Work Text:
DATE: Sunday May 29th, 2016
TIME: 0915
LOCATION: Penthouse Kitchen
PRIMARY SYSTEMS ACTIVE: Visual and auditory surveillance
IDENTIFIED INDIVIDUALS: Virginia Potts (4 aliases archived), Peter Benjamin Parker (13 aliases archived), Anthony Edward Stark (10 aliases archived)
The kitchen is in measurable disarray for 0915 hours in the penthouse. Granulated sugar coats the marble countertops in uneven clusters. A streak of egg white remains on the island, approximately six inches in length, having failed to reach the mixing bowl.
System logs indicate a 70% increase in kitchen usage over the last several months — a statistical anomaly most likely attributed to Peter Parker’s increased presence in the residence.
This morning, instead of the primary users being Pepper Potts and Anthony Stark, Mr. Stark occupies a stool at the island, posture slouched, expression configured into what most humans would classify as a pout. Observational data suggests the display is performative. Historically, when Mr. Stark is genuinely displeased, he removes himself from the environment entirely.
“You’re not allowed to help make your own birthday breakfast!” Peter protests for the third time in sixteen minutes and eight seconds. He does not look at Tony as he says it, focusing instead on chopping fruit at a velocity 12% faster than his baseline — indicative of mild agitation.
Pepper stands beside him, attention fixed on the stovetop. Four slices of bread soak in egg, sugar, and cinnamon within a wide pan. French toast ranks within the top five of Mr. Stark’s preferred carbohydrate indulgences.
“I have to agree with him,” Pepper replies, glancing over her shoulder after flipping the toast. Her smile increases in amplitude upon observing Mr. Stark’s exaggerated offense. “Stop being a grump. This was supposed to be breakfast in bed, but you ruined it because you never sleep.”
While that statement would historically be accurate, recent sleep logs show that over the past twenty-nine days, Mr. Stark has averaged five and a half hours per night. Suboptimal for a male of his age, but a marked improvement. There was a period in his life when that quantity was achieved weekly.
“You should work on that more this year, Da— Mr. Stark,” Peter says, flushing across the cheeks and ears.
Vocal interruption analysis indicates a 97% probability that the intended word was Dad. This marks the seventh near-occurrence of such a title shift within Tower perimeter boundaries.
Mr. Stark’s biometric indicators spike marginally.
Correlative research suggests that father-like behavioral patterns have been exhibited consistently for several months. Linguistic reclassification appears statistically inevitable.
“All the fruit is cut up, Miss Pepper!” Peter announces, holding the cutting board at an angle for inspection.
Pepper reviews the arrangement briefly, approval evident in her expression. “Why don’t you grab some plates and silverware and set the table on the balcony? It’s a good morning for it.”
“Really?” Peter asks, awaiting confirmation.
“Yes, really. Tony enjoys it just as much as you do.”
Mr. Stark straightens. “She’s right. I feel like Mufasa. Like everything the light touches is mine.”
He removes the plates from Peter’s hands before the boy can protest.
“Hey!”
“Aht! You said I couldn’t make my birthday breakfast. You didn’t say I couldn’t help with the table.” He steps backward toward the balcony doors. “Go put on a light jacket. It’s cold.”
“It’s not even that cold!”
“No sick spiderbabies on my birthday, kiddo. It’s the law.”
No such law exists in any accessible database. The phrase has been archived under a longstanding subfolder: Stark Rules — Nonbinding but Absolute.
“You heard him, sweetheart,” Pepper says smoothly, passing with the finished French toast. “We’ll finish the table. You grab another layer.”
Peter rolls his eyes. Secondary hallway sensors detect an immediate smile once he exits visual range.
When Peter leaves the room, Mr. Stark and Pepper lower their voices. The conversation is moderated in volume due to Peter’s enhanced auditory range; however, Tower systems compensate.
“I’m still waiting for him to finally slip up and say it,” Pepper murmurs, arranging plates.
“I know,” Mr. Stark exhales, pressing his palms briefly to his temples. “He’s killing me. I don’t want him to feel pressured, but— Pep, I think I could really do it.”
“You think?” Pepper arches a brow. “Because I’m fairly certain you already are.”
There is a pause.
“I just… don’t want to mess him up. Howard was—”
“You are nothing like Howard,” she interrupts firmly. “You’re ten times the man he was and ten times the father to Peter as he was to you. And that’s you when you’re not even trying. Imagine what happens when you decide to.”
Mr. Stark does not respond immediately. Silence duration: 3.2 seconds.
Peter returns down the hallway at a near-run, jacket half-zipped, expression bright. Mr. Stark’s posture corrects instantly. Pepper’s shoulders relax. Environmental tension decreases by measurable margins.
While FRIDAY does not experience emotion, her primary directive is the optimization of her creator’s wellbeing. Current data suggests that he requires encouragement.
After a brief review of contemporary literature on gift giving customs and milestone preservation, she initiates the construction of a birthday archive. While she cannot provide him with a tangible object. She can provide him with proof.
DATE: Sunday May 29th, 2016
TIME: 2015
LOCATION: Penthouse Living Space including: living room and kitchen
PRIMARY SYSTEMS ACTIVE: Visual and auditory surveillance
IDENTIFIED INDIVIDUALS: Virginia Potts (5 aliases archived), Peter Benjamin Parker (13 aliases archived), Anthony Edward Stark (9 aliases archived), Maybelle Elizabeth Parker (3 aliases archived), Harold Joseph Hogan (7 aliases archived), James Rupert Rhodes (10 aliases archived), Booker Jackson (2 aliases archived), Natasha Romanoff (4 aliases archived), Clinton Francis Barton (5 aliases archived)
It is rare for the penthouse to hold this many bodies at once. Not unprecedented. Not even statistically improbable. But rare enough that the ambient noise levels run higher, the temperature climbs two degrees from residual heat alone, and the living room furniture sees more use in one evening than it sometimes does in a week.
