Chapter Text
It was nearly 5:00 a.m. at Tony’s lake house, tucked away in the untouched stillness of upstate New York. The world outside was suspended in a heavy, dreamlike quiet—the kind that only came just before dawn, when even the wind seemed to hold its breath. A pale, watery light was beginning to creep across the horizon, touching the glassy surface of the lake with a silver sheen. The trees, thick and dark, stood like silent sentinels around the property. Not even the birds had begun their morning chorus yet.
Inside, the house slept. Tony Stark lay half-awake in bed, tangled in soft sheets, his bare arm draped protectively around Pepper. Her back rose and fell in steady rhythm against his chest, and the faint scent of her hair—lavender and something warm—lingered in the quiet air between them. The warmth of her body grounded him. For once, the constant hum of his mind had stilled, lulled into rest by the simplicity of peace. Then, his watch pinged. A sharp sound, almost surgical in its precision, sliced through the silence like a scalpel. Tony’s brow furrowed, his eyes blinking open in the dimness.
“Yea, F.R.I.D.A.Y.?” he mumbled.
“Security alert, sir,” she responded. “Movement detected at the dock.”
Pepper stirred beside him, brushing hair out of her face. “Hmm? What is it, Tony?”
He kissed her temple gently. “Nothing, probably just another raccoon with a grudge.”
She mumbled something unintelligible and rolled over. Tony got up slowly, his joints cracking slightly as he padded down the hall. Before going downstairs, he peeked into Morgan’s room. She was curled up in a cocoon of blankets, the ceiling alive with softly projected stars. Glow-in-the-dark unicorns glimmered above her bed. A small smile flickered on Tony’s face. Down in the kitchen, he opened the fridge, grabbing a Capri Sun—tropical punch. He punctured the pouch with the tiny yellow straw like a pro, sipping as he moved to the back window.
That’s when he saw him. A thin figure stood out on the dock, shoulders hunched, hands shoved in the pockets of a gray hoodie. The reflection of the lake shimmered beneath his sneakers.
Tony blinked. “What the hell...”
He slid the back door open, careful not to creak it too loudly, and stepped outside. The grass was damp with dew, brushing against his bare ankles. Morgan’s pink tent stood half-collapsed in the yard, flanked by scattered hula hoops and a toppled fairy garden. He stopped mid-sip. A figure was standing on the dock. Thin. Slouched. Familiar. Then—Splash. Splash. A rock bounced across the surface of the lake. Tony approached slowly.
“Y’know,” he called out, voice calm but firm, “most people who ghost me don’t end up throwing rocks on my property at five in the morning.”
The figure turned.
Peter.
He looked like a ghost himself. Hoodie soaked through at the hem. Face pale. Eyes sunken and red. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days—maybe hadn’t eaten, either. But Tony’s stomach dropped when he saw the back of Peter’s neck. A ragged gash—deep, raw, torn open like something had ripped straight through skin and muscle. The blood had dried in streaks, but it hadn’t stopped.
“Hey, Mr. Stark,” he muttered.
Then, Tony’s casual sarcasm vanished. “Kid,” he said sharply, already moving. “You’re bleeding.”
Peter blinked, swaying slightly on his feet. “Probably from the building I fell off.”
Tony was already moving toward him. “W-wait—what building? Where? Queens? Midtown? How many neighborhood Spider-Man impulsive stunts are we talking about here? You got a quota or something?”
Peter shrugged weakly, as if the effort alone drained him. “I don’t know. The last twenty-four hours are kind of... a blur. I don’t even remember getting here.”
Tony reached him just as he stumbled a bit. He grabbed Peter’s arm, steadying him. His voice was brisk, all business. But his hand on Peter’s back was steady and careful, like guiding something breakable. They moved inside slowly, Peter shuffling in his soaked clothes, leaving faint footprints on the tile. Peter sat on the edge of the kitchen island, shirtless, revealing more scrapes and bruises across his shoulders. He looked utterly hollowed out. Tony moved around quickly, pulling out a med kit, gloves, gauze, and a tiny LED surgical lamp that wrapped around his head. Bruises marbled Peter’s shoulder blades. Scrapes laced across his ribs and spine. His skin was marked with the aftermath of something rough—too rough for any seventeen-year-old to walk away from without help.
