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1:34 PM
“Maybe we should move the date.”
Tony looks up from his tablet, brows quirking up as he takes in Pepper, who is staring down at the screen of her own tablet with an expertly concealed expression—not one that’s hard or steeled over, no, but one that’s perfectly placed, as if trying to hide a sense of nervousness. He frowns, confused, and says, “I mean, I’m not against it, but we’ve pushed it back four times now. Do we really need to push it further?”
Lips pursing just slightly, Pepper takes a moment, before carefully replying with, “Well, I meant moving it closer. Maybe… Maybe we could bring it back up to the original date, you know?”
There’s a lapse of silence, nothing happening, no reaction—until, suddenly, Tony drops his tablet onto the sofa cushion to the left of him. “If you’re joking,” he says, “I might cry. This isn’t a joke, right?” A light laugh pushes past Pepper’s mouth, and when she looks up at him, a smile pulling at the ends of her lips, there’s already a grin on his face. “Oh my god, Pep—I thought you said we couldn’t make it work?”
“I said we couldn’t make it work without rearranging meetings,” she corrects. “But, like you said, we’ve already pushed back the date four times, and we’ll keep pushing it back because meetings are always going to pop up. I’d rather put my foot down now and push meetings around our wedding than arrange our wedding around meetings, you know?” She pauses, before adding, “Besides, I… I have to tell you something.”
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1:41 PM
The sound of the whistle is sharp and sudden, making Peter flinch, just slightly—Harley, from across the room, scrunches up his nose at him, while Flash, standing to Peter’s left, jabs an elbow into his ribs, then grins at him and murmurs, “Distraction,” as if providing a solution to his enhanced hearing when Peter gives him a disgruntled look, hand coming up to rub at the spot Flash jammed his boney elbow into.
“Alright!” Coach Wilson calls out, a hush falling over the gym quickly as he props his hands up on his hips and looks around at them, waiting until everyone is looking his way and waiting for further instruction. Once he seems satisfied, Coach nods once and says, “Happy Friday everyone. As you know, we took a vote yesterday to see what you wanted to do today, and a majority of you wanted Dodgeball.”
A slight cheer erupts, interrupting him, something that he is quick to hold a hand up and cut off.
“Which means,” he goes on, voice raising to be heard until the rest of the kids go quiet once more, “the first thing we’re going to be doing after warm ups is split into teams. I’ll be choosing captains. Got it?”
After getting a general confirmation from the class, Coach Wilson nods once more, blows the whistle (making Peter, yet again, flinch away from the noise, which then causes Flash to, yet again, jab his elbow into his side, only this time Peter retaliated by reaching over and jamming the tips of his fingers into Flash’s ribs, as well; Harley, still watching from across the room, has to smother a snort when Flash barely manages to swallow a yelp and glares at Peter in disdain) and has them start their warm ups.
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1:47 PM
Miles has had his hand raised for, like, five minutes now.
He’s pretty sure Miss O’Moroe is, like, ninety seven years old and has cataracts or something, or maybe is a totally normal teacher age with just really bad vision anyway, because she’s looked directly at him five times while his hand was raised and has yet to call on him, or even seemed to realize his hand is even in the air, but his bladder is about to explode, so he finally bites the bullet and says, “Uh—Miss O?”
She stops—which isn’t impressive, since she talks slower than a snail—and turns his way. “Morales?”
“Y-Yeah,” he stammers out. “Sorry, just—uh, may I use the bathroom, please?”
For a moment, she squints at him, signature pursed lipped frown in place, before letting out a sigh and nodding her head just once, murmuring a reluctant, “Alright,” and turning back around.
Feeling like he’s about to have a very unfortunate situation happen on the floor, Miles doesn’t hesitate to jump to his feet and rush out of the classroom, only barely managing to stay under what might be classified as a run, speed walking his way down the hall towards the bathroom—
And, as he turns a corner, colliding with another person, sprawling onto the floor with a yelp.
“Oh, shit!”
