Chapter Text
When the call comes from Fury, I’m knee-deep in paint and old newspapers, helping Morgan put together a lopsided figure of Captain America (the little traitor). I love her enthusiasm - hiding my grin as she barks orders like a tiny drill-sergeant – but it stings sometimes.
I can’t help but remember my other precocious kid. The one I haven’t spoken to in years.
Morgan has decided that Cap’s suit should be hot pink and I couldn’t agree more. The carpeted floor of her attic bedroom is littered with discarded paint samples, glowing in the afternoon sunlight leaking through her skylight. I hadn’t realised how late it’s gotten – I’ve been crouched on my aching knees for over an hour. Time seems to pass more slowly in Georgia, leaking through our secluded cabin like warm treacle.
After we’d reversed the Blip - almost half a decade ago now – Pepper and I had no fight left in us. We ran back to our cabin as fast as we could and dedicated ourselves to raising Morgan in peace, away from the city and the press and the Avengers. After years of sobriety and hundreds of hours of therapy – both physical (for my still-ruined hand) and mental (for…everything else) – we’ve finally got the hang of the “retirement” thing. I’m the husband and father that I once dreamed of being. Not perfect, but at least present.
New York feels light years away. I’ve not read the papers in months. It feels great. Mostly.
So when my phone rings and Fury’s name pops up on the screen, I’m blindsided. In the moments of indecision before I swipe at the screen, he rings off. A minute later, the voicemail notification pings.
I stare at the phone, trying to remember whether Fury will be notified if I listen to his message immediately. I used to rely on FRIDAY for these types of things, but the cabin is purposely off-the-grid. Morgan looks up from her painting, confused by my sudden stillness.
“Go and find you mom, sweetheart,” I say, as calmly as I can manage. “I think she should see how Cap’s coming along, don’t you think?”
She looks at me intently, then carefully stows her dripping paintbrush and rushes off to find Pepper. I take a breath and bring the phone to my ear, pressing play on the message.
“Stark. Fury. Get to the Tower this evening.” The hustle of a busy situation room clatters in the background. “We’ve got a situation and need your expertise.”
He sounds more grim than usual. It sets my teeth on edge. I hear footsteps coming up the stairs.
When Pepper enters the room, Morgan’s small hand in hers, she scans my face quickly.
“Morgan said you had a phone call.” She’s outwardly calm, but I know better.
“Work called. They want me to go in.”
Pepper raises an eyebrow. “And will you?”
I hesitate. “It’s in New York.”
She’s quiet for a moment, studying me. I realise that I’m still crouched on the floor, smeared in pink paint and kids’ glue.
She sees everything. Sometimes I love that. Right now, it makes my skin crawl.
She nods once, gathering Morgan into her arms. “You should go.”
I don’t argue. We both know that I have unfinished business in New York. If Fury is calling me – the washed-up, wringed-out old guard – then it’s personal.
I grab my arc reactor from the attic. It’s dusty and pulses ominously in my hand. I carry it through the house, waiting until I’m outside to reattach it to my chest. After a few moments, my veins being to ache with power and adrenaline.
I take a breath and summon my armour. As it forms around me, I catch sight of Morgan’s wide eyes staring through the kitchen window. I wave at her, but she doesn’t wave back.
The flight to New York is longer than I remember. I should have taken the jet. FRIDAY is subdued, which suits (ha) me just fine. The sun sets long before I arrive. As the city lights draw closer, illuminating the horizon in jagged lines, I fight the urge to turn back.
***
The Tower’s not difficult to find, despite the years that have passed since I was last here. It’s like the route is indelibly etched on my memory.
I touch down on the landling pad, fighting old memories. Entering the Tower with fresh eyes, I can’t help judging the decor. Too much chrome, not enough comfort. Morgan would hate it.
Fury and Natasha, too prompt as always, have beaten me. They’re huddled in the dining room, their heads are bent over what look like basement schematics spread out on the glass table we’d used for post-victory takeaways so many years ago. I roll my eyes at their aggressively neutral “civilian” gear, completely undermined as always by their stiff military stances and barely-concealed firearms. Some things never change.