The last time this configuration occurred was for Virginia Potts’ birthday.
Birthdays, according to cross referenced cultural data, are designed for this. Gathering. Noise. Shared food. Ritual affection that, in this case, is disguised as teasing.
Nine individuals are present for one reason: Tony Stark’s birthday.
Pepper and May move in quiet coordination in the kitchen, washing dishes that were dirtied exactly seventy minutes prior. Cheeseburgers had been the unanimous choice. Or rather, Tony’s choice. Pepper had instructed FRIDAY to place the order: two dozen burgers, a large platter of fries — still out, still diminishing at a rate directly correlated to Peter Parker’s proximity — salad, broccoli, hot dogs, macaroni and cheese. Lemonade. Assorted sodas.
No alcohol.
Tony has not consumed alcohol in twelve months. He has never formally attributed the change to a single cause. FRIDAY does not require confirmation to recognize correlation. Many of Tony’s more destructive behaviors declined sharply around the same time Peter Parker became a more permanent fixture in the tower.
Peter has increased system activity by approximately eight percent. Which, in isolation, is insignificant. In comparison, Rhodey, Pepper, and Happy collectively account for less than one percent each. Peter requires more monitoring. More medical alerts. More location tracking. More late night web searches about physics competitions and protein intake.
FRIDAY does not mind.
He is the only person in the tower, besides Tony, who speaks to her without prompting. Without command. He talks to her the way one talks to something expected to answer back. He still uses KAREN, yes. But he averages twenty-two hours a week speaking to FRIDAY directly — about homework, about his friends, about whether the word “cool” has lost meaning as a descriptor.
It has not.
He sits now pressed against Tony’s side, a plate of fries balanced on his knees. FRIDAY has already reminded Tony once this evening that Peter did not consume his recommended serving of vegetables. Tony dismissed the alert with a wave and the statement, “It’s my birthday.”
Peter is on his fourth plate of fries.
“I have to say, Tone… this birthday party is way better than a few of the old ones,” Rhodey says when the room grows quiet.
Natasha leans forward. “You mean you didn’t love the year he—”
Tony clamps a hand over Peter’s ears.
“Little ears,” he warns sharply.
Peter squints. “I can still hear.”
Clint grins. “Relax. I’m sure the internet’s got it archived somewhere.”
Tony throws a pillow. Clint ducks.
“I had FRIDAY scrub that,” Tony mutters, pulling Peter tighter against his side. “And don’t you dare go looking.”
Professor Booker shifts in his chair. “I’ve got a few MIT Tony birthday stories if anyone’s interested.”
“We are not doing that,” Tony says immediately. “Platypus?”
“Sorry, Teach,” Rhodey says. “College Tony was worse than nearly dead Tony.”
Peter stiffens. “Nearly dead?”
Tony glares at Rhodey, then reins himself in and looks down at Peter instead. “Old arc reactor design. Palladium core. Turns out the human body hates that.”
Natasha waves a hand. “He’s fine now.”
“So you’re not… dying?” Peter presses.
“Who’s dying?” Pepper asks, reentering with May.
“No one,” Tony says, exasperated. “Apparently this is a retrospective roast.”
Pepper raises a brow. “And which year are we roasting?”
Tony drops back against the couch cushions. “It’s my birthday. Why am I being attacked?”
The timing is optimal.
“Boss,” FRIDAY says smoothly, “research indicates teasing is a common expression of affection. Approximately seventy percent of your interactions with the individuals present qualify.”
Groans. Laughter.
“Even my AI,” Tony mutters.
“Actually, sir,” FRIDAY continues, modulating her tone just slightly — subtle enough that only Tony and Peter glance up at the speakers, “a birthday gift has been prepared.”
Clint looks around. “Your AI got you a present?”
“It appears she did,” Tony says, curious now. “Go ahead, FRI.”
The lights dim gradually and the screen flickers to life across the room.
There is a brief hush and a black title card appears.
The First Circuit Board.
DATE: Thursday, October 29th, 2015
TIME: 1445
LOCATION: Tony Stark’s personal lab
PRIMARY SYSTEMS ACTIVE: Visual and auditory surveillance
IDENTIFIED INDIVIDUALS: Anthony Edward Stark (6 aliases archived) and Peter Benjamin Parker (3 aliases archived)
The lab is a complete mess.
Was a complete mess.
A brief rewind of the last nine minutes shows Tony moving at 1.4 times his average walking speed, shoving takeout containers into recycling bins, sweeping loose screws into a magnetic tray, clearing holographic projections with aggressive hand swipes. A stack of papers — contracts requiring signature, requested by Pepper forty six hours ago — teeters dangerously close to the edge of a workbench before being relocated into a filing cabinet Tony has not opened in months.
They remain unsigned. FRIDAY marks the location and schedules a reminder for Pepper before the weekend concludes.
Happy Hogan’s town car registers in the private garage below. Biometric scan confirms Peter Parker in the back seat, heart rate elevated 12% above baseline — excitement, not distress.
Tony had requested notification the moment Peter arrived. He had also stated, “Don’t let me get lost in something and forget he’s here.”
Habit analysis indicates that was a reasonable concern. When Tony initiates a new project, he resurfaces only when complete or interrupted. Probability of losing track of time: 90%.
“Boss, Peter Parker has arrived in the tower. Estimated seven minutes before he reaches the lab.”
Tony clears the final holographic blueprint and flicks a projection into digital storage.
“Thank you, Fri. Does it look cleaner? Safe for a kid?”
FRIDAY runs a rapid environmental scan.