Uh oh, Miles thinks, barely managing to plant his hands on the ground in order to prevent slamming his nose into the linoleum, heart picking up speed in his chest as his brain instantly recognizes the voice, connecting the dots like creating a picture in his mind that he was not expecting to put together right now. The world is very much against him, though, and before he even has a chance to look up, a pair of hands lands on his shoulders, helping him to his feet while Dylan stammers out, “O-Oh my god, Miles, I am so sorry, I was—I wasn’t looking where I was going, I was texting my mom back and didn’t—god, I—”
Miles looks up, eyes wide as he sees his obviously flustered crush, rushing out apologies as if he just hit him with a car instead of accidentally bumping into him in the hall. He opens his mouth, means to say a simple, it’s alright, no worries, it’s okay, don’t apologize, seriously I’m literally an idiot and have a stupidly big crush on you and if Harley or Peter were here right now they would be laughing at me so please don’t worry about it I’m just glad I didn’t embarrass myself by getting a bloody nose it’s fine—
But he doesn’t get the chance to say any of that. No, before he's able to vocalize any of his scrambled up thoughts, there’s a sudden sound—a loud, booming sort of sound, one that seems to shake the ground and make something rattle inside of his head, though that’s probably an exaggeration.
Dylan looks up, eyes blowing wide, and steps closer to Miles, reaching out to grab into his wrist with an almost audible gulp. “What the hell was that?”
“I don’t—I don’t know,” Miles says, and then thinks, I think I’m gonna pee my pants.
He doesn’t know if it’s because of the scary sounds outside or because his crush is almost holding his hand, but either way, he’s just glad he doesn’t say it out loud, because that would not be very cool.
Like. At all.
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1:54 PM
Tony tells her, “Stay here.”
Pepper rolls her eyes. “Where else am I going to go, Tony? Honestly.”
“Don’t sass me,” Tony says, suit forming around him as soon as he steps onto the balcony. “This is serious. It could be another alien attack, alright? Matter of fact, there’s that safe room down in the basement. Friday, be a dear and tell Happy to grab Pepper and get to the safe room, will you?”
Friday, reliable as ever, responds with, “Of course, Boss. What about the Little Ones?”
“Shit.” Tony takes off, eyes narrowed as he looks at the looming shadow of a ship that’s lowering towards Central Park. “Good question, Friday. Any ideas? Thoughts? Suggestions?”
“Donate money to Midtown to build their own underground saferoom for future use.”
Tony huffs. “Helpful, Friday, thank you. Here’s a thought—send Peter a text to stay out of this.”
If Friday could hum, she would. “I’m afraid it’s too late for that, Boss. Connecting with Karen now.”
Sure enough, it’s only a moment later that there’s a crackle of the comms coming to life, followed by the voice of a certain Spider Kid energetically greeting Tony with a, “Hey, Mr. Stark! What’s the sitch?”
“Was that Kim Possible?” Tony asks, snorting.
“How do you know what Kim Possible is?” Peter fires back.
Tony looks at the data Friday pulls up on his HUD as she scans the ship that’s growing every closer as he approaches it. “Touché,” he says. “There’s a big ship, probably from space, maybe friendly, maybe not. My suggestion is to go home, but knowing you, you’re not gonna do that, so here’s my compromise—do what I say, when I say it, or you’re grounded until the end of all time, literally forever. Sound good?”
Grumbling, Peter responds with, “That sounds lame, actually, but sure, I guess. Can I connect Harley?”
“Absolutely not.” Friday pulls up Peter’s location—only a few minutes away, swinging fast. “Meet me on the north side of Central Park, alright? The ship isn’t close to touching down yet, but give it about ten minutes and the doors will be opening. You’re gonna be behind me. Friday already sent a message to the compound, too, so Rhodey and Vision are on their way, and a jet is being prepped to bring the rogues.”
“Are they at the compound?” Peter asks, sounding curious. Wind whips past his mic—probably rounding a corner at a speed that would give Tony a heart attack if he thought about it too hard.