Natasha’s hair is ash blonde again and longer than I’ve seen it in years. She’s pulled it back in a practical-looking ponytail and tucks a loose tendril behind her ear as she looks up at me. Meeting her sharp eyes, I feel the warm tug of long familiarity.
It’s cut with an equally familiar twist of unease. There’s a reason I’ve avoided her for years. She sees far too much.
“Better late than never, Stark,” Fury grumbles, good eye still fixed on the schematics. Clearly he’s missed me.
“You know I’m worth the wait.”
Fury looks heavenward in what I assume is an exaggerated prayer for patience. I kick two metal chairs out from under the dining table with a screech and settle myself across them, stretching my legs out in front of me and rolling my stiff shoulders. G-forces are still a bitch. “So, why am I here?”
“A terrorist group has overrun a military facility sitting directly under Times Square,” Fury says, nodding grimly at the complex schematics. “They used alien tech to overwhelm the squadron we’d posted there and take over the defences. They’re smart enough to know that they can’t be dislodged without a threat to civilian life.”
“Wonderful,” I sigh heavily. I’m getting too old for this shit. “And you’re hoping that they haven’t counted on our patented less-than-conventional methods of criminal dislodgement?”
Fury rolls his eyes. “The plan is a little more nuanced than that, Stark.” He sighs deeply. “But essentially, yes. We need you to disable their defences and alien gear. We’ll point you in the right direction and handle the rest.”
“So I’m glorified tech support,” I interrupt. Mildly irritated, I glance at Natasha. “Romanov’s presumably running intel.” I don’t need to wait for confirmation. “So we’re just waiting for the muscle. Which of our super-colleagues got tapped to haul our asses out of the fire this time?”
I hate that I don’t already have the answer, but I’ve been (very deliberately) disconnected from the Avengers’ hive-mind for years now. I still know just enough to mentally catalogue most of the active members as “off-planet” or otherwise unavailable for a job like this. Each name I discount has my heart dropping a notch lower.
Fury called me. I know who’s coming. It’s why I’m here.
“I’d hoped that would be obvious, given where we are,” Fury replies, smirking as he watches me piece it together. “He’s due any minute. So you might want to wipe that scowl off your face.”
I rise slowly from my makeshift lounger and turn away from Fury’s all-seeing eye, concentrating on twisting my face into an expression that hopefully resembles nonchalance as I move towards the bar on the far side of the dining room. I’d throw myself out of one of the twelve-foot windows before letting him see how sick I feel.
“Then you’ve wasted everyone’s time,” I say. “Spider-Man won’t work with me.”
“He already agreed to it.” I can feel Fury’s eyes on my back as I jab furiously with my good hand at the poor excuse for an espresso machine on the bar. It must have been brought here by Natasha. My old La Marzocco came to the cabin with me.
“And was that before or after you told him that I’d be here”, I counter. I hope they don’t recognise my petulant tone. I’m trying to break the habit of using it to mask my discomfort. Becoming predictable is high on the list of things I prefer to avoid.
“I imagine it’s why he agreed,” Fury replies, raising a heavy eyebrow. “He never could resist hauling your ass out of the fire.”
“That was a long time ago.” I take a long, slow breath. “Maybe you didn’t get the memo, Fury, but that kid wants nothing to do with me now.”
“You don’t believe that,” Natasha interjects quietly. She is perched on the arm of the dark leather sofa, gaze hard. I’d almost forgotten she was in the room with us.
I turn from the coffee machine to throw her a look over my shoulder that should clearly translate to someone who’s known me for so long as ‘stay the hell out of it’.
“And you’d know that how, exactly?” I ask, already knowing and hating the answer. Natasha and Peter have worked together too frequently recently. Their new closeness chafes at me for reasons I don’t want to examine too closely.
“I talk to him,” she says, pointedly ignoring my glare and examining her manicured fingernails with what I recognise as feigned disinterest. “Things would be better between the two of you if you’d tried the same once in a while.”
I pull on my most obnoxious smirk. “As much as I value your expert opinion on interpersonal relationships, Romanov, I’ve broken the habit of inviting people onto my own property to lecture me.”
I know that it’s a low blow. The Tower has been more Natasha’s home than mine for years now. I haven’t been back once since moving to Georgia.
