,” Peter says, as MJ thrusts the microphone into his face. There’s an excruciating moment of silence.

Peter makes eye contact with Tony, and suddenly Tony just can’t bring himself to hold on to the irritation and hours of built-up stress. This kid - this good-hearted, reckless, idiotic, brilliant, amazing mess of a kid - his kid is up there on stage, top of his class, and suddenly all he feels is a surge of pride so strong it would knock him over if he weren’t sitting down already.

That feeling must be apparent on his face, because Peter slowly breaks into a smile and then takes a deep breath.

“I, um, suck at public speaking, as you all know,” Peter says, scratching the back of his head as his classmates laugh knowingly. “I wrote this whole speech but I can’t remember any of it. It was probably total bullsh- er, total crap.” A round of titters, as the superintendent shoots him an appalled look. “You know, stuff about the best years of our lives, and how we’re all gonna miss each other, blah blah. You know what? I hope these aren’t the best years of our lives. I hope our lives keep getting better and better, until we’re in our nineties surrounded by grandkids or cats or whatever floats our boats. And I bet even then we can still look around and say, ‘this year was great, but next year could be even better.’ Because here’s the thing - the future isn’t just a straight line. Someone really, really smart told me once that there’s hundreds and thousands and millions of different paths you can take, at every stage of your life, and that you never have to stop growing and learning and changing if you don’t want to. So...” Peter puts a hand over his face and laughs. “Oh, no, I’m gonna cry. MJ, take this thing away from me.” He waves the microphone at her.

More laughter and some distinct sniffles, not only from the kids but from the parents in the audience. MJ takes the mic and grins.

“Peter’s covered the best years of our lives cliché, so I’m gonna do the other one. I’m not gonna miss any of you motherfuckers, because we’re going to stay in touch. If you want to talk to me, just talk to me, we went through an apocalypse together for Christ’s sakes. Send me a text, call me, I’ll pick up. And if you don’t want to keep in touch we wouldn’t miss each other anyways, right?"

"Right!" Flash yells, but it's with a huge, affectionate grin. A scattered cheer and giggling sweep through the crowd.

"So let’s not waste time in the past," MJ continues. "Let’s boldly go where lots of other people have gone before. Let’s try new things, fuck up a lot, fix our mistakes, and - most importantly - be excellent to each other.” 

MJ hands the microphone back to Morita, flashes the Vulcan ‘Live Long and Prosper’ sign, and drags Peter off the stage to thunderous applause.

Suddenly everyone is laughing and shrieking and hugging, and before Morita can even give the signal a gigantic hailstorm of graduation caps sails through the air. Parents struggle through the throng to find their children, and the mass of people spreads outside to the football field. Tony can hear more thumping overhead and a muffled ‘fuck!’ as Sam and Bucky make their exit. Nat drags a grinning Steve out the side door just as he loses his fake moustache, and one by one the Avengers disperse - they’ll have plenty of time to congratulate the kids later.

May spots Peter first. He and Ned are being held in a death grip of a hug by Mr. and Mrs. Leeds. Mrs. Leeds is sobbing, and Ned’s grandma is yelling something as she pinches MJ’s cheek.

“You - you -” May bursts into tears, and wrestles him from Mrs. Leeds’ grip into an even tighter hug of her own. “You smell like shit -”

This sets Pepper off, and she dissolves into a round of hiccuping sobs as she pulls MJ into an embrace. “You made it - God what a speech, I am so proud, kid-”

Morgan looks a bit frightened and confused by all the crying and hugging going on around her, but she joins in anyways, raising her arms to Ned’s grandma with a charming little grin. Grandma Leeds picks her up, cooing in Tagalog, and brings her into the Leeds family group hug.

“Petey’s my brother,” Tony hears her explaining to Grandma Leeds, who has close to no English but is nodding along anyways. “He’s valedictorian. I practiced saying that word. It means he’s really smart, or something, and he gets to be the one to talk on the stage. Guess what! MJ is valedictorian too-”

Tony steps forward and gathers both Peter and May into his arms. Peter does smell awful, and up close Tony realizes the “fresh as a daisy” look is half a pound of makeup (which is smudging to reveal a hell of a shiner underneath.)

Peter grins apologetically up at him as May cries into his collar. “I texted Nat that we were coming and my face was busted. She did a great job, right? I’m really sorry I was late, Tony, but we did it - the FBI got there right on time and-”

“I’m so fucking proud of you,” Tony says, pulling him closer. “Peter-”

“If you ever pull a stunt like that again - I love you so much, baby -” May wails, wrapping her arms so tightly around both of them that it’s a little bit painful.

He cups Peter’s face in both hands and presses their foreheads together. They grin at each other over May’s head, words lost to the cacophony around them.

Tony knows Peter can read between the lines.
 
I love you. I’m proud of you no matter where you go or who you are. 

Fourteen million futures, and in all of them you’re my son.