Chapter Text
Prologue
Peter Parker stared at a hooting pigeon. It met his gaze blankly, inclining its head in what could be construed as a question, but more likely in abject wonderment over Peter’s viability as a food source. Clearly having decided the effort would be too high, the bird looked away, and Peter jumped into action. Manoeuvring in a wide arc to the left, and then a quick teeter to the right, Peter refused to step closer to the pink scaly claws than strictly necessary.
The pigeon’s flock comprised of over fifty winged enemies, but luckily for Peter, they appeared to have little interest in him, evidently accustomed to blustering tourists. Regardless, Peter would take no chances today, Spider-Man has encountered the wrath of a scorned pigeon on far too many occasions to become lax- because, like a USSR fighter jet, they did not like to share their airspace.
He smoothed away any sign of hesitation and schooled an easy-going expression onto his tanned features (thank you, Italian sun.)
When Tony had discovered Peter’s phobia of his namesake, the endless mocking that had ensued had been unbearable, he couldn’t repeat it, he refused to. Not to say that he's afraid of pigeons, he's just cautious- and the man is a dog with a bone. Tony had even enlisted Morgan, his own daughter, as an evil, Spider throwing sidekick. Too many times now had Peter opened his backpack to find the plastic eyes of Morgan’s
Peter’s performance wasn’t solely for the pigeons, however, but his mentor too. When Tony had cottoned on to Spider-Man’s fear of his namesake, the mocking that ensued had been unbearable, he couldn’t repeat it, he refused. The man was a dog with a bone. Tony had even enlisted his own child in his machinations as an evil, spider throwing, sidekick. Too many times now had Peter arrived to a lecture, opened his backpack, only to meet the plastic eyes of Morgan’s tarantula jelly cat boring into him in a soundless taunt.
The demon child herself was currently sat atop Peter’s shoulders, mercifully oblivious to his plight as she dripped sticky ice-cream into his newly washed hair, distracted by the sight of a busker stuffing himself into a container the size of a match box. Even Peter himself does a double take before re-rallying himself (he could stick to ceilings, who was he to judge?)
Fortunately, Tony and Pepper have also not clocked onto his fear, walking in the shade of Peter and Morgan’s two-headed shadow, happily licking their respective pistachio and mint gelatos, and having a serious discussion about why ice-cream should be rolled and not whipped.
Peter white-knuckled his own cornetto.
“Boh.”
The pigeons took to the skies like a mass exodus had scorched the Earth, and MJ fell into step besides him, simultaneously grabbing his hand and swiping a splodge of strawberry from Morgan’s face.
“How did you do that?” Peter stared at his girlfriend in a combination of shock and awe, pondering the likelihood of her having been bit by a radioactive pigeon in her ten-minute absence, and gaining the ability to mind control them.
“Boh,” MJ repeated, “it’s my new superpower. Italians created it and I just discovered it.”
Peter laughed. “What does it mean?”
“It can mean a million things.” Her brown eyes, now a subtly amber hue in the midday sun, flitted around as she thought, like she was speed-reading an encyclopaedia. “It can mean ‘I don’t know’, or ‘get out of my face’, it’s the best thing Italy ever created. Except for maybe espresso.”
“Oh, so you’ve been drinking espresso.” Peter grinned, that would explain MJ’s twitchiness.
Though he didn’t comment further on the matter; the last time he’d suggested she stick to her patented herbal teas, she’d dyed his web fluid bright pink. Not that he'd minded the pink, and Morgan had loved the pink.
But it had resulted in a rather persistent hounding from various groups, all clobbering to find out which pink themed cause he was supporting. Which was how Spider-Man had found himself spending three weeks training for a breast cancer awareness charity marathon- he’d come second, but not for a lack of trying; the Human Torch had flamed ahead of him at the final second, much to Peter’s chagrin and calls of cheating, which apparently wasn’t in the spirit of the event.
And then he’d spent a pink emblazoned Friday evening at a ‘Cocks for Cocktails- Men Can Drink Them Too’ bar night. He’d delivered MJ a ‘spidey’s shooter martini’ in lieu of espressos or herbal teas, and the whole thing had been forgiven.
Or so he thought it had.
His question was met with a quick and swift, “boh”, from the girl.