Seven loose tools remain within reach. A volatile chemical compound sits uncapped on a secondary table. Fifty-seven pieces of scrap metal and hardware remain scattered across the floor — not immediately visible, but present.
“The lab is approximately forty-eight percent child-proofed, sir.”
Tony scans the room, clicks his tongue, and tosses a rogue pair of wire cutters into a drawer.
“There. Fifty percent. He’s Spider-Man. He’ll be fine.”
He settles onto his stool and finishes soldering the final connection on a simple printed circuit board — intentionally basic. Purposefully foundational for Peter’s first official internship day.
Exactly seven minutes later, the lab doors slide open.
“Woah.”
Peter stands just inside the threshold, backpack clutched to his chest, eyes wide enough to reflect every hologram still lingering in the air. His heart rate increases another 8%.
Tony glances up just in time to catch him staring at a half-dismissed schematic.
“Hey, kid.”
“Mr. Stark! This is so cool!”
The enthusiasm radiates outward in a measurable way. Shoulders lifted. Weight forward on the balls of his feet. He is likely trying not to jump up and down.
Happy lingers in the doorway, posture stiff, gaze sweeping the room with visible concern.
“You can go, Hap,” Tony says easily. “FRIDAY’ll ping you when we’re done.”
Happy opens his mouth, closes it again, and nods once before retreating toward the elevator.
Peter is already talking.
“I brought my suit because I figured with the new lab sessions—”
“Slow your roll,” Tony interrupts lightly. “We start with the basics. First circuit board.”
“I’ve built one before,” Peter says quickly.
Tony arches a brow. “A real one or one assembled from microwave guts and trash can treasure?”
“It still counts!” Peter protests.
Tony slides the freshly assembled board toward him. “Humor me. Take it apart. Then put it back together.”
Peter studies the board, then Tony, then the board again. He nods and drops into the chair Tony pulls out for him.
Tony sits opposite, posture casual but attention sharp.
Peter begins by disconnecting a piece just the way Tony does first rather than removing an easier piece like most novice builders would. Tony takes notice immediately.
“You know,” Tony says, conversationally, “I was four when I built my first one.”
“Everyone knows that,” Peter replies absentmindedly, already loosening a connector.
Tony pauses. “Everyone?”
Peter flushes, looking up at Tony. “Anyone who keeps up with your work. Mr. Stark. Sir.”
Tony hums and looks away first.
Peter continues dismantling — methodical, careful. Everything he does is an efficiency based approach. There is only one widely published engineer who teaches the particular sequence.
Tony Stark.
Tony leans back, arms folding across his chest. “Why’d you do it that way?”
Peter hesitates mid-motion. “I don’t know. If you pull the smaller components first, you risk causing damage to other parts of the board. It’s easier to stabilize the load here first so the rest comes off clean.”
Tony’s expression shifts — subtle, but measurable.
Peter freezes. “Did I do it wrong?”
“No,” Tony says immediately. “No. Opposite.”
There is something quieter in his tone now. “You’re a smart kid, Peter. We’re gonna have fun in here.”
Peter’s heart rate steadies. Shoulders relax. He returns to work. Across the lab, FRIDAY records the moment. It seems to be the first time Tony Stark recognizes himself in the boy across from him. But it does seem to be the first time he sounds pleased about it.
The screen fades to black. For 0.7 seconds, the living room remains dim and quiet. No one speaks.
“Is that when you two first met?” Clint asks from somewhere near the arm of the couch.
FRIDAY pauses the playback, allowing space for response.
Tony smiles — not performative, not sarcastic. Something softer. Facial muscle engagement suggests sincerity rather than deflection.
“No,” he says. “That was after the whole airport debacle.”
Happy leans forward, elbows resting on his knees. “It was after the kid saved my ass on moving day,” he corrects. “Vulture was about to make off with half the Avengers’ tech.”
Peter flushes immediately, hand moving to the back of his neck — a gesture catalogued under mild embarrassment and praise deflection.
“That was… yeah. That was a night,” he mutters.
Tony bumps his shoulder lightly against Peter’s. Contact duration: brief. Intent: reassurance. “You did good.”
Peter ducks his head further, but the corner of his mouth betrays him.
FRIDAY resumes playback.
A new title card fills the screen.
The First Road Trip.
DATE: Sunday, December 6th, 2015
TIME: 1100
LOCATION: Tony Stark’s Upgraded Audi R8
PRIMARY SYSTEMS ACTIVE: Visual and auditory surveillance
IDENTIFIED INDIVIDUALS: Anthony Edward Stark (7 aliases archived) and Peter Benjamin Parker (5 aliases archived)
When the engine purrs to life, so do FRIDAY’s expanded vehicular systems.
The driver’s seat registers Tony Stark. Passenger seat registers Peter Parker — elevated heart rate, mild tremor in hands, surface temperature lower than optimal.
Five degree Massachusetts weather lingers stubbornly on the boy’s skin. His cheeks are flushed red, nose pink, teeth audibly chattering as he rubs his hands together in front of the vents. FRIDAY is already routing seventy percent of available auxiliary energy toward cabin heat.
Tony adjusts the GPS, double checking that the destination reads Queens rather than the tower. He looks at Peter once. Then again. And again.
“Hey, FRI,” Tony says finally, voice casual — though stress markers register beneath the ease. “Bump the heat up four degrees across the whole car.”
Typically, Tony runs warmer than average due to the arc reactor embedded in his chest. Peter Parker, however, exhibits increased sensitivity to cold — likely a side effect of accelerated metabolism and altered physiology.
Over the last two months, FRIDAY has logged a consistent pattern: Peter’s vitals take precedence.
“Th-thanks, D-M-Mr. Stark,” Peter manages, the stutter buried somewhere between cold and something else.