“Yeah. House arrest got lifted last week, remember? They finished moving last night. Which, gotta say, impeccable timing on their part with the whole space ship showing up randomly thing, you know?” Tony touches down in the grass, looking up at the ship—pretty large, but not as big as it seemed to be from a distance, which is both relieving but not as much as he was hoping it to be. “It’s a quick flight, though, since I designed the jets and I’m the best, so no worries there. ETA of twelve minutes for Rhodey and Vision. I think Wanda chose to fly with them instead of the jet—Friday, can you confirm?”
A moment of silence, and then: “Miss Maximoff is indeed with Colonel Rhodes and The Vision, Boss.”
Tony nods. “Nice. Three for the price of two. Good deal.”
“Ew. Human trafficking vibes, Mr. Stark.”
Crinkling his nose, Tony says, “There were literally none of those vibes until you said that, kid.”
Scoffing, Peter suddenly appears, flipping through the air and landing with an elegance that he only seems to have while in the suit on the grass next to Tony, replying, “I beg to differ. You said it like you bought them. Like, it was a paying for people kind of deal, right? Three for the price of two. Price. Money. See?” Then, looking up, Peter sucks in an audible breath as he takes in the sight of the ship and says, “Oh, shit.”
“Nice vocabulary,” Tony comments distractedly, looking up as well. “I was thinking the same thing.”
Shifting his weight from foot to foot while watching the ship slowly but surely lower closer and closer to the earth, Peter meekly murmurs out, “Do you think they’re, like, friendly aliens? Like, cool ones?”
“Maybe they aren’t aliens,” Tony suggests. “Fury’s a son of a bitch, you know. Even with Nat dumping Shield data, there’s a whole lot of shit they have hidden. Could be… I don’t know. Secret space mission.”
Visibly perking up, even through his mask, Peter asks, “You think so? ‘Cause that’d be dope. Do you think they’d have space rocks? Shit from Mars? Pictures of black holes? Man, I’d love to see videos from space—like, proper camera footage, you know? If it isn’t a secret space mission, I’ll be mad, now.” He’s still staring up at the ship, head tilting to the side. “It better be good,” he adds. “I’m missing Dodgeball for this. I mean, the school’s on lockdown, so everyone’s missing it, but still. I was excited for it.”
Tony blinks once, then barks out a laugh, looking over at Peter in disbelief. “Seriously?”
“What?” Peter looks back at him, hands propping up on his hips and head tilting to the side. “It’s fun! Especially since we’re seniors now, so it’s, like, slightly believable for me to be more athletic than it was back when I was fifteen, so I can have some fun with it. And I was gonna try to be on opposite teams from Harley and bet him twenty bucks that my team would win, and then I could buy pizza later.”
“Oh my god, it’s so easy to forget just how much of a teenager you are sometimes.” Tony shakes his head, looking back to the ship with a mixture of a sigh and a chuckle on his breath. Friday brings up some more data on his HUD, and he tries to reel his focus back in, saying, “Alright, bud—about five minutes till touch down. What’s our game plan? Any ideas, anything you wanna bring to the table?”
Peter falters, thinks it over, and says, “Uh—I think not dying would be cool.”
“Great. Glad we’re on the same page, then.”
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2:07 PM
He’s just barely hunkered down in the furthered corner from the rest of their class when Ned and Flash appear on either side of him, both peering down at his phone screen with wide, expectant eyes. A grimace pulls at the ends of his lips—he expected this, sure, and doesn’t really mind them looking, especially since Peter’s their friend and all, but he had hoped to have at least a few moments of internal boyfriend panic attack before they pressed their elbows into his ribs while leaning in to watch with him.
“Hey, assholes,” MJ says—not all too quiet, since this isn’t the kind of lockdown that actual requires quiet, but still soft enough as to not draw the attention of anyone else in their class. She’s sitting a few feet away, apparently aware of what Harley had been hoping for as she shifts a glare between Ned and Flash. “Pretty sure you can wait a few minutes before you breathe down Harley’s neck, don’t you think?”