Peter nodded, winced as Tony’s hand brushed near the wound. He was surprised the kid’s head was still attached. “You certainly have a genius for trouble,” Tony replied.
“So,” Tony said. He shook a bottle of antiseptic and pulled out a kit to stitch up the kid while putting on gloves. “I’ve been trying to reach you. Calls, texts, group chat messages... I even tried to send you a TikTok of a raccoon on a Roomba. That’s the height of desperation for me.”
“I know. I saw them.”
Tony turned to look at him thoroughly. He paused, looking up. “So what was the deal, huh?”
Peter looked away again, jaw tight. “I didn’t know what to say.”
“Could’ve started with, ‘Hey, not dead. Still breathing.’ Would’ve sufficed.”
Tony leaned in to examine the gash, and Peter instinctively winced and pulled away.
“Does it hurt?” Tony asked, voice low.
Peter nodded. “Yeah.”
Tony sighed through his nose. “Alright, this might sting a little. Hold still.”
He cleaned the wound as gently as he could. The antiseptic bubbled against the torn skin, and Peter hissed through his teeth.
“I’ve been… busy,” Peter said suddenly, almost like a confession.
Tony didn’t look up. “Busy. Right. But somehow not too busy to end up bleeding all over my dock.”
“I wasn’t ignoring you,” Peter said, more defensive now, but tired. “I just… just couldn’t.”
Tony paused. “Couldn’t or wouldn’t?”
Peter hesitated. Then: “Does it matter?”
“It should,” Tony said evenly.
Another silence settled over them. Then—
“Ow,” Peter said tightly as the needle bit into his skin.
“Hang on,” Tony said, threading. “You’ve got skin like tissue paper back here.”
“Still hurts,” Peter grumbled.
Tony looked over the rim of his glasses, deadpan. “I thought you had super strength.”
“I do,” Peter muttered. “Not super numbness.”
Tony snorted. “Wow. Spider-Man. Taken out by a sewing kit.”
Peter gave a tiny smirk. It didn’t reach his eyes, but it was something. Tony tied off the final stitch, exhaled, and sat back.
“Alright,” he said softly. “That’s patched up. But now you’re gonna tell me what the hell happened.”
Peter didn’t speak right away. But his shoulders slumped a little more. As the kid breathed deeply to speak, he winced as if doing just that caused him severe pain. Bruises sprawled across Peter’s ribs in uneven blotches—purple, green, yellow at the edges. Scratches crisscrossed his shoulders and sides, and his skin was blotchy from the cold. The kid looked like he’d been thrown down a stairwell and then run over by guilt.
Tony swallowed hard. He didn’t say anything. He just moved—quickly, efficiently, and focused. “You’ve got bruising around the lower ribs,” Tony said, mainly to keep Peter awake and aware. “You break anything?”
Peter winced as Tony gently palpated along his side. “I don’t think so. Just cracked a bit, maybe. Hurts when I breathe deep.”
“Okay, no deep breaths then. Lucky you, you get a wrap.”
Tony unwound the bandage and knelt slightly to get the right angle. He pressed one end just below Peter’s sternum and began wrapping it tight around his torso, careful not to pull too hard but firm enough to stabilize.
Peter flinched again, sucking in through his teeth. “Ow—yeah, okay, that’s too tight.”
“Yeah? Well, so is whatever situation you got yourself into.”
“This part usually goes with some kind of lecture,” Peter murmured.
“Oh, it’s coming. I’m just getting the first aid out of the way before the guilt trip. Wouldn’t want to multitask and miss a spot.” He finished the last wrap and tucked the end in snugly. “There. Rib cage secured. You sneeze, cough, or laugh, it’s gonna suck—but at least you won’t pass out from pain.”
Peter managed a tired nod. Tony stood up, tossing the used wrappers and gloves into the trash. Then he leaned back against the counter, arms crossed, eyes scanning the kid like he still couldn’t quite believe he was here.
He took a breath.
“Okay. Let’s try this again.”
Peter sat on the edge of the kitchen island, ribs bound, eyes vacant. The silence between them stretched long and taut, filled only by the soft whir of the fridge and the occasional hiss of the wind brushing against the lake house windows. Then, without looking at Tony, Peter spoke.
“Everything’s been going wrong.”
Tony’s brows knit. “Talk to me.”
Peter’s voice was soft, distant—like he was watching his own life from far away. “I’m failing physics.” He gave a dry, humorless laugh. “Me. Physics. Senior year. It was supposed to be easy. I might not even graduate.”