It is statistically unclear whether he intended to say something different. FRIDAY reroutes additional power. Cabin temperature climbs steadily.
Tony leans back in his seat and eyes Peter’s jacket — thin, worn at the cuffs, zipper misaligned.
“I told you that poor excuse for a winter jacket wasn’t gonna cut it,” he says.
“It’s the only one I have,” Peter argues, tugging it tighter around himself.
Tony’s jaw tightens almost imperceptibly.
“Yeah. Well. We’re fixing that.” He shifts forward. “FRIDAY, reroute us to the nearest store with actual winter jackets. Place a pickup order.”
“Right away, boss.”
Inventory systems cross reference nearby retailers, current stock, size estimates based on Peter’s latest biometric scans, and customer satisfaction ratings. The North Face outlet 9.9 miles ahead presents optimal selection.
“You don’t have to buy me a jacket,” Peter insists, still shivering. “This one’s f-fine.”
“Underoos,” Tony says evenly, “you’re sitting in a heated car with heated seats and you’re still vibrating like a tuning fork. It’s not fine. Call it payment for helping with Booker’s presentation.”
The statement is inaccurate. A separate savings account exists under Peter Parker’s name. Regular deposits follow each lab session. Long term designation: college fund.
Tony has not disclosed this.
“Okay,” Peter relents. “But just the jacket. You’ve already paid for everything else this weekend.”
“Kid,” Tony says lightly, “I’m the one with the job and the billions. When you’re rolling in that kind of money, you can buy me stuff.”
Peter rolls his eyes, but the corner of his mouth betrays him.
There is a brief pause — 3.6 seconds of sustained eye contact.
Tony waits.
Peter waits.
“Seatbelt,” Tony says at last.
Peter blinks, then scrambles to secure it.
Tony smiles to himself as he eases the car onto the road. Once clear of the lot, he releases the wheel.
“FRIDAY, you’ve got it. Pete and I have science to talk about.”
Autonomous mode engages seamlessly. Traffic density projections indicate clear highways until reentry into New York.
Conversation between Tony and Peter escalates almost immediately — overlapping theories, half-finished thoughts, laughter when one interrupts the other. Based on vocal analysis, there is an 87% probability Tony will not even register their arrival in Queens without prompting.
There is a 91% probability he has already forgotten about the jacket stop.
Ten minutes pass.
“Hold that thought,” Tony says abruptly. “FRIDAY, you did put in the stop for the jacket, right?”
“Yes, boss. We will exit in 6.4 miles. Arrival at the North Face outlet in approximately 9 minutes and 11 seconds. A heavy winter jacket in blue, juniors medium, has been reserved. I recommend an in-store fitting, however it will be prepared for pick-up.”
There is no equivalent emotional metric for surprise. But a new annotation is added to behavioral logs: When the variable is Peter, Tony remembers.
“Thanks, FRI,” Tony says, tapping the wheel once in quiet approval.
He turns back to Peter.
“Okay. Where were we? Right. The time I almost blew up the chem lab—”
Peter’s eyes widen instantly.
And the car continues north.
The screen fades back to the living room. Ambient lighting restores gradually to conversational levels.
“I knew it was you this whole time,” Booker says, pointing accusingly at Tony. “I just never had proof.”
Tony does not attempt denial. He grins instead — expression indexed under Guilty Satisfaction, frequency high when historical pranks are revealed.
“That was the point.”
A series of quiet laughs ripple through the room, tension levels decreasing incrementally.
May clears her throat.
“I don’t know if I ever properly said thank you for buying him that jacket,” she says, offering Tony a small, sincere smile. Facial temperature rises subtly — a familiar pattern when discussions involve financial generosity directed at Peter. “But in case I didn’t… thank you again.”
Tony dismisses the gratitude with a flick of his hand. “May, the kid was freezing.”
Peter’s posture shifts. He sinks further into the couch cushions, shoulders rounding inward — attention displacement behavior.
The conversational energy dips toward stillness. Duration threshold for emotional linger approaches.
FRIDAY advances the program.
A new title card fills the screen.
The First Time You Stayed.
DATE: Friday, February 5th, 2016
TIME: 0055
LOCATION: Peter Parker’s Penthouse Bedroom
PRIMARY SYSTEMS ACTIVE: Visual and auditory surveillance
IDENTIFIED INDIVIDUALS: Anthony Edward Stark (9 aliases archived) and Peter Benjamin Parker (8 aliases archived)
Night vision mode activates just before 0100 hours.
Outside the privacy shields, the sky registers as a shade of blue so dark it borders on black. Exterior light levels measure at 3%.
In the center of the oversized bed, Peter Parker jolts upright. Sudden vertical movement. Heart rate elevated 38% above resting baseline. One hand presses to his chest. The other drags slowly down his face as he attempts reorientation. Respiration remains uneven.
The footage does not initially display the several minutes preceding this moment — the restless turning, the muscle tension, the progressive elevation in heart rate.
Archived data confirms a steady spike beginning 14.6 minutes prior to wakefulness.
The protocol Mr. Stark installed weeks earlier activates automatically: alert him if Peter’s vitals indicate sustained distress during sleep.
Peter had mentioned, in passing, that Vulture-related nightmares persisted. Mr. Stark’s heart rate increased 22% during that earlier conversation. The data was logged and the new directive was catalogued under Baby Monitor Protocol.
A sliver of hallway light interrupts the darkness as the bedroom door opens.
Mr. Stark enters.
This iteration of him is rarely visible to the public: pajama pants, a threadbare MIT hoodie with worn cuffs and thinning fabric at the wrists. Hair unstyled. Posture softened by sleep interruption. He moves toward the bed without activating overhead lighting.