There’s a moment of nothing, confusion evident on both of their features—but then Flash seems to get it, a millisecond before realizations dawns over Ned’s features, and the two murmur out little (albeit reluctant) agreements before crawling over to sit by MJ instead. Not very far, but for now, far enough.
Harley knows they’re still right there, and probably watching him, but without them right next to him like they were, it’s easy to pretend he doesn’t know either of those things and focus on pulling up the live feed from Peter’s suit—holds his breath as it loads, not sure what to expect, doesn’t know what it is that’s summoned Spider-Man during school hours, other than the vague mention of a space ship, which is not very comforting thing to not have any detail about. Though, if it is an alien attack, like his inner panic-induced brain is assuming, that probably makes Harley an official New Yorker, right?
Like, an official, official New Yorker, because he hasn’t really been here for any of the major attacks that have happened in years past. So, being here for this one will be kind of like the final step.
He’s a true city dweller now.
The creative swears that fill his mind when the feed loads either prove his point or complete throw it out the window—he can’t decide if his inner dialogue sounds more like Tony burning his hand while in the lab, or like his Mama when she’s ranting and raving about one of the various assholes in Rose Hill.
On screen is, indeed, some kind of space ship, and a pretty damn big one at that. Like, Harley hasn’t seen a space ship before, but he’s pretty sure there’s a lot that are smaller than the one that’s currently starting to touch down in Central Park, settling against the grass with a deceptive amount of grace. He’s already fumbled his headphones out of his bag and has one in his ear, so he can hear the comms, and he can hear what the suit is picking up—the rush of air coming from, assumedly, the engine of the ship as it fully settles into place, and the way Peter mutters a wary little, “Hey, Mr. Stark, how—how far away is everyone else, again? Just ‘cause—uh, no reason, really. Just wondering. Don’t want them to miss out.”
“Only a couple minutes,” Tony replies, crisp through the comms but completely drowned out otherwise by the roaring of the ship that the two are standing uncomfortably close to. “But it’s just us for these next couple of minutes, alright? And we can’t just assume these are some bad guys and attack, but we still need to be on high alert in case they attack. Use your Spidey Sense—trust it, okay? And stay behind me.”
There’s a kind of—kind of a click, and a whoosh of sound, and Harley isn’t sure what he’s hearing or what he’s seeing, thinks maybe that thought about having an internal boyfriend panic attack might have been a lot more literal and a lot less joking than initially intended, but then realizes—
It’s a door, dropping from the bottom of the ship, forming a ramp. There are three silhouettes at the top.
Harley sucks in a sharp breath, and before he knows it, Ned is back on his left side, Flash on his right, both pushing into him to watch along (without being able to hear, but they can always watch on their own phones if they care enough about hearing; all of them have access to Karen’s server, anyway) as the view on Peter’s feed whips around, looking at Tony, at the dropping ramp, Tony, and back again, clearly anxious and unsure of what to do. Harley’s suggestion would be to leave, but that won’t happen.
“Oh, shit,” Flash hisses, realizing what, exactly, he’s seeing—only about a month into knowing about Spider-Man, after all, and not much has happened the past few weeks to warrant him a proper introduction into what it’s like to be aware of it while caring about the dumbass under the mask. At least he’s doing a good job at keeping his voice appropriately quiet. “Oh my god. This could be bad.”
He looks vaguely sick—maybe remembering the 2012 invasion, as someone who is an actual New Yorker and lived here at the time and was literally a child, so it was probably a pretty impactful moment for him. Ned is gnawing on his lower lip, brows furrowed. “They better be good guys. Fun aliens. Fun-iens.”
“Funyuns?” Flash asks distractedly. “Like, the food? The chips, or whatever they are?”
“Fun-iens. Fun aliens. Combine it.”
Flash frowns, clearly too distracted to really process what Ned is saying. “Oh. Uh…” He leans closer as the ramp opens all the way, in the same exact moment that Harley tilts his head closer to get a better look and Peter seems to take a small step forward and Ned, clearly not agreeing with the get a better look idea, leans back and shares a look with Michelle, who is watching the three of them with barely concealed anxiety. The silhouettes at the top step forward, start to descend. Flash narrows his eyes. “Is that—?”