“Boh! Boh!” Morgan repeated exuberantly, clapping her hands together as scandalised Venetians watched on with blatant judgement. Peter reached up to steady the toddler as she wobbled precariously on his shoulders like a homemade sailboat in a hurricane.
“Let’s not teach my three-year-old swear words, if you don’t mind kiddos," Tony admonished, himself and Pepper having appeared on either side of the couple. Peter and MJ chimed out contrite apologies as Morgan continued her tirade.
Tony tilted his sunglasses down to the tip of his nose to peer at them. “Anyway, boh’s small fry, you should’ve seen my mother on a Sunday morning, getting ready for church of all places, God the things she thought of. Now, repeat after me. 'Vaffanculo’.”
Obediently, they complied, Pepper and Morgan included.
“Great!” Tony clapped his hands for a beat, one calloused, one gloved. “Good pronunciation. It means go fuck yours-”
“Tony!” Far too late, Pepper swatted a hand over his mouth, as though attempting to prevent the escape of a stubborn fruit fly.
…..
They traipsed around Venice for the rest of the afternoon- or at least four of them did. Morgan, spoiled as she was, was transferred around whichever set of shoulders she deemed to have the best view. She’d recently been weaned out of her buggy and clearly wasn’t happy with the transition. That said, she did deign to totter about on her own two feet to briefly chase a duck, her pink sandals against the cobblestone creating a mini avalanche loud enough to alert the poor creature, its wings flapping wildly from her warpath.
They visited museums, rode on a gondola, and each purchased, at Tony’s behest and bankroll, about every tacky keyring they laid eyes on. And when the day bled into evening, humid and slightly sticky, they settled by the Grand Canal around a mosaic table that spiralled outwards like a seashell. They sipped limoncellos from pitchers that sweat with condensation- or in Tony and Morgan’s cases, cloudy lemonade from plastic beakers embossed with the winged Lion of Saint Mark.
Tony raised his cup in a toast, the contents of which briefly rippling against the lip, before he saved it with a steady hand. Pepper’s glass followed last, as she thought about the PR disaster speeches Tony used to give. She smiled.
“To Peter and MJ,” Tony started, “entering their final year at MIT, which as you may know was my alma mater.” He blustered on at everyone’s unimpressed stares. “Now where did all that time go? Feels like just yesterday the two of you were stumbling after butterflies in your overalls.”
“You met us both when we were teenagers, Stark,” MJ corrected, though her tone was easy, relaxed, like she was watching a paraquet jump happily around a pile of leaves.
“Oh yes, perhaps I was thinking instead of the two teenagers who liked to sneak around my tower thinking I didn’t know what a back to front sweater looks like.” Tony countered.
“Stop embarrassing them.” Pepper chided. “Though, Peter, I really thought that at least you of all people would’ve been a bit stealthier about it.” Then she burst into giggles, cheeks pink from the limoncello. “Oh God, Tony? You remember when Peter came home with that h-i-c-k-e-y,” she spelled out, Morgan looking on curiously.
Tony snorted a scoff into his lemonade. “How could I forget? What did you say it was again, kid? Remind me. Another spider-bite? Stingray? Help me out here,” Tony goaded.
“This is the worst toast ever.” Peter replied instead, tracing the spiral of the table and wondering if he did it in just the right formation whether a merperson would come to his rescue.
Pepper slapped her hand onto Tony’s. “Oh, oh! I remember! He said he tripped into a sewer and got attacked by rats!”
The two dissolved into fits of laughter. “And you’re gonna take that MJ?” Tony piled on, breaths short.
Peter and MJ stared passively and without humour, a united front, Morgan imitating their faux-stern expressions sleepily. Oblivious, the married couple continued to clutch at one another, the initially well-meaning toast now thoroughly dead in the water, floating among the algae on the top of the canal.
That was another not so new development. The marriage, not the algae. Three years ago, Tony and Pepper had officially tied the knot.
When they’d assumed guardianship over Peter, ideas of marriage had been thoroughly off the table- the table was floating in the stratosphere; Morgan was young and Peter’s grief over May fraught. Pepper and Tony had a long conversation about it, eventually concluding that they’d come back to it when the time was right.