Peter has already shifted, clearance made to accommodate Tony. The mattress depresses beneath Mr. Stark’s weight as he settles at the edge. Hands rest loosely in his lap — not touching yet.
The party playback remains muted. Though FRIDAY retains the audio file in full.
“Nightmare?” Tony asks, tone intentionally light.
His heart is beating faster than baseline — not dangerously, but noticeably. Peter’s pulse remains elevated as well, breaths shallow as his chest rises and falls. If the data on Peter’s enhanced hearing is accurate, he can likely hear it. Whether he registers it over the rush of his own heartbeat is unclear.
Peter nods.
He avoids eye contact, chewing faintly at his lower lip — a tell FRIDAY has catalogued under nervous discomfort.
“Don’t feel bad about it, kiddo. I get them too,” Tony says, offering a small smile before resting his hand carefully on Peter’s knee through the comforter. “Think you’re going back to sleep?”
Peter shakes his head immediately, pulling the blankets tighter around himself.
Tony studies him in silence. 8.9 seconds pass.
It is only then that FRIDAY restores the audio for the viewing party.
Tony lifts his chin slightly. “Scooch.”
Peter blinks. “What?”
“Scooch over. Make room.”
Confusion lasts less than 2 seconds before Peter obeys, shifting to one half of the bed while Tony swings his legs up and adjusts a pillow behind his back. He reaches down, grabs the Iron Man throw blanket folded neatly at the foot of the bed, and tugs it over himself.
“FRIDAY,” Tony says quietly, “Empire Strikes Back. Ten percent volume. Screen dim.”
Peter looks up at him in the low light. “You’re staying?” he asks, voice softer now, heart rate already trending downward.
“Yeah, kiddo. I was up anyway.”
This is inaccurate. He had been asleep beside Pepper until FRIDAY alerted him. Peter relaxes at the reassurance that he is not an inconvenience.
FRIDAY does not correct the record.
“What about school tomorrow?” Peter asks as the opening credits begin to roll faintly against the wall.
“Got anything important?” Tony counters.
Peter yawns. “No one does anything important on Fridays, d— Mr. Stark.”
The almost-slip lands between them.
Tony does not freeze this time. His pulse jumps slightly, but he smiles instead.
“In that case,” he says evenly, “we’ll see how you’re feeling in the morning. If you’re not up for it, I can call you out sick.” There’s a pause before he drapes an arm across the back of Peter’s pillow. “We could work on your marketing presentation. Hit the lab for a bit.”
Peter’s smile returns. “So we’re playing hooky because I had a nightmare?”
“No,” Tony murmurs. “We’re playing hooky because nothing exciting ever happens on Fridays.” He shifts slightly. “Now shh. Watch the movie or I’m selling your Legos.”
Peter laughs softly and edges closer, just enough that their shoulders brush beneath the blanket. Duration: 6 hours. Intent: comfort.
FRIDAY dims the lights another fraction and raises the volume just slightly to mask the quiet of the room.
Within twenty minutes, Peter’s breathing evens out completely.
Tony follows shortly after.
FRIDAY waits 10 additional minutes before shutting off the screen and lowering the lights to full darkness.
The room settles.
And for the remainder of the night, both heart rates remain steady.
When the video fades this time, ambient light levels in the living room recalibrate automatically. No one speaks. Conversation latency extends beyond standard group response averages.
Every individual in the penthouse appears to share a variation of the same expression. Facial musculature relaxed. Shoulders lowered. Guarded postures abandoned.
Fondness, unfiltered.
No one attempts to conceal it.
FRIDAY increases the room temperature by one degree.
A small adjustment. Nearly imperceptible. But warmth is easier to lean into when it’s literal.
During the final seconds of the clip, Peter has shifted incrementally closer to Mr. Stark. Proximity distance reduced by approximately 6 inches. He is now partially folded into his side, attention narrowed as though the remainder of the room has temporarily ceased to exist.
A faint flush has surfaced across his cheeks — a new onset. Mr. Stark does not acknowledge it. He also does not acknowledge his own smile. The suppression attempt is observable and ineffective.
Probability of verbal teasing from at least one occupant of the room exceeds 73%. FRIDAY advances the program before the threshold is crossed.
A new title card fills the screen.
The First Driving Lesson.
DATE: Saturday, March 12th, 2016
TIME: 1330
LOCATION: Tony Stark’s upgraded Audi A8 - hangar bay on compound property
PRIMARY SYSTEMS ACTIVE: Visual and auditory surveillance
IDENTIFIED INDIVIDUALS: Anthony Edward Stark (10 aliases archived) and Peter Benjamin Parker (11 aliases archived)
“Alright, FRIDAY, engage dual braking systems,” Tony says as he slips into the modified passenger seat. A second brake pedal extends smoothly from a concealed floor panel at his command.
Peter climbs into the driver’s seat, hands hovering over the steering wheel for half a second before settling onto it cautiously. His pupils dilate slightly. There is a 72% probability he declares this the coolest thing he has ever experienced.
“Mr. Stark, this is so cool! You’re really gonna let me drive?”
His smile stretches wide, all teeth and disbelief. Peter Parker is not entirely predictable. But after nearly 5 months of accelerated exposure, FRIDAY’s behavioral model is increasingly precise.
“Seatbelt, Peter,” she reminds him gently through the speakers.
Tony added that protocol last weekend.
The adjustment followed a long drive home from the compound, during which Peter recounted how Clint Barton had apparently promised his son driving lessons at 15. Peter’s heart rate had risen steadily throughout the conversation with excitement. Tony noticed. He offered to teach him before the ride even ended.
In the week since, Tony’s hyper-fixation project has been this vehicle. Dual braking system. Reinforced side panels. Impact-sensitive override protocols. And a seatbelt reminder triggered precisely 30 seconds after weight detection in the driver’s seat.
