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1.
Steve is cooking breakfast the first time it happens.
The TV is on, volume muted and Peter strapped in his high chair in front of it, his small toddler hands gripping tight to his giraffe doll when –
“Da!” he waves his hand towards the TV.
That’s normal enough, but Steve speeds up moving the scrambled eggs onto a plate anyway. Tony was out on an unavoidable meeting, leaving him alone to keep their child well fed, entertained –
“Da! Dada!” comes the next shrieks, and Steve rushes into the living room to calm Peter down when –
Iron Man Stops Bank Robbery.
The bold letters of the headline stare at him. There’s a reporter, people milling about in the backgrounds, flashing blue and red sirens at the edge of the screen.
A dreadful, swooping cold worry nearly forces Steve to drop the plate.
But he holds on tight, feeling his chest loosen when the channel’s camera pans to the side to show Tony, barely scraped at all, in his new Iron Man armor.
Slowly, he lets out a sigh of relief, placing the plate on the table and closing his eyes for a second.
They’d largely retired since they adopted Peter, preferring to keep their superhero life separate from the quieter life they were ready to start, but there was something to Tony that kept pushing him to keep inventing.
Nanotech, handy huh? he hears the echo of Tony’s smug voice, more thankful than ever for his husband’s quick mind.
Rationally, he knows a bank robbery is nothing compared to aliens.
That didn’t mean his husband would get away from a dressing down, though, because why the hell didn’t he call for Steve? Danger was danger. It did mean, however, that Steve could go to Peter without his heart hammering away in fear.
“Da!” Peter shrieks this time, growing impatient, hands reaching out to the screen with intense concentration.
Not for the first time, Steve grins at the warmth that his son brings. “Yes, Peter,” he kneels next to his son’s chair, “that’s your Dad being quite the hero.”
Peter turns his wide eyes to Steve. His face scrunches up, and he aims –
He aims his palms out at Steve.
Elbow locked straight, fingers the slightest bit curled in –
A repulsor.
“Peter?”
“Dada!”
Confusion melts into fondness.
Steve smiles.
Reaching up, he flattens his hand against his son’s far smaller one, curling gently around it. “You wanna be like him?”
“Da!” Peter agrees again.
One year old, and you already know who’s the best of us, Steve pauses to reflect, all his fears chased away by a fierce pride. “Your Dad’s coming home real soon,” he promises, “you should tell him that.”
Peter must understand, somehow, because he gives Steve a toothless smile.
2.
With legs that finally balance themselves, Peter simply won’t stop moving. Tony loves his son, he really, really does, and with a fierceness he didn’t know had in him. But after a gruelling week, all Tony wants is to sleep – which, according to Pepper as she had shoved him home, was the first sign of an apocalypse
And maybe there was some truth to children being the universe’s way of delivering karmic retribution, because their child was maddening.
So maddening that he managed to exhaust even a supersoldier.
“Peter, please stop running?” Steve pleads. He’s slumped on the floor, lightheaded and leaning heavily against the sofa’s armrest. Peter darts from one end of the room to the other. “You need a bath, then sleep. And your Dad needs rest too.”
At that word, Peter pauses the slightest bit.
“Dad!”
Across the room, similarly slumped on the floor, is Tony. He opens up his arms, spreading them wide and hopeful. “I’m here, Peter.”
Peter stops running. A miracle.
He tilts his head. “Wrong.”
Words come easier to Peter now, but they often got garbled, meanings jumbled up. There was nothing wrong, except perhaps Peter’s dislike for baths. Karma, a voice that’s definitely Jarvis echoes in his head.
“I’m here,” Tony tries luring their son again. “Come over and I’ll tickle you.” His eyes meet Steve’s, and Steve can only shrug. Neither of them understood what finally managed to get Peter to stop running.
Tiny feet stomping down and bottom lip pouting out in dissatisfaction, Peter frowns too. “Dad wrong.”
“What’s wrong, Peter Pumpkin?”
Usually, when Tony calls him that, he giggles. This time, Peter shakes his head, as resolutely a two-year-old can.
Then, he lifts both hands out in front of him, palms raised to Tony’s face.
“I’on Man.”
“What?” Tony blinks.
Peter steps forward, stumbling slightly with his hands still raised.
“I’on Man,” he says louder. “Hero.”
And –
“Oh,” Steve laughs, delighted. “Oh.”