Which Peter had then overheard. He’d rallied the Avengers, barring Steve and Thor who were off world, to throw a surprise wedding. If he had been anyone else, it would have been presumptuous, but it was a sign that Peter was healing, it was a sign that there was life beyond death. And if Tony had swiped a tear away at the display, then no, he hadn’t.
Peter hung decorations with his webs, Clint did the flower arrangements, Wanda cooked (she'd taken a class), and Bucky crocheted place mats- though the super solider had just started up with the hobby, so they'd ended up looking a little lopsided. Even Strange got involved, conjuring white doves to lead a crawling Morgan, still slightly too young to understand the full duties of being a flower girl, down the aisle. The makeshift wedding was everything they had wanted and more.
As the couple continued to laugh at his expense, Peter found himself regretting the effort.
He decided to speak up, defend his honour. “You know Spider-Man almost got killed by rats last month? So really, this isn’t very funny and actually pretty inconsiderate.” Peter paused. “Though now I think of it, it was more of a rat man than an actual mischief- you know that’s what a group of rats are called. Cool, right? Wait, what was I saying?”
Jet lag had messed with Peter slightly.
“Well put,” MJ deadpanned, placing a hand over his. She was wearing a spindly metal spider ring that coiled around her slim ring finger, and Peter smiled dopily- even after all these years, he was enamored.
A glass clanking against a spoon snapped the group from their reverie, a parody of Tony’s failed toast, before it shattered to the floor.
Then three more fell and canal water rippled ominously towards them, lapping dangerously close to their feet. Peter inched his hand to his backpack, to where his suit lay at the bottom buried under every piece of tat he’d bought that day. A bottle smashed.
Tony rose, face taut. “Come on,” he ordered, no room for dispute.
Then, loud bass music thrummed from around the corner, and a party yacht came into view from the periphery, having barely survived the tight turn of the canal. Swathes of people danced around the deck, painted head-to-toe in neon, waving glow sticks in trails of technicolour. They drank similarly luminous shots that gave the impression of drinking toxic waste. The boat’s turbines ground teeth gratingly against the shallow water, pushing it outwards in waves that could have been surfed on.
The adrenaline broke away from Peter like the snapping of their glow sticks, and he relinquished his tight hold on his backpack. Likewise, Tony sank heavily back down into his seat. The two shared shaky grins at their dual overreactions.
Pepper took the conversational reins with the subtle seamlessness of a person well used to dealing with PTSD ridden superheroes. “No wonder the Italians hate tourists, that felt like an earthquake. Surely that can’t be allowed here.”
“And that monster cannot be good for the marine life,” Tony groused in agreement, his hands trembling imperceptibly, “I can count about fifty pollutants whiffing off that cheap plastic coating alone.”
Peter hummed, who knew there could be cheap yachts? He was about to voice this, when Tony suddenly perked up, eyes lighting up in remembrance.
“Pep, I forgot to mention, speaking of earthquakes. Guess who Fury picked up last week?”
“Who?” The CEO replied, bringing her glass to her lips.
“Quentin Beck.” Tony said the name like it held weight.
And clearly it did. “The BARF guy?” Pepper recalled bemusedly.
“Barf?” MJ muttered to Peter, who shrugged, only fleetingly knowing about the technology.
“Ding dong the mad scientist is dead.” Tony sung. “Or in custody, I don’t know what Fury does with his prisoners. But the short of it: Beck’s cuckoo. He practically obliterated a town in Mexico with drone tech. We’ve got SI on cleanup duty.”
“Why would he do that?” Peter leaned in.
“Not a donkey, all I know is that he used the drones to make it look like the cookie monster had done the deed, the locals were spooked. If I hadn’t recognised the illusion tech, then who knows what Beck would’ve done,” the inventor half bragged
“Why didn’t you tell me this before?” Peter asked before he can stop himself. Everyone turned towards him sharply.
“Because it’s none of Spider-Man’s beeswax?” Tony responded somewhat icily. “You’re little leagues now, kiddo. Enjoy it. And don’t think I didn’t notice you going towards the suit I explicitly told you not to bring. Take a day off.”
Peter tried not to squirm, considering how Tony was completely correct. He’d declined being an Avenger to stay local, and he’d never regret that decision, but it was hard to compartmentalise sometimes. Hence his last-minute decision to smuggle the suit across the border. In fact, it was one of the only points of contention in his and MJ’s otherwise blissful three-year relationship. The admonishment Tony was giving him wasn’t a new one.