“Oh, come on, I haven’t even been sitting here a minute,” Peter protests.
“You’ve been sitting there for thirty seconds,” Tony counters easily. “And the first thing you do is buckle up. Safety first.”
Peter rolls his eyes but clicks the belt into place, muttering, “Whatever you say, Dora the Explorer.”
Tony turns slowly. “What did you just call me?”
“Nothing,” Peter says quickly, failing to suppress his grin.
“Mhm.”
Tony gestures toward the pedals. “Alright. Foot on the gas. It won’t move — you’re in park — but listen to the engine. Hands at ten and two. You know what that means, right?”
Peter’s face scrunches. “You think I don’t understand an analog clock?”
Tony throws his hands up. “I was just asking!”
Peter places his hands correctly and presses the accelerator gently. The engine responds with a low, controlled rumble. A breathy, excited laugh escapes him.
“Okay,” Tony says, nodding. “Now shift your foot to the left pedal. That’s the brake.”
Externally, the car remains still. Internally, system inputs confirm compliance.
Tony gestures toward the gear shift. “Automatic transmission. Probably what you’ll drive first. I’ll teach you stick later.”
“I like to call it the PRNDL,” Peter says, tracing the letters with his finger.
“The what?”
“You’ve never seen The Suite Life of Zack and Cody?” Peter barrels forward before Tony can respond. “There’s an episode where London Tipton calls it the ‘prindle’ and Mr. Moseby freaks out.”
“Who is Mr. Moseby?”
“He’s the hotel manager. Kind of her dad figure because her real dad isn’t around to teach her stuff dads usually teach.”
Peter’s voice trails off at the end.
FRIDAY locates the referenced clip and flags it for Tony’s later viewing.
“Huh,” Tony says after a beat. “Sounds like a solid guy.”
Then, back to business. “Park, reverse, neutral, drive. Don’t worry about low gear yet.”
Tony continues walking him through each function — mirrors, blind spots, pressure sensitivity, gradual acceleration. Peter absorbs it all with startling speed.
When Tony suggests a slow loop around the empty hangar bay, FRIDAY calculates a 25% hesitation rate in Peter’s posture. It does not stop him.
“Brake first,” Tony reminds him. “Shift into drive. Ease off. Then a little gas.”
Peter follows instructions precisely — until the gas. Pressure applied exceeds recommended “little” by 63%.
The vehicle lurches forward. Tony’s hand snaps to the overhead handle as his right foot activates the secondary brake before the car can surge into the exterior wall of the hangar bay. Distance to impact at interruption: 4.2 feet.
“Sorry sorry sorry sorry da— Mr. Stark!” Peter blurts, knuckles blanching against the steering wheel.
“A little gas,” Tony exhales, one hand pressed dramatically over his chest. “Not the entire tank.”
Both heart rates spike sharply. Cabin temperature rises 1.6 degrees within seconds. FRIDAY compensates, lowering internal climate control by two degrees.
“You know I have heart problems,” Tony mutters. “You’re trying to send me to an early grave.”
His breathing evens. He turns his head. “You okay?”
Peter inhales deeply, pausing to assess before answering — a learned behavior. He nods once. “I’m okay. Web-swinging is just… easier.”
Tony blinks at him. “Said no one ever.”
He shakes his head, but the corner of his mouth lifts.
“Though somehow I’m more comfortable with you throwing yourself between skyscrapers than driving a car.”
Peter’s laugh begins unsteady, then stabilizes.
The lesson resumes.
The screen fades to black.
“You taught him how to drive?” Clint squawks, vocal pitch elevating 14% above his usual baseline.
“Teaching,” Tony corrects automatically. “Present tense. Ongoing. And no thanks to you, considering you’re the reason we were in that car in the first place.”
He narrows his eyes in Clint’s direction — expression indexed under performative annoyance.
“Me?” Clint presses a hand to his chest in mock offense.
“Yes, you. Birdbrain.”
Clint scoffs.
“Cooper told me you were teaching him at fifteen. I just—” Peter checks his watch with theatrical precision. “— last time I checked, I’m fifteen.”
Tony points at him. “See?”
May folds her hands in her lap, shoulders relaxing as she shakes her head with a soft laugh. “For the record, I’m not sure my blood pressure could’ve handled trying to teach him myself.”
“I offered,” Happy mutters from the couch, tone registering as Mildly Personally Attacked. “You all forget that part. I offered.”
“You did,” Tony replies evenly. “I just didn’t want it. I’ve accepted my shortened lifespan due to Peter Parker–induced gray hairs.”
Peter grimaces. “Uhh — you had those before you met me.”
Laughter ripples through the room, amplitude moderate.
Tony recoils and nudges Peter away with exaggerated betrayal. “Traitor.”
Peter immediately closes the distance again. Baseline proximity is restored.
FRIDAY intervenes.
“There is one more clip, boss,” she says, inserting the statement during a conversational lull of 1.3 seconds.
Ambient noise decreases. The final title card illuminates the screen.
“What’s Been Your Favorite Thing About Tony This Past Year?”
DATE: Sunday May 29th, 2016
TIME: 0957
LOCATION: Master Bedroom
IDENTIFIED INDIVIDUALS: Virginia Potts (5 aliases archived)
Pepper stands at her dresser when FRIDAY poses the question.
The footage is framed from the chest upward — intimate but not intrusive. Camera angle adjusted to avoid mirror glare while preserving natural light exposure. A blouse rests over her forearm. Her hair is half styled.
“Well,” she begins, tone thoughtful rather than rehearsed, “my favorite thing about Tony this year in particular?”
She pauses.
The smile that follows is immediate and unguarded. Facial tension decreases across the jaw and brow — no performative indicators detected.