“What?” Tony asks.
Steve shouldn’t be that happy. Since when did Peter start seeing Iron Man as a hero? Sure, their son knew about superheroes, but Peter had preferred to voice his admiration for Nat’s shiny tools or Bruce’s bubbling test tubes. Iron Man was only another flashy superhero in a long line of superheroes, and Tony was more than content with that.
“We need to strike a deal,” Steve announces. “Pete, if you go to bed, I’ll tell you Iron Man stories. How ‘bout that?” He grins at Tony’s blank, shocked face. “And if you’re really good, your Dad might show you Iron Man’s helmet tomorrow.”
Peter turns his frown at Steve, one arm lowering. “Today.”
“Tomorrow,” Steve insists. It’s far too late to go down to the lab, nor do either of them have any strength to wrangle Peter away from the bots.
Sighing in defeat, Peter lowers his other arm. When Steve comes even closer to lift him in the air, he makes no more attempts to run away again. “Story. I’on man.”
“Yes, lots of stories,” Steve says, swaying his son gently as he walks toward his husband. “My favorite is when Iron Man met Captain America.”
“Cap?” Peter asks, eyes wide.
“Not as great as Iron Man, but a close second.”
Tony stands to his feet shakily, weary from the day and still stung with shock. Raising himself slightly on his toes, he pecks a thank you kiss on Steve’s cheek. Most days, Tony could carry heavy machinery with ease. Tonight, he was too tired to carry even Peter.
He trails after them blankly, watching quietly as their son gasped at all the right places to Steve’s very, very toned down version of how Tony had saved New York. It had ended with a sleepy Peter at last tucked into bed and a declaration from their son that ‘Dad is best hero’, the little voice ringing in Tony’s head endlessly, giving him no rest despite his tiredness.
“When did – when did he start asking about Iron Man?” Tony prods Steve accusingly, giving up any pretence of sleep.
“He saw you saving that bank on TV a few days ago, wanted to be like you.”
Tony rolls over onto his back. The blue light of the arc reactor spills into the bedroom, his thin shirt doing little to shield it. It paints Steve’s eyes an even brighter color, and it feels too much like staring into the sun – the fondness in them too blazing and scorching even after all these years.
“He should want to be better,” he confesses his worry. He had grown up worshipping Howard, and then Cap, and then had followed Stane’s footsteps. As pleased as he is that his son – his own son! – thought he was a hero, he doesn’t want Peter looking up to the wrong people.
Steve shifts closer, pressing a long, heavy kiss against Tony’s shoulder. “There’s no one better than you.” Another kiss. Then, “although, I would prefer it if he grew up to fold his socks and drink less coffee.”
“You’re the worst, you know that?” Tony grumbles. It couldn’t be that simple. Nothing ever was.
One more kiss lands on him, this time on his neck. “Only because you’re the best.”
God, why did Steve have to be earnest all the time?
Fighting against the tightness of his throat, Tony smiles into Steve’s lit up face. He lets the fondness in it sink deeper than his fears, lets the truth of Steve’s faith wash away his doubts for the moment.
“Sweet talk won’t get you anywhere, dear,” he pretends to grumble.
Steve takes his hand, squeezing it tight and steady. “I’m married to you. I don’t need to be anywhere else.”
3.
The third time it happens, Tony is in the hospital bed.
Too slow to prevent it, Steve had watched – numb – as an explosion threw Iron Man back into a building, its columns crumbling over Tony. Digging him out of the ash and rubble had been a horror, a limbo of icy fear and choking dread and desperate prayers.
We shouldn’t have taken the mission, Steve selfishly thinks, holding Peter’s drowsy form close to his chest, rocking them both to calm himself more than to calm his son. They were retired. They shouldn’t have to come on emergency missions.
And yet, and yet.
They wouldn’t forgive themselves if they didn’t.
And Steve wouldn’t forgive himself if Tony didn’t make it out of this one.
“Pa?” Peter whispers, small hands reaching up to Steve’s cheek. “No cry.”
“I’m not crying, darling,” Steve lies. He swallows hard, pushing back against the pressure building in his throat, in his chest. Peter leans his head against Steve’s shoulder, and Steve gratefully buries his nose in Peter’s short tufts of hair. “You just rest now. When you wake up, your Dad’s gonna be better.”
“Dad wake up?”