But he doesn’t get to finish his question as the figures step into full view—familiar in a way that celebrities you know of randomly show up in a show you’re watching without you knowing they were in it; not someone you actually know, but that sense of knowing is still there, in an odd sort of way.
“Holy shit,” Peter hisses, audible to Harley only through the single headphone that he’s no longer fully aware of having in, feeling a bit weighted with shock. “Mr. Stark—?”
Tony steps forward, mask of his suit melting back to reveal his own visible surprise. “Bruce?”
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8:21 PM
When Harry steps out of the elevator—after a long damn day and about three hundred messages being spammed into their group chat in the middle of the meeting his father made him sit through—he’s greeted by a few things that he wasn’t exactly expecting. The first thing, of course, being Bruce Banner.
As in, the Bruce Banner, sitting on the sofa with a mug in his hands and a blanket draped over his shoulders. Also, Thor is leaning against the wall behind him, and… yeah. Yeah, that’s Loki. Who, from Harry’s understanding, is a bad guy, but Tony is sitting calmly next to Bruce, so he figures it’s not his business to assume who is and isn’t good or bad, because there’s no way Tony would let someone legitimately dangerous into his personal space like this, especially with everyone else being here, too.
Which is unexpected thing number two: his friends, and his boyfriend, sitting on the floor in a semi-circle like a kindergarten class, peering up at Bruce Fucking Banner with stars in their eyes. Like the guy is reading them a story and they’re about to have pudding cups for snack, or something ridiculous like that.
It’s kind of adorable, and Harry absolutely gets it (because it’s Bruce Banner, holy shit), but also, Harry was raised with a very high profile father and has been introduced to very impressive people his entire life, so he’s become an expert at coming across a lot more cool and collected than he actually is. Being able to do that is kind of a necessity after somehow tagging along to the same charity event as Lady Gaga.
(To this day, one of the best nights of his life.)
So, even though this is not at all what he was planning to walk in on—something he should blame himself for, at least partially, since he hasn’t looked at those three hundred and something messages yet and all of what is going on is probably explained in there somewhere—he just steps forward and clears his throat.
“Oh, good,” Tony says when he spots Harry standing there. “The last gremlin is here. How’s your dad?”
Harry snorts. “After finding out that I left the training he’s forcing me to go through in order to come to Stark Tower for the third day in a row? Throwing a fit. That evil vein on his forehead was yelling at me.”
“That’s what I like to hear.” There’s a brightness to Tony’s features right now—one that’s always there when he’s around his family, when Pepper is in the room, or when one of his pseudo kids (which Harry thinks includes him, shockingly; honestly, how did his life get here?) walks in, or when Miles jokingly calls him Grandpa and Tony acts offended but also looks elated about the whole thing, or when May sits down after a day of working with Helen with a glass of wine and talks shit with him, or when Happy in nearby, murmuring grumpily but usually smiling, just a little bit, too. Especially when Rhodey shows up to visit—been busy recently, and usually is, from Harry’s understanding, so seeing him is like a surprise party, like a gift, and makes Tony grin like a kid on Christmas—but that brightness is tenfold now, more so than Harry thinks he’s ever seen it. Which isn’t saying much, only knowing him for a little over six months now, but still. It’s like the guy is glowing, and the reason why is clear when he gestures vaguely and says, “Well, come on, Osborn, take a seat. We’ve got guests, if you haven’t figured that out yet.”
“Oh, really? I just thought it was May and Pepper. New haircuts, or something.”
Tony rolls his eyes. “Sit down, smartass.”
Harry thinks about snarking something else, but figures doing so would be pushing the line between being funny and being an actual asshole, especially since he’s had literally the most annoying day ever and even though he’d mean it to be funny it might come across as rude and he’d rather not look like a dick in front of one of the best scientists of all time, so he just complies with a nod and ambles over to the rest of his friends. Flash is already scooting over, making room for him, and it feels dumb, sitting on the ground like this, but he’s gotten used to feeling dumb with these guys and doesn’t mind all that much, so he just takes his spot. A small smile pulls at the ends of his lips, some of the pent up frustration from being around his dad all day loosening, when Flash instantly leans into him a bit, shoulder to shoulder, arms pressed together, his hand reaching over to loosely wrap around Harry’s wrist, clearly distracted but still wanting, almost impulsively, to have them connected somehow.