Tony didn’t interrupt. He let the kid speak, sensing the dam was beginning to crack.
“I keep trying to fix everything—school, the suit, keeping the city safe—but it just keeps… falling apart.”
He ran a hand through his curls, flinching when his fingers brushed the stitches. “And now there’s all this stupid legal stuff about Aunt May’s belongings—papers, lawyers, boxes.” His throat caught, and he swallowed hard.
Tony took a slow breath. “Yeah, that can be a lot…”
“I just needed to breathe, y’know? I thought I’d go out swinging for a while. Get up high enough where I could see the lights. Aunt May used to love that—watching the city from above.” Peter’s voice cracked on the following words. “I guess I wasn’t paying attention. I slipped. I—I just fell.”
That last word hung in the air like a stone.
And then he broke.
Tears spilled from his eyes, silent at first, then ragged as sobs shook his shoulders. He doubled forward, elbows on his knees, hands over his face. All the hurt he’d tried to hide—every ounce of guilt, confusion, grief—came rushing out at once, uncontainable. Tony reached out, steadying a hand on Peter’s back, feeling how small and vulnerable he was. Beneath the suit. Beneath the quips. Beneath the bravado. Just a seventeen-year-old kid who had lost everything and didn’t know how to process any of it.
Tony’s chest tightened. He’s just a kid. Smart. Brave. Stubborn as hell. But still a kid.
He had no one left to teach him how to grieve. No guidebook. No place to fall. Peter sat hunched on the island stool, his back bandaged, arms resting on his thighs, eyes cast down. Tony pushed off the counter and moved a little closer.
“Kid… you’re staying here, okay?” he said gently. “You’re not going anywhere tonight. You’re safe here. Come on. I’ve got a room you can crash in.”
Peter hesitated. “I don’t want to take anyone’s bed…”
Tony tilted his head, a small smile playing at the corner of his mouth. “You’re not taking it. I’m giving it to you. Mine.”
Peter blinked. “Seriously?”
“Seriously. You need sleep. A real bed. Somewhere safe.” He started toward the stairs, motioning for Peter to follow. “Don’t argue with a billionaire who just stitched your neck back together for free.”
Tony guided Peter through the door and into the room. The curtains were already half-drawn, muting the soft blue-gray light from the lake. The bed was huge—plush, inviting, with a dark comforter and too many pillows.
Peter stood in the doorway, looking awkwardly out of place. “This is… a lot,” he murmured.
Tony walked to the wall panel and gave a slight tap. “F.R.I.D.A.Y., set lights to calm preset and project The Empire Strikes Back on the ceiling.”
“Of course, boss,” F.R.I.D.A.Y. replied smoothly.
The room dimmed to a soft amber glow, and above the bed, the ceiling transformed into the swirling galaxy of Hoth and hyperspace stars.
Tony turned back to Peter. “There. Sci-fi distraction therapy. You get the bed. And for once…” He softened, walking over to put a hand on Peter’s shoulder. “...this space is yours, alright? No expectations. No responsibilities. Just rest.”
Peter’s face crumpled. He looked away quickly, blinking fast. Tony squeezed his shoulder. He climbed into the bed, wincing slightly as his sore muscles protested. But the second his head hit the pillow and the sound of Star Wars filled the room, he visibly relaxed. Peter stirred slightly but didn’t wake. He curled instinctively toward the warmth, cheeks still damp, breathing soft and shallow.
Tony stood in the doorway for a long moment, watching and taking in the quiet. Then, slowly, he tapped the side of his smartwatch.
“F.R.I.D.A.Y.,” he said, voice low but steady, “alert the team.”
“Which team, sir?”
“All of them,” Tony replied. “Tell them to meet me in the lab. It’s about Peter.”
“Operation Underoos,” F.R.I.D.A.Y. responded, “Now pending.”
He glanced back at the kid once more. “It’s time we step up.”
The sleek, high-tech heart of the lake house buzzed softly with life as the Avengers arrived one by one—quietly, respectfully, like they already sensed the weight hanging in the air. Natasha stood near the central console, arms crossed, eyes sweeping the room, reading everyone like open books. Always the first to take the temperature of a room—emotional or otherwise. Clint leaned back against the far wall, watching the door, silent but steady.