“Yes,” he whispers firmly. The alternative is unthinkable. Glancing up, he sees Tony’s too pale, too still body hooked up to IVs and monitors that beep a constant, almost comforting rhythm. He settles into the plastic hospital chair, adjusting Peter on his lap. “Yes. Everything’s alright.”
Nothing is alright. But Peter doesn’t have to know that.
One hand wrapped tightly around his son, Steve cradles his free hand around Tony’s cold wrist, measuring the skittering pulse there and rubbing some warmth back into the skin.
Come back, Steve wants to beg. I can’t do this without you.
“Wanna play.”
Peter’s mumble sends another sharp pang of guilt through him.
It’s a miracle that they even let Peter inside the hospital room – though he knows it was less of a miracle, more of a Natasha forcing her way through. They hadn’t been able to calm the little boy down without either of his fathers in the room, and Peter was a mess by the time she had gotten him into Steve’s arms.
Regardless, Steve doesn’t think the staff would take too kindly to playing around. Nor does he have any strength left to move, drained from the battle and sick with worry.
“We have to be quiet, Pumpkin.” He isn’t the parent that Peter needs right now. Tony was always better than him at this, and he scrambles to remember Tony’s nicknames and tricks to calm their son. “Your Dad needs to heal.”
“I’on Man save Dad?”
God, Steve feels wretchedly hollow, I wish.
This was one more thing in a long line of his failures today. He hadn’t been good enough to save his own husband, and now he was making their son upset.
“Iron Man can’t, Peter.”
Peter doesn’t seem to accept that.
He wiggles in Steve’s arms until he’s seated facing the bed, and he lifts an arm in a now-familiar pose. Palm out, directed towards Tony’s bandaged chest, Peter orders in a shrill voice, “save Dad!”
Steve has to – he has to stay strong.
This isn’t his mother lying in bed, frail and struggling for breath. This was Tony, who had proven time and time again that no matter what the odds were, he would make it work. This was their son, who depended on Steve while Tony couldn’t be there.
“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” he lets go of Tony’s hand to turn Peter back to his chest, cupping their son’s cheek to distract him. “The doctors are doing their best. They’ll save Dad, okay?”
Peter sniffs. Eyes darting up to Steve’s, he moves his hand towards Steve’s own cheeks, batting at them lightly. “No cry.”
“No,” Steve tries to agree. “No crying.” His voice breaks and he pulls Peter to his chest so the little boy won’t have to see his grief. “I love you so much.” He should have said that more to Tony, should have –
“’ove you, Papa.”
The small voice spreads against Steve’s heart, ringing so truthful and soft that it breaks him and soothes him all at once.
“What if I tell you a story instead?” Steve asks, hoping that his son won’t be able to hear the tremble in his voice. “Your Dad might be able to hear.”
But Peter was also Tony’s son, smarter than any three-year-old had any right to be. He burrows his head into Steve’s clothes, small hands crumpling the shirt in their tight grip.
“Dad wake up?” Peter plaintively asks again.
I don’t know.
Steve rubs his back, drawing circles upon circles until Peter’s grip loosens, trying hard not to think of the arc reactor flickering dark. Nobody knows whether Tony will ever wake again, or if he can hear them. He hopes that Tony can, that at least the darkness Tony hates so much won’t be too lonely with the company of their voices, but he knows it’s wishful thinking.
He’ll wake up, Steve wants to promise once more, and yet the words now stick in his throat. He remembers the empty promises about his own mother, the bitterness he had felt when they fell through.
“It doesn’t hurt to try,” he tells their son instead, because he can’t afford to give up.
“Okay,” Peter nods against him. “Iron Man story?”
“The best of them.”
At least, in stories, Steve can promise a happy ending.
4.
It’s a rule they established early on in their relationship as teammates and friends: Tony accompanies Steve on a morning jog once a week, every Sunday. Steve agrees to go at a less ungodly hour of the day, giving Tony ample time to drink his coffee, as long as Tony gets the sun and exercise he needs.
These days, they also take turns carrying Peter in his carrier, bringing him along to the park.
“You sure you don’t want to trade?” Steve offers. Ever since the hospital, Peter had only grown more attached to Tony, but Steve worried for Tony’s recovering shoulder.
“I’m fine,” Tony waves his concern off. “The nanotech carrier’s holding up most of the weight.”