Natasha examines me for a long moment before turning to the window, showing her disappointment by allowing a slight frown to mar her elegant profile. I refuse to let myself feel guilty. I never asked her to involve herself in my business.
I turn back to Fury. “You know it’s been years since he and I worked together. If you’re expecting this to go well…”
“I’m expecting you to act like a god-damn professional,” Fury interrupts. “Whatever it is that’s going on between Iron Man and Spider-Man, I don’t have time for it.” He cuts me off before I can interrupt again. “You’ve got a job to do, Stark. So get your shit together.”
I bristle, preparing a snarky comeback, but am distracted by a light thunk from the opposite side of the room. Out of the corner of my eye, I see a blur of red and blue against the glass exterior wall. My good fist tightens convulsively. I turn carefully back to the coffee machine, putting on what I hope is a good show of finding it suddenly fascinating.
FRIDAY opens the window without needing to be told. It slides down noiselessly, just far enough for Spider-Man to slip into the Tower. For a moment, I feel a light breeze on the back of my neck and hear the ambient noise of the city. Then the outside world is gone and we are all shut in together. It’s almost unbearably claustrophobic.
“Spider-Man,” Fury says. “Glad you could join us.” His tone is several degrees warmer than it was a few moments before. I can’t help my frown at the evidence of yet another new relationship that I’m excluded from, suddenly furious with them all.
Watching Peter’s reflection in the mirrored splash-back above the coffee machine, I see him nod at Fury in greeting before scanning the room briefly, large eyes contracting in his mask. I know instinctively that he is looking for me and resist a sudden and powerful urge to turn towards him.
He hesitates when he notices me. He seems to take up less space in the Tower than he used to, body uncharacteristically still and downcast. It’s ironic given the foot or two of height and several kilos of muscle he’s gained since I last saw him in person.
I can feel his gaze on the back of my neck like an itch. I exhale deliberately a few times and count backwards from ten while attacking the coffee machine with renewed concentration, deliberately clanging my cup against the metal grating. I clamp down hard on the urge to open the liquor cabinet under the bar.
When I glance back up at Peter’s blurred reflection, he’s turned away from me and is approaching Natasha instead. He pulls off his mask (a new design, I notice) and surprises me by kissing her cheek in a casual greeting. It would be imperceptible to anyone who did not know her as well as I do, but Natasha’s whole demeanour softens as he settles next to her on the sofa.
I’ve noticed in our rare meetings over the past few years that she seems more at ease with herself, despite everything. I wonder now how much of that is due to Peter’s easy acceptance and affection. I remember how they used to feel.
God, I miss him.
Natasha places her small hand over Peter’s briefly, looking him over with a critical eye. “You look tired,” she says softly.
The concern in her voice makes me turn towards him involuntarily, stomach twisting as I examine the kid properly for the first time. ‘Tired’ is an understatement worthy only of the Black Widow. He looks a mess. If he’s slept in the past week, it doesn’t show.
There are bruises on his face that look days old. They should have healed within hours - would have done, if he were healthy. I remember monitoring the process anxiously when he was still a child, obsessively analysing his healing factor after each new injury.
“I’m fine,” he says, turning away from her. The lie is familiar but the voice is lower than I remember. And there are lines around the kid’s eyes that weren’t there the last time I saw him.
“You’d better be,” Fury interjects gruffly. He is eyeing Peter with clinical scepticism. “You’ve got difficult work ahead of you tomorrow. We’ll need -”
“Tomorrow?” Peter interrupts. “You said we’d be starting tonight.”
“I needed you briefed and rested for tomorrow. We’ll only get one shot and we’re starting early.”
Peter bristles. I sigh inwardly at the subterfuge but can’t fault Fury’s motives. Forcing the kid to rest looks to be one of this better ideas. Natasha reaches out a placating hand to Peter but he stands jerkily, moving out of her reach.
“Who will patrol the city if I’m here?” His voice is sharp-edged but controlled. It seems he’s learned more restraint.
But there is something else in his voice too, which I’m surprised I can still recognise. Something has happened that has Peter shaken up. I’ve been deliberately ignoring news of New York and Spider-Man. Looking at the kid now, I wish I’d done my homework before taking this particular business meeting.