Flash is kind of just like that—clingy but tries not to be, and then doesn’t seem to realize when it shows, and even though Harry has told him before that he’s fine with it, more than okay with being touchy-feely like Flash clearly wants to be, he still seems to hold back on it. Unless in moments like this, where his brain is somewhere else, either focused on something else or too tired to have the same reserves he usually has, and he reaches out without really realizing it, without stopping himself.
Chest warming, Harry turns his hand over and moves it, just a bit, so that their fingers are intertwined, instead of Flash just lightly holding onto his wrist. Then, he tries to pull his focus away from this, and put his attention back towards the rest of the room, looking up and tuning back in reluctantly, just in time to see the bewilderment on Bruce’s face and hear as he asks, “Wait, you said—Osborn? Like Oscorp?”
“Oh, man, there is so much for you to catch up on,” Tony sighs, absolutely gleeful. “But yes, like Oscorp. Funnily enough, that’s Norman’s son, Harry. Before you question me, just—give it time. He’s good. All of us hate Norman here. It’s a very healthy and supportive environment.”
“I’ve never felt more loved,” Harry deadpans.
Flash grips his hand a little tighter, which is—cool. Cute. Totally fine and not at all making Harry’s heart do funny little flips in his chest. He squeezes Flash’s hand back, and Harley, from Harry’s right, snorts.
Harry glares at him. “What? Like you’re any better?”
“I—” Harley stops, seems to consider. Specifically looks down at his own hands, which are actively playing with Peter’s fingers as he speaks. He looks back up, sheepish. “I plead the fifth.”
“That’s what I thought.”
Bruce is looking at them in blatant confusion, head shaking slowly. “I need something stronger than tea.”
A hand goes in the air, timid and unsure, followed by Peter saying, “Hey, uh—I don’t mean to, like, change the subject, or anything like that, but—Mr. Stark?” Tony looks over at him, curious. Peter offers what looks like a strained smile. “Yeah, um—Pepper. She’s throwing up. I can hear her. It’s kinda gross.”
“Fucking what—”
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8:42 PM
“I was about to tell you,” Pepper says. “But the ship showed up and you had to—”
“You could have said something while I was leaving—”
“—you had to go, Tony, I wasn’t going to stop you when—”
“—I would have stayed behind for a minute, Pep, you know my—”
“—there could have been another big attack or something that needed your full attention—”
“—my biggest priority is you guys, if you had said—”
Pepper laughs into her mug, shaking her head. “Tony,” she says, cutting him off mid-ramble. He snaps his mouth shut, hovering by her side worriedly, eyes roaming over her face as if searching for the slightest sign of discomfort or sickness. “It’s fine. It’s not bad. I just didn’t want to spring it on you as you were flying off into a potential fight. Correct me if I’m wrong, but the distraction wouldn’t have been helpful.”
Although he clearly isn’t happy about it, Tony can’t seem to argue her point. “Still,” he says. “We’ve been back at the tower for hours. You should have mentioned you were feeling sick or something.”
There’s another bark of laughter, only this one comes from one of the space-ly visitors, all eyes turning to look at a highly amused Loki, who merely rolls his eyes at their bewilderment. “What? Isn’t it obvious?” When he only gets confusion in return, he chuckles again, gesturing towards Pepper in an almost grandiose sort of way. “Please, Miss Potts,” he drawls. “Do tell them the good news.”
“First of all,” Tony says, holding up a finger with his eyebrows raised, “I did not like the way you said literally any of that. I don’t know why, but I didn’t like it, so fix that, please and thank you. Secondly, I trust Bruce with my life, and Thor may have held me up by my throat once but I’m pretty sure he’s done enough to have my trust, too, and they are the only reason why I am not shooting lasers up your ass, so maybe cool it with the whole—I don’t even know, but whatever you’re doing, dial it down.”