“Dad,” Peter agrees, hand darting up to swat at Tony’s goatee. He was seated facing front, the nanobots strapping him to Tony’s shoulder in the world’s most expensive – and, in Tony’s opinion, most stylish – baby carrier.
“See?” he grins at his husband. “Our son is also very fine.”
“Alright – ”
“Bird!”
Steve laughs. “Yes, Peter, those are pigeons.”
“A different species from your Uncles Sam and Clint, but birds nonetheless,” Tony teaches their son seriously.
“No. Bird!” Peter points to the sky, and –
Well, Tony has one moment of hysteria, he’s not wrong.
“Is that?” Steve stares, phone already in hand and the Avengers alert sent out.
The looming man with Vulture-like metal wings hovers above the ground, the glinting green eyes of his mask fixed on the three of them.
Around them, innocent families scream as they run for cover, and Steve urgently pulls them behind a clump of trees.
“Yeah,” Tony barely manages to not curse in his son’s ears. The nanobots spread out to form an armor around him and their son. “Steve, you need to go. Take Peter.”
“I’m not leaving.”
“We have no time. You have no armor.”
“Nat’s three minutes out. The man hasn’t made an attack, Peter is safe in the armor. I’m not leaving you.”
Tony looks down at the carrier-turned-armor. Indeed, Peter seems to be highly entertained by the red and gold metal now covering him. “Maybe the Chicken Little’s just early for Halloween?”
“Iron Man!” Peter waves his arms around as Steve tries his best to smother his laugh.
“I don’t think so – ”
A loud whirring cuts Steve off, the sound of metal grating against itself sharp and piercing, and Tony commands the HUD to cut all audio to Peter, sparing their son from the sounds of what will likely be a fight.
“Tony Stark!” the Vulture’s voice ripples over them. One metal wing slices clean through the tree behind them.
Instinctively, Tony curls himself around Peter and Steve, shielding them both with his own body. As durable as the superserum was, the new armor was even stronger.
“I have no business with your family, Tony Stark,” the Vulture calls again, and the readings of the HUD register the wind coming from the wings. They calculate the span, pin point the weak hinges, scans the base technology powering it. “Hand over yourself, and we’ll spare your family.”
The numbers spiral up, a new dot appearing on the display. Trajectories locked, avoiding the scattered civilians who have yet to flee the park, and –
Gotcha, Tony grins.
“Yeah, no can do,” he says, squinting into the sky. “Promised my son I’d be there for his birthday party next year. Try rescheduling a meeting with my assistant.”
Beside him, Steve sends him a warning glare. The Vulture raises a sort of gun, the red dot on the screen moves closer –
Tony fires his repulsors –
Natasha throws Steve’s shield towards them –
The Vulture shoots.
“Boom!” Peter yells.
Their son has his palms out, copying Tony perfectly. Small gauntlets show off the little lights that make do as fake repulsors, and the Vulture falls, tumbling towards the ground, jagged wings catching on tree limbs. Shield raised, Steve aims it at the juncture where the wings meet the back, the HUD recording the perfect path it takes: velocity and force match with the man’s fall so that the wings break without causing too much damage.
The shield bounces back, slamming into the magnets on Steve’s arm, and he holds it aloft, standing between Tony and the downed man.
“That was hot,” Tony lifts up his face plate. “Oh, I forgot to tell you birdman! I’m not free for abduction tonight either. I have a hot date.”
“Tony.”
“I’m sweetheart to you, darling.”
“Sweetheart,” Steve sighs fondly, “let Natasha and Clint take over.”
He watches as Natasha apprehends the man, Clint dutifully stripping all the tech for Tony to pick apart with Bruce later. Part of him wants to argue that the man ruined what was supposed to be a nice post-recovery walk with his family, but he supposes there are more important things to do now.
“Alright.”
Tony follows Steve away from the threat before he commands the armor to unravel, retreating back into the carrier to reveal their flushed and excited son. “Dad!” he waves his hand around. “I’m Iron Man!”
“You were quite the hero,” Tony indulges him. Distantly, he remembers a time when Jarvis had snapped pictures of himself hoisting a makeshift shield, how he pretended to be fighting shadow demons and how warm it had felt when Jarvis had clapped for him. “You and your Pops kept me safe.”
“I did?”
Steve presses closer to them both. With one hand keeping the shield ready for any other attacks, he loops his free arm around Tony’s waist, pressing a quick kiss over their son’s head before gifting another kiss on Tony’s cheek.