“I think it’s time to get this one to bed,” Pepper gestured to Morgan, who had dropped off in her lap. “And we can add party yachts to the list of things that little miss can sleep through.” She gave Peter’s arm a sympathetic squeeze as she hauled Morgan up onto her hip, the girl nestling her head into her mother's shoulder without rousing.
Tony spoke again, this time to both Peter and MJ, looking slightly remorseful. “The evening’s still young, why don’t you two crazy kids head on over to the festival while we old farts tuck ourselves up in bed?”
An olive branch.
Peter took it gratefully. “You sure you don’t want to join, Tony? Bet you’d look great in neon Iron Man face paint.”
………
Peter laid in bed and watched MJ’s breaths rise and fall. He noticed an errant piece of green paint in her hair and gently flecked it out with his nail, careful not to damage the curl. They had stayed out until midnight, despite the festival still being at full throttle- the couple were made for one another in that sense, their social batteries perfectly aligned.
They’d ended their night in a gently rocking compartment of a ferris wheel as it paused its turn perfectly at the top. They’d watched fireworks flourish into the night sky like blooming tropical flowers. May popped into his head, who he’d always watched the fireworks with, but thoughts of her were welcome now, no longer sharp and keen and grotesque. He was now at peace with her ghost by his side.
Then MJ had miraculously also made the flower comparison, teeing him up to unveil the black dahlia necklace he’d purchased earlier.
“Like the murder,” she’d whispered far too reverently for a comment about a gruesome cold case, but Peter had grinned goofily anyway.
Red light briefly illuminated the flower’s clear black glass as he’d fastened the clasp for her. Then they’d kissed, the moment plucked right out of a storybook.
His plan had gone perfectly. How could it not have?
Peter turned his pillow over and buried his nose into its freshness. He pondered Ned a bit guiltily, he knew his best friend would have been in his element here in Venice. Tony had asked him along, but the boy said a firm no, insistent that he refused to be “a bachelor in Europe third wheeling two couples and a toddler.” And put like that, Peter didn’t blame him one bit. He’d convince Tony to send them somewhere, just the two of them, at some point.
He turned his pillow over again. Then finally kicked off the sheets with a quiet sigh. It was no use; sleep was evading him.
Peter touched his toes gently to the wooden floor and poured his weight slowly into them with the air of a gymnast, careful not to make a sound as he stood. He noticed goose bumps prickling at MJ’s exposed shoulder, so he fixed the sheet over it and planted a chaste kiss into her hair.
Then, he crept down the stairs of the palazzi, cringing with every minute creak of the Baroque style steps. It was essentially a palace, entirely too large and too lavish for just the five of them, but it had been the childhood home of Maria Stark (nee Carbonell), so Tony had held onto it despite the excess.
Peter stepped out onto the veranda overhanging the canal and found that Tony had beaten him to the spot.
“Couldn’t sleep?” Tony asked in greeting.
“Not tonight.” Peter replied, shivering.
“Well at least one of us had the foresight to bring out a blanket, otherwise we’d have a spider-popsicle on our hands. Come here, kid.” Tony picked up the edge of a blue tattered throw invitingly, and Peter wondered briefly whether it had been a baby blanket, before joining the man.
Once Peter was resting in the nook Tony’s arm used to occupy, his prosthetic removed for the nighttime, the man tucked the blanket neatly around Peter- a movement that should have been difficult and fumbling with one arm, but was instead performed with the ease of someone well-used to accommodating the loss.
Peter thought that maybe he was too. He coughed.
“You good?” He asked Tony. The man’s sleeping schedule was usually much more routine these days.
“Always, kiddo. It’s just I’m well into my fifties now, and cheese really doesn’t go down like it used to. Even the fancy Italian parmigiano stuff,” Tony deflected
Peter made a disgusted face. “Not gonna touch that one. But, uh, if you did want to talk about anything, I’m here.”
“I know.” Tony sighed a smile. “It’s just my arm, or the lack of. Phantom pains.” He clarified.
“You still get those?” Peter queried, surprised.
Tony scratched his nose. “Think it’s for life, kid.”
“That sucks,” Peter said with genuine, but unoppressive, sympathy, eyes bright.