“Falcon has it covered. He’ll patrol until you’re back in rotation.” Fury holds up a hand to Peter, anticipating his interruption. “I don’t want to hear it, Parker. I have more important things to do than listen to schoolyard bitching.”
He gathers up his tablet and cane with one impatient hand, leaving the schematics behind. “Natasha will brief you. Then you’ll eat, rest and take a goddamn shower.” He jerks his head at Natasha and, more pointedly, at me. “They’ll need you on your ‘A’ game tomorrow, boy.” He stomps towards the elevator as Peter glares mutinously at the back of his head.
“You can rely on Sam,” Natasha reassures, watching him closely. He pauses, seemingly at war with himself, then jerks his head in an uncomfortable-looking nod and runs a hand through his filthy hair. It’s longer than I’ve ever seen it before.
His hand is shaking. Natasha must notice too - she misses nothing - but chooses not to show it.
“You should get cleaned up, Peter,” she says quietly. “I could wash your suit overnight and…” She trails off, as though surprised by how maternal she sounds. Glancing at me, she looks uncharacteristically self-conscious. I feel as though I am intruding on something intensely private.
Peter must sense Natasha’s discomfort too. He catches her eye, ignoring me, and jokes half-heartedly, “I smell that bad, huh?”
She softens immediately. “Worse,” she replies, wrinkling her nose delicately. She pauses again, looking down pointedly to examine her fingernails. “You should hurry though. I’ve ordered food.”
“Pizza?” Peter asks, obviously trying for enthusiasm but falling depressingly short.
“Do you even need to ask?”
They’re so simple, the acts of care Natasha’s showing the kid. But for a moment, Peter seems overcome. He looks away and swallows hard, missing the concern that flickers across her face.
“I’d better hurry then.” He places a grateful hand on her shoulder as he passes, heading for the residential wing off the main kitchen.
I wonder whether he still uses his old room but can’t bring myself to ask. I turn away and keep my back firmly to the kid as he walks past the bar, raising a lazy hand over my shoulder and muttering “Spider-Man” in a perfunctory half-greeting. I don’t look to see if I get a response, knowing I don’t deserve one.
When I hear the door slide closed behind Peter, I let out a long breath and roll my aching shoulders. I can feel Natasha’s eyes on me again.
“Call me when it’s time for the briefing,” I say with forced casualness. She doesn’t deign to respond. The rebuke in her silence is deafening.
Grabbing my coffee - now almost tepid, I notice with distaste, but I want out of this room more than I want hot coffee - I head to my old lab. I can spend a calming hour tucked away in there, checking for any useful items that I inevitably missed during my hasty exit from New York. I’m not running away (again), just reacquainting myself with my old home.
I could ask Natasha what’s wrong with the kid - because clearly, even to my rusty radar, something is wrong. Or I could ask FRIDAY for info on Spider-Man and solve the puzzle myself. But that could open several cans of worms that I’d much rather keep closed.
Hell, I could even speak to Peter. Cut out the middlemen. But I know that I can’t - won’t - do that. A familiar headache (which I used to affectionally refer to as my own “Peter tingle”) begins to pound at the insides of my temples.
Ah, screw it. Acting on impulse, I pull out my phone and type a quick message to Nat. Calling’s not an option - I’d learnt the hard way years ago that the kid could hear every conversation being held in the Tower, however inappropriate.
What’s up with the kid? I type quickly and hit send.
I make it to the lab before my phone pings with her frosty response.
Ask him yourself.
Well, I’d expected that. I’m surprised she replied at all.
As the lab door hisses open, I realise that this visit may not have been my best ever idea. Memories of the kid hover throughout the room and for a moment it is suffocating. It’s the younger Pete - the version whose life I had upended a decade ago - rushing around like a puppy and scattering his genius around so clumsily.
I watch him bend excitedly over the counter to fiddle with his web shooters. The young face, so open and trusting, turns to look excitedly up at me. It makes me think of Morgan and for a moment I’m overwhelmed with a grief that I know I have no right to feel. I swallow down the lump in my throat and press my fingernails hard into the palm of my good hand.
Get your head out of your ass. I’ve got composure to regain and not much time to do it in. The real work will start soon and I need to be ready.