“Yeah, you did,” he agrees with Tony, “you were very brave today.”
One day, Peter would have to learn about the guilt and doubt and fear that came with courage, but today, Tony lets his son believe that he can save the world, can change it and protect it.
Because if there’s anything that their son has done to Tony’s world, it’s to change it for the better.
“That means ice cream,” Tony announces, letting the fear wash away.
“Iron Man ice cream?”
Steve laughs. “Yes, Stark Raving Hazelnuts, three servings.”
Tony quiets him with a kiss.
5.
When Halloween eventually rolls around, it’s no big leap to guess who Peter wants to be.
“Straighten your back,” Steve tells him. “Move your feet apart and you’ll be steadier. Don’t lock your elbows or your hand will hurt from the repulsor blast.”
There’s little chance that Peter will fully understand what Steve means, but their son stands proud in front of the mirror, grin so wide that Steve can’t help smiling too. Tony had pretended to enlist Peter’s help in making the costume armor. The little boy had taken easily to the tools that surrounded them, small hands eager to speed along the process.
In true Tony Stark fashion, he had let Peter ‘help’ for a week despite the costume being completed in under a day, and Tony had also made another costume for Peter’s new-found preschool friend. Steve hopes their son will be able to remember this Halloween.
“Perfect,” he says when Peter imitates a repulsor blast into the mirror.
“How do I look?” Tony interrupts them.
From the mirror, Steve’s smile grows larger as he spots Tony’s state-of-the-art costume. He’s dressed up as Rhodey, the standard red and gold armor switched up for a more toned down black and silver.
“Dad!” Peter runs over to him.
“Every Iron Man needs a War Machine,” Tony bends down to hug him. “Now, where’s your Cap?”
“MJ is coming.”
“Great, why don’t we meet her in the lobby? We can show the whole building they’re safe with their new Iron Man.”
“Candy?”
“Not quite yet.”
Steve had chosen an easier costume. Arm covered with a thin layer of silver nanobots and mascara surrounding his eyes – helpfully applied with Peter’s help – Steve had only needed to find a wig to complete the costume.
“I do not look like that,” Bucky had argued. Helpfully, Peter had turned the mascara brush on his Uncle Bucky, smearing black lines over his forehead until the argument was resolved in their favor.
Tony takes one look at Steve and shakes his head ruefully. “I’m not kissing you until you take that wig off.”
“I’ll have to find myself a Sam then.”
They step into the elevator as Tony sticks his tongue out at his husband, their son far too excited to notice his parents’ antics. The lobby itself is full of children, even this early into the evening. Stark Tower was famous for opening itself to children on Halloween, hosting free exhibitions with candy given out to everyone.
Every year, Tony made it a point to ensure one of the candies were Steve’s favorite from the ‘40s – his husband didn’t need to know that he bought the company to keep it in production – and he watches as Steve makes a beeline to it.
“You spot your Cap yet, Pumpkin?” Tony asks Peter. Standing on his toes, Peter shakes his head. “Okay, then why don’t you go meet some other kids? Call JARVIS if you need me.”
Peter’s face lights up. “Really, Dad?”
“Just be careful.”
Their son doesn’t need to be told twice. Peter weaves his way past the crowd of children to see the Avengers exhibit. On his way, he grabs as much candy as his small gauntleted hands can fit, giving them out to the other children staring up at the large cutout of Iron Man.
“We’re raising a good one,” Steve says around his own mouthful of candy.
Tony leans on his shoulder, happy for the disguises that keep them unrecognizable for the moment. They’ll need to let the reporters take some pictures, but for now, he’s content to watch his son be a hero.
“Yeah. Thankfully, he’s not as troublesome as you.”
“No, he’s as troublesome as you.”
Grinning, Tony steals a candy from Steve. “I take that as a compliment.”
+1.
“Did you really think I’d forget?”
Peter stares up at the man, confused. He thinks he would remember it if he ever met a man with metal wings, but by the paleness of his Dad’s face, the flying man wasn’t quite a stranger.
“I gave you a choice once, Stark. You for your family,” the man continues.
“Yeah, my schedule’s still fully booked,” his Dad shouts, all the while making weird gestures at Peter that Peter doesn’t understand.