Loki holds up his hands, mirth in his eyes. “Oh, my apologies. I must be mistaken. I thought she was—”
“I am,” Pepper interrupts, giving him an equally amused look—one that he seems surprised to be at the receiving end of, no wariness or malice in her eyes, just genuine joy and a barely bitten back laugh. “But I’d still like to have the chance to be the one to say it, if that’s alright with you, Mr. Mischief.”
“That’s an awful name,” Loki tells her. He’s smiling, too. “But I assure you, I won’t spoil the surprise.”
Tony looks back and forth between them, and the rest of the room is quiet, observing this whole moment with curiosity. Thor just seems pleased, and looks as if he, too, has already figured out what’s going on, brings a hand down to pat Loki on the shoulder and chuckles when Tony goes, “What the fuck?”
Pepper laughs, too, bright and relaxed. “Calm down, Tony. I already said it isn’t bad!”
“Yeah, but now the two Space Gods know and I’m left in the dark,” Tony complains. “Fix it. Help me.”
Shaking her head, Pepper says, “You are such a dramatic person, Tony Stark. You’ll make a great dad.”
He rolls his eyes. “Haha, very funny. Just because we joke about having a gaggle of teens and Miles calls me Grandpa doesn’t mean—”
“Tony.”
Pepper keeps a steady gaze on him, smile soft and warm, watches as he snaps his mouth shut and looks back at her with confusion. Sees it all, as it morphs over his face—the question, the problem solving, trying to figure out the meaning behind her words, connecting the dots. Disbelief, then understanding.
Finally, he lands on pure, absolute joy.
“You’re kidding,” he breathes. “Pep, there’s—if this is a joke, tell me now. Don’t let me get my hopes up here. If you think my PTSD is bad, you’re going to be in for a shock if you turn around and say sike.”
“I took five tests,” Pepper tells him. “And I went down and saw May earlier to confirm it.”
Tony splutters. “Wh—May got to know before me?!”
Pepper rolls her eyes. “Well, she’s one of our medical staff now, Tony. What did you expect me to do? Go somewhere else and see someone we don’t trust in order to confirm a potential pregnancy?”
Multiple quiet gasps fill the room, coming from exclusively the group of teens still sitting on the floor and peering up at them, looking a whole lot younger than they are in this moment, with their eyes wide and jaws slightly dropped. Harley is first to move, clambers to his feet and asks, “You’re pregnant?”
“Yeah,” she answers, smile growing wide and wobbly with the confirmation. “I am. Eight weeks.”
“Oh my god,” Peter breathes. “Oh my god. There’s gonna be a baby. You’re having a baby!”
Tony pulls Pepper in—hugs her, laughter filling the air as they listen to the way Peter starts to blubber over this, as Harley tries to calm him down only to start blubbering just as much, and Bruce looks happy for them, but incredibly overwhelmed, all at the same time. Pepper gives him a smile over Tony’s shoulder, one that he returns tiredly, telling her, “Congratulations. You guys are going to be great parents.” Then, after a brief pause where he glances around the room, eyeing the crying teens with trepidation, he warily adds, “Even though I’m pretty sure you already are.”
“Yeah,” Harry agrees. “Why is this a big deal? You already have six of us.”
“Shut up, Osborn,” Tony gripes, still clutching Pepper in an embrace.
“I’m just saying, if you want to be a dad so bad, I’d love to have a different one, so—”
“You’re ruining the moment, Harry.”
“What moment? I don’t see a moment happening here.”
Tony sighs, but Pepper can’t fight her grin, feeling like this—as hectic as it may be, as chaotic as it gets, this right here—is the best place for this to happen. These kids, no matter how much they joke or poke and prod or push buttons for the hell of it, have more heart than all of New York combined, and the child that her and Tony are bringing into this world…
Well, this baby is never going to have to worry about being alone.
Not with a family like this.