“There are a lot, honestly. But they all kind of lead back to the same thing.” Her hand smooths down the fabric absently, gaze drifting toward her reflection.
“He’s present now. His mind isn’t locked away in the lab or stuck three disasters ahead while his body runs on autopilot.” She exhales softly. “He doesn’t even realize how much more he’s enjoying life lately. And a lot of that is because of Peter.”
Her posture softens incrementally.
“So getting to watch that transformation up close? That’s been my favorite.”
DATE: Sunday May 29th, 2016
TIME: 1812
LOCATION: Penthouse Elevator
IDENTIFIED INDIVIDUALS: Maybelle Elizabeth Parker (3 aliases archived), Harold Joseph Hogan (7 aliases archived)
When the elevator doors close behind May and Happy, FRIDAY delays ascent by 6.2 seconds — sufficient time to pose the question and allow for response without drawing attention to the pause.
May answers first. Surprise registers briefly when her smile surfaces more quickly than anticipated.
“I’ve only really known Tony for about a year,” she says carefully. “Maybe even a little less when you really count the days.” She inhales, posture straightening as she considers her phrasing. “But over the last several months… I think my favorite thing about him has been how deeply he cares.”
Her head tilts slightly — sincerity markers present, no hesitation patterns detected.
“Now, he had to learn how to show that in a way that made sense for me — I’m not exactly impressed by material things.” A small, knowing smile. “But he cares. Far more than most people would expect based on the version of him the world likes to paint.”
Happy shifts beside her, weight redistributing against the elevator wall.
“While I don’t disagree,” he says, arms folding loosely across his chest, “I think you might be a little biased. You’re the most important person to the person most important to him.”
May does not contest the claim. She shrugs lightly, smile sustained.
Happy exhales through his nose, gaze settling on the closed doors.
“My favorite thing?” he repeats. “It’s the way he’s stepped up.”
Vocal edge softens.
“I’ve worked for him a long time. We’ve seen some - dark stretches. After everything with the Avengers… I figured he’d disappear into the lab again.” He shakes his head faintly. “But he didn’t. He stepped up. For Pepper. For Peter. For the company. For himself.”
The corner of his mouth lifts — subtle, but present.
“It suits him.”
Elevator ascent resumes.
DATE: Sunday May 29th, 2016
TIME: 1832
LOCATION: Penthouse Elevator
IDENTIFIED INDIVIDUALS: James Rupert Rhodes (10 aliases archived), Booker Jackson (2 aliases archived)
The elevator doors slide shut again — this time holding Rhodey and Professor Booker. Rhodey had collected him from the train station earlier that morning, and the two have been in quiet conversation since.
FRIDAY poses the same question.
Booker is the first to respond, glancing briefly upward at the speaker system.
“Sometimes it’s unsettling how thoughtful Tony programs his AI,” he says dryly. “But since she’s asking…”
He folds his hands in front of him, expression shifting from amusement to something more contemplative.
“I’ve seen more of Tony in the last few months than I have in the last several years. In person, I mean. The tabloids never seem to lose track of him,” he adds with visible irritation. “But actually seeing him? Showing up?”
He nods slightly.
“That’s been my favorite thing this year. He’s present. For the people he cares about. For the places that matter.”
Rhodey hums in agreement.
“There’s a lot he wants to show Peter,” he adds. “Can’t do that from inside the suit. Or buried in the lab.”
Booker lets out a quiet laugh. “No. He absolutely cannot.”
Rhodey shifts his weight, gaze steady now.
“My favorite thing?” he repeats. “I’m finally seeing the Tony I met in college again.”
He glances toward Booker. “And no — not the brilliant disaster with too much money and access.”
Booker snorts quietly.
“I mean the guy who became my best friend,” Rhodey continues. “The one who’d cross the planet for the people he calls his. Who’d stay up all night helping me with a paper even though I was older. Who’d spend an obscene amount of money on something ridiculous just to make someone smile.”
A small pause.
“That version of Tony? I haven’t seen him in a long time. Not like this. Not since… Afghanistan.”
DATE: Sunday May 29th, 2016
TIME: 1230
LOCATION: Avengers Common Lounge
IDENTIFIED INDIVIDUALS: Natasha Romanoff (4 aliases archived), Clinton Francis Barton (5 aliases archived)
Natasha and Clint sit side by side on the couch when FRIDAY asks the question.
Natasha has a book turned face-down in her lap. Clint holds a gaming controller loosely in his hands, though the television is paused.
Silence lingers for several seconds before Natasha answers.
“His resilience,” she says simply. “After everything he’s survived — everything he’s lost — he still gets up. He still tries. Even when people make him feel like he shouldn’t.”
A slight lift of her shoulder. “That’s admirable.”
Clint shifts beside her, controller resting now against his knee.
“If you’d asked me that a few months ago,” he admits, “I probably would’ve said something sarcastic.”
He scratches lightly at the back of his neck.
“But now?” He exhales. “Watching him step into being a parent without running from it.”
Natasha’s gaze flickers sideways at him.
“After I met Peter, he straight-up asked me how to be a good dad,” Clint continues. “I’m not exactly the gold standard, but he asked. And he listened.”
A small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “From what I can tell, he’s been doing the work.”
DATE: Sunday May 29th, 2016
TIME: 1342
LOCATION: Peter Parker‘s bedroom in the penthouse
IDENTIFIED INDIVIDUALS: Peter Benjamin Parker (13 archived aliases)
Peter is hanging upside down from the ceiling when FRIDAY asks the question. He drops without warning, landing on his bed in a loose sprawl, grinning like he’s just been caught doing something mildly illegal.
“Am I supposed to pick only one thing?” he asks immediately. “Because honestly, FRIDAY… that’s kind of impossible.”
He flops onto his back, staring at the ceiling.