Maybe things would make more sense if Pops were here. But Pops was off buying ice cream for them, leaving them to be rudely interrupted alone at the park. Fortunately, Peter’s had almost a decade of training to wait for instructions – it had started when he was five, and it was drilled into his head how to not panic.
Less fortunately, the flying man seemed to be losing his patience.
“You’re not getting that choice anymore, Stark.”
All at once, Peter notices three things. First, the flying man is pointing a weapon at him. Second, his Dad is holding the glowing nanotech compartment in his hands. Third, his Dad is trying to tell him something, and he struggles to read his Dad’s lips, because surely his Dad had no reason to say sorry to him.
The only warning Peter gets is this:
His Dad’s voice, loud and forceful.
“JARVIS, now!”
Something hits his shoulder –
And suddenly there’s metal spreading across his chest –
The sound of a weapon firing –
Peter falls, the force of the weapon pushing him back, but the suit’s repulsors kick in, sending him into flight instead of towards the ground. Instinctively, he raises his hand up, and the HUD flashes with numbers that he races to understand – how his Dad did it so quickly, he doesn’t know –
“JARVIS – ”
The AI doesn’t need the order.
The repulsors fire, Peter remembering just in time to relax his elbows, letting his arm move with the force from the gauntlets.
He raises them again, watches the red alert on the HUD flash bright as the man regains balance in mid-air and points the weapon to –
Dad.
In quick succession, Peter fires the repulsors again.
Once, twice, thrice.
The man screams something, the scorched weapon falling to the ground, his right wing refusing to straighten out. Below them, his Dad was still sprawled on the grass, and he forces the suit to land, his knees taking the brunt of the impact when he scrambles to his Dad’s side.
His gauntlet retracts itself when he reaches out to find a pulse, fingers pressing down hard when he finds none. His other hand cradles his Dad’s face, trying desperately to coax some life back, and his heart skips a beat when he finds blood, wet and still flowing out.
“J, status report?”
If his voice trembles, he doesn’t care.
“Sir was knocked back by the weapon’s shockwave,” JARVIS dutifully reports. “If you move your hand slightly downwards, you’ll find a heartbeat of fifty four beats per minute.”
Relief mingles with cold fear. Outside the armor, his Dad was as vulnerable as the next person, and yet he’d chosen to give his protection to Peter. The trust of it was overwhelming.
“Hey, J?” Peter says. He has to be brave. In front of him, the flying man was regaining control of his wings. “You called Pops already?”
“Captain Rogers is enroute with his gear, young sir.”
“Perfect.” All he needs to do is delay their attacker while his Dad wakes up. “Show me where to hit to disarm the guy?”
The gauntlets reform, the HUD alight with targets.
“With pleasure, young sir.”
Five minutes later, Peter stands over the unconscious Vulture, keeping a watchful eye as his Dad carefully gets sits up. There’s a small cut on his Dad’s forehead and Peter’s jittery from the adrenaline, but for the most part, when his Pops barrels into the scene with shield held high, they’re unharmed.
“What happened?” Pops demands.
“Our son was quite the hero,” Dad says. “You did good, kiddo. But you’re still not getting a suit of his own.”
“I tried my best not to hurt him,” Peter explains. His head feels light and buzzy, and he doesn’t know if he messed up or not, because it certainly felt like he did.
“Good,” Pops places a steadying hand on his shoulder. “You did exactly as we taught you to, and we’ll handle it from here.”
Peter swallows. “Wasn’t fast enough to stop Dad getting hurt.”
“It’s just a scratch,” Dad dismisses, and when Pops sends a look his way, Dad emphasizes, “this time, it actually is just a scratch.”
Pops squeezes his shoulder gently. “No one’s ever ready for their first fight. And even I wasn’t ready for my hundredth or thousandth fight. But you kept your Dad safe, and you didn’t let your fear or anger take over. You did good.”
“If you say so.”
“A Captain America promise, buddy, signed and sealed by Iron Man.”
Peter feels his lips twitch up reluctantly.
Finally feeling brave enough to flip up the faceplate, he lets Pops check on him.
Cupping Peter’s cheeks through the armor and staring into his eyes in case of a concussion, Pops gives a satisfied nod at the absence of it. Then, Pops does the same to Dad, except he drops his shield in favor of rummaging through his toolbelt.
“Here we are,” his Pops declares triumphantly. He fishes out some alcohol swabs, making quick work of his Dad’s cut before sealing it over with two cheerful Captain America band-aids. The cartoon shields look worlds away from the real one, but Dad smiles anyway.