Rhodey rolled in, nodding at Tony as if to say, We’re here now. Steve stepped in with Wanda and Vision close behind, all of them solemn, their movements quiet, respectful. Scott trailed in seconds later, looking around, already sensing the heaviness that had settled like fog. Then came the rest—Quill, Rocket, Mantis, Drax. Groot ducked slightly to clear the doorway, his soft, bark-like voice rumbling a concerned “I am Groot” as he entered. Thor arrived last—bearded, calm, and no longer carrying the storm like he once did, but still radiating a gravity few could match. Banner followed beside him, glasses perched low on his nose, his hands tucked deep into his hoodie pockets with Scott lingering from behind. They filled the lab slowly, each person a piece of something bigger. Some were heroes. Other outlaws. Some warriors, some misfits. But all of them were here for one reason.
Tony stood at the center of the room, hands braced on the edge of a sleek workbench. He glanced around at the assembled group—old friends, allies, legends—every one of them having seen Peter through battles, bruises, and far more than a teenager ever should’ve carried.
“Where’s the kid?” Steve blurted out.
He cleared his throat. “He’s upstairs. Sleeping, for now. But... he’s not okay.”
No one moved.
Tony continued. “He showed up bloody, bruised, barely able to stand. Said he fell. Said school’s slipping through his fingers. The legal mess after May’s death is crushing him. He’s—” He paused, his voice dropping. “— he’s just a kid .”
Steve’s jaw flexed. Banner quietly removed his glasses and rubbed at his face.
“He doesn’t know how to grieve,” Tony said. “He doesn’t know how to cope. Because no one ever taught him. He’s been trying to be a hero without remembering he’s allowed to be human.”
Rhodey nodded. “Tell us what you need, Stark.”
“I need backup,” Tony said plainly. “But not on the battlefield. Here. I need people who’ll remind him that he’s not alone. That he doesn’t have to fight everything by himself.”
Vision added calmly, “He doesn’t need warriors. He needs anchors.”
Thor’s voice rumbled from the back, deep and strong. “A warrior may survive a hundred battles, but even one grief can unmake him. I’ve seen it. I’ve lived it. Let us help shoulder it now.”
Drax raised a hand. “Is now the time for hugging or violence?”
Mantis leaned in and whispered something, and Drax nodded solemnly. “Ah. Emotional hugging. Got it.”
“I am Groot,” Groot said softly.
Rocket sighed, arms crossed. “He said, ‘Let the kid know we’re not going anywhere.’”Then came the alert. “Sir,” F.R.I.D.A.Y.’s voice echoed calmly through the room, “Movement in the master bedroom. Peter is awake. Elevated heart rate—139 and climbing.”
Tony straightened immediately, his face shifting. Not panic—readiness.
Clint stepped forward. “Let’s let him grieve.”
“Isn’t that what we’re doing?” Vision asked.
“Theoretically,” Clint replied. “But I have a better idea.”
Tony arched an eyebrow. “Which is?”
“Teaching him how to do it the right way.” Clint strode across the lab and grabbed his bow from a mount on the wall. He tested the string with practiced fingers, held it in silence, then looked up.
Drax’s eyes widened. “You’re going to shoot the child?! Damn. This got dark.”
Scott nearly choked on his water.
Rocket slapped Drax in the side. “He's not going to shoot the kid, you lumbering idiot!”
“Hey!” Drax blinked, rubbing his side. “You can’t blame me for asking. I’ve seen weirder.”
Clint smirked slightly, unfazed. “No. Not at him. For him. Kid’s got a lot of noise in his head. He needs an outlet. I say we give him one.”
“You mean, like archery therapy?” Scott asked, still skeptical. “Is that even a thing?”
“It is now. We need to get him grounded. Give him something physical, something real. You can’t outthink grief. But sometimes, you can out-aim it.”
Thor hummed in agreement. “In Asgard, when hearts were broken, we held contests of strength. Axes, hammers, even riddles.”
Tony gave him a look. “Great. Well, we’re sticking with arrows for now.”
“Seconded,” Banner muttered.
Clint turned to the stairs, his voice softer now. “First step—put something in his hands he can control. Second, we remind him that even broken things can still be sharp. Still strong.”
Tony looked around at the strange, beautiful collection of people filling his lab. “We go together,” he said. “No suits. No shields. No shows. Just... us.”