It was simple, but Tony breathed for the first time since he’d crawled out of his and Pepper’s bed. He looked at Peter lodged safely in the spot that had plagued him all night.
“Wouldn’t trade it for anything, though.” Tony bumped Peter’s shoulder.
The boy smiled, ducking his head. “But you do know right?” Peter pressed insistently. “That you’re allowed to talk about your issues without them being these like planet ending catastrophes?” He accompanied his words with a little explosion noise he managed to produce by pursing his lips together and puffing out a jolt of air, splaying his hands outwards like a jazz dancer.
Tony nodded. “Sometimes an aching arm is just an aching arm.”
Though it had taken the man a while to reach that particular philosophy, and even longer to implement it. But Peter cut through Tony’s hard-won emotional repression like it was made of sponge. He always did.
Tony looked at Peter suddenly like he was watching sand run through a timer. “When did you go and grow up on me, kid?” Despite the twang of years passing, his muse was fond, familiar.
“Summer after I turned eighteen, I’m pretty sure.” Peter’s eyes twinkled. “Though it’s hard to say when you keep wearing those shoe lifters.”
“I was trying to have a moment, kid! And what if there’s a reporter?” Tony shushed him.
Peter looked around dubiously “Where? Under the water? As far as I know we’ve not got a mutant gill person on our hands.”
At that, Tony’s subsequent laugh sounded a bit strained, and Peter stared at him curiously, but the man doesn’t give him room to question it.
“And what’s rattling around that noggin of yours? Not that I don’t appreciate the company.”
Peter sighed a bit too heavily for Tony’s tastes, prompting the man to continue. “Or we can just sit, watch the drunkards roll home. I don’t mind, kid.”
“Wouldn’t that be pretty hypocritical after the speech I just made?” Peter surveyed the inventor's open expression. “It’s okay, it’s just that I’m still figuring it out myself.”
“Well, the night is young,” Tony said, despite it being well past 3am.
Peter looked into the gently rippling water. “You ever get the feeling that your life is over before it’s begun?”
His mentor jumped, alarmed.
“Wait, no. Badly put.” Peter smiled sheepishly as Tony visibly tried to quell his racing heart. “I told you I was figuring it out. How about this- do you ever feel like everything is temporary? Like, for instance, things are good, Tony. Better than I could have ever imagined things turning out for me. I’ve got the team, an amazing girlfriend, and a little sister of all things. And, uh, even though I never got to know my parents, well, I have you guys now.”
Ben and May had always firmly been his aunt and uncle, the titles drawn in the sand from day one. Even though Peter had little recollection of his parents themselves, the two hadn’t wanted to disrespect their memory. But Tony and Pepper were different. Peter would never call them anything beyond their given names, he was far too old to start whipping out mom and dad now, but he thought maybe that this is what it would feel like.
Tony glowed as Peter continued. “Maybe it all just seems, I don’t know, too much? I guess I’m just waiting for the other shoe to drop.”
“Welcome to your twenties, kid.” Tony waved his arm dramatically, causing their blanket to drop for a moment before the man re-situated it.
“That’s what this is?” Not that Peter was complaining.
“Well, yes and no," Tony commiserated. "Everyone’s gotta have their first quarter life crisis at some point, but you’ve also been through a hell of a lot, kiddo. Obviously, you’re gonna be jumping at shadows, you’d be numb, or Natasha, if you weren’t. And I know it sounds hollow, but you just gotta power through it. The only way to find out if things will turn out alright is to keep living, keep experimenting.”
Peter nodded slowly.
“And sometimes, kid, an aching arm is just an aching arm, and a happy ending is just that, no strings attached.”
A firework exploded outward before them, it was red and yellow- like Ben’s old firefighter uniform. He thought of his uncle, and his aunt, and fourth of July firework displays in Queens. Then, he thought of black dahlias and ice-cream in his hair. As the firework fizzled away, Peter made a pact to himself- he decided it can be simple.
“Thanks Tony.” Peter leaned his head lightly on the remainder of his mentor’s shoulder, and Tony hid a smile, pleased he’d gotten through to the boy- rather, young adult.
And when Peter dropped into sleep half an hour later, Tony stayed exactly where he was, basking under the Italian night sky and the comfort of having his son by his side, and his family safely tucked away in their beds.
They were happy.