“Thank you.” Dad gracefully accepts it when Pops kisses the wound over the band-aids.
“I shouldn’t have left,” Pops glares down at their attacker.
Dad shrugs. “Peter had it handled, didn’t you, Pumpkin Pie?”
Pops considers that for a moment before he relents. “Yeah, well, he did have a lot of practice.”
The sight of his parents together sends a pang of home strong enough to comfort him, because if Peter was here and his parents were with each other, smiling and teasing, it meant that things were alright.
Cheeks warm, Peter ducks his head. He remembers a time when he’d run around the Tower fighting imaginary monsters with not-so-imaginary armor. “What do we do with him?” he changes the subject.
Dad and Pops share a secret look – one of those silent conversations they somehow manage to hold, a trick Peter has yet to decipher – then, they turn to him. “Your Aunt Tasha would love to have a reunion with him.”
“And she should get here right about,” Pops pauses for a second, “now.”
Sure enough, the sounds of a motorcycle grow stronger, and between the four of them, it doesn’t take long to clear up the park from any remnants of the fight. Aunt Tasha makes a comment about Peter’s new armor, which Dad waves off.
“Peter isn’t going to be a superhero.”
“Dad – ”
“He’s already a supreme one. If Strange can be the Sorcerer Supreme, we superheroes should have that title too.”
“Okay,” Pops laughs. “But the colors don’t fit him. Red and blue, maybe?”
“I get to keep this suit?” Peter blurts out, incredulous and disbelieving. He’s always wanted a chance to help his parents, but now he realizes more than ever that the job comes with a daunting burden. He hadn’t been prepared to see his Dad lie still on the grass, and he starts to understand why his parents had been adamant on keeping him out of battle.
Because if Peter had a choice, he’d be making sure neither of his parents ever went to fight again.
“No,” Dad shakes his head, “you get a better suit when you turn eighteen.”
“You’re making a suit just for me?”
“A suit of armor around the world, Pete. You’re my world as much as your Pops is.”
Peter glances at the gear Pops was wearing. “Are you telling me Pops has a suit of armor but chooses to keep wearing spandex?”
Pops laughs. Dad’s eyes flick down. “A man has needs and desires, Pete, you’ll learn when you’re older.”
Rolling his own eyes, Peter lets the relief sink deeper. “I’m your son, Dad. I learned what you meant years ago.”
Pops laughs louder. Dad pulls him in for a hug, and the suit finally falls away, nanobots slipping back into their compartment, letting his Dad ruffle his hair properly.
For once, Peter lets him.
He realizes, with a sudden clarity, that he’s gotten it wrong all this time – after being in the suit, he doesn’t think he wants to be Iron Man.
No, he wants to be the man who built the suit from scratch, who stepped into it brave enough to risk his life, selfless enough to protect his family, and strong enough to carry the fear and doubt and vengeful anger that came with all of it.
“Sorry for not warning you about the suit,” Dad says, not letting him go, “there wasn’t enough time to explain.”
“Just don’t scare me like that ever again.”
Dad huffs. “Karma for all the heart attacks you gave me.”
Peter hugs him tighter. “Thank you.”
He’s not sure what he’s thanking his Dad for – maybe for all the battles that his Dad had come home from, or for being the hero Peter needed all along. Maybe it was for the warmth of the hug that let him know he was safe, or for the faith placed in him, or even for all those years that he knew without a doubt that he was his Dad’s world.
Whatever it was, his Dad understood. “Thank me by never telling your Aunt Pepper about this.”
“I think she already knows what happened.”
Sighing, Dad ruffles his hair one more time. “Fine, then talk your Pops out of making me go to the medbay. We can skip that and watch Star Wars.”
Peter smiles up at his Pops, who shrugs, helpless. “Alright. Just this once, Tony.”
Dad cheers.
Aunt Tasha clears her throat, hands on her hips. “You boys done? Or am I going to do all the work here?”
“I’m injured,” Dad grins, unrepentant.
“I’m fifteen,” Peter follows suit, “that’s child labor.”
Pops looks torn between laughing again and shaking his head. “I knew you both were trouble.”
Dad doesn’t miss a beat. “You love trouble.”
“Only if it’s you,” Pops agrees.
Peter never wants them to change.