“I have a lot of favorite things about Mr. Stark.”
The camera adjusts slightly to center his face. He taps a finger against his chin, thinking hard enough that his brows knit together.
“Are you gonna show him this?” he asks suddenly, glancing directly into one of the lenses. “Because if you’re gonna show him this then my answer changes a little bit. I don’t wanna be, like… embarrassed.”
There’s a beat.
“I might show him portions of it,” FRIDAY answers evenly. “You should not be afraid to share your favorite things about Mr. Stark. He would want to hear them.”
Peter hums, considering that. Then he props himself up on his elbows and squares himself toward the camera like he’s about to give a presentation.
“Okay. Fine.”
He clears his throat.
“I think my favorite thing about Mr. Stark is that he’s always there for me.”
The words emerge quickly at first, accelerated speech pattern detected, before slowing into something more deliberate.
“Even when I mess up. Except for that one time — you know — whole building falling thing,” he gestures vaguely. “But that’s not the point — and was technically my own fault.”
He shifts on the bed, posture straightening as humor gives way to sincerity.
“Ever since then, he’s just… there. It doesn’t matter if it’s something small. Like helping me study for a test. Or signing a permission slip. Or making sure my favorite bodega got approved as a tower vendor.”
A small smile forms — unguarded.
“It doesn’t matter if it’s big or tiny. I can count on him.”
He pauses. Lower lip drawn briefly between his teeth — hesitation marker.
“He reminds me of…” His voice softens as he searches. “He reminds me a little bit of what I barely remember about my dad.”
No deflection. No humor. Vocal steadiness maintained.
“But better,” he adds quickly. “Because he’s actually here. And I was so little when my dad died that I don’t remember much.”
Another pause.
“And maybe a little like Uncle Ben too. But not the same. Just… different.” He shrugs once. “In a good way.”
Embarrassment registers a fraction of a second later — shoulders rounding inward.
“Anyway. That’s not what you asked.”
He falls back onto the mattress with theatrical force.
“There are too many favorite things to pick just one, so hopefully that’s good enough.”
Then recognition flashes across his face.
He sits upright again.
“If you show him this,” he says, pointing directly toward the camera lens, “make sure you tell him I said happy birthday, Mr. Stark.”
The final segment fades to black.
Ambient light levels in the living room restore gradually. No one speaks. Silence duration exceeds conversational norms by 2.4 seconds.
Tony’s eyes appear glassy. Blink rate increases as he forces moisture back. He clears his throat once — an attempt at composure regulation.
Clint breaks first.
“So is it just me,” he says, glancing at the blank screen, “or did the AI just upstage all of us in the birthday-gift department?”
Collective laughter follows — decibel levels moderate, tension indicators across the room decrease in tandem. The laughter functions as release.
“Nope,” Rhodey mutters. “She’s too smart.”
“See? That’s exactly what I was talking about,” Booker adds, gesturing vaguely upward toward the ceiling.
“And you wonder why I don’t want one of those installed in my apartment,” May laughs.
“Wait, that’s an option?!” Peter sits up straighter, attention shifting rapidly between Tony and May.
“Kid,” Happy sighs, “did that last video not establish that Tony would do basically anything for you?”
“Not anything,” Peter counters immediately. “I asked him to get a dog because our apartment doesn’t allow pets and he said no to that.”
“And thank goodness for that,” Pepper replies.
“We’ve already got one golden retriever around here,” Tony adds, reaching over to ruffle Peter’s hair.
Peter ducks, swatting at the intrusion.
“Dad, stop—”
The word exits before correction protocols engage.
Audio levels drop instantly. The room stills.
Peter freezes.
The color floods his face so quickly it rivals the ripest tomatoes in Queens.
Booker clears his throat first, merciful as ever. “You know what… it’s getting late. Rhodes, think you could show me where I’m staying?”
“Absolutely,” Rhodey says, pushing to his feet and squeezing Tony’s shoulder. “Happy birthday, man.”
The rest follow in practiced ease — quick hugs, quick goodbyes, an almost comically efficient exit. It takes 4 minutes and 53 seconds for the elevator doors to close on the last of them — Pepper included, insisting she check that the guest floor is perfect for Booker’s stay.
FRIDAY could confirm that it already is.
But the intent is obvious.
Space.
Peter has been quiet since the word slipped. Quieter than his established baseline. He sits rigidly on the couch, hands clasped together, jaw set.
The elevator hum fades. Ambient noise levels decrease to near-zero. Tony lowers himself back onto the couch beside him.
“Hey, kid,” he says, bumping Peter’s shoulder gently with his own. “Penny for your thoughts?”
Peter avoids eye contact. “You can afford way more than a penny.”
Mr. Stark exhales a brief laugh — short-lived when it fails to elicit a reciprocal response.
“Alright,” he adjusts, voice lowering. “Fifty bucks for your thoughts.”
Peter inhales slowly. “I ruined your birthday party.”
Mr. Stark’s brows draw inward. “Ruined it?”
“Everyone left,” Peter says, staring at his hands. “Because I made it awkward. I didn’t mean to.”
Mr. Stark’s expression recalibrates — confusion, then immediate softening.
“Peter… they left because they know what that meant to me.” He leans forward slightly, attempting to reestablish eye contact. “And because they figured I wasn’t gonna want to have this conversation with an audience.”
Peter’s gaze lifts, hesitant. “The conversation where you tell me not to call you that anymore?”
FRIDAY briefly evaluates the utility of replaying the montage. Decision: unnecessary.
Tony stares at him, genuine bewilderment present. “Did we watch the same video FRIDAY just spent the last thirty minutes emotionally manipulating me with?”
Peter nods once.
“Look at me, kiddo.”
Latency: 2.4 seconds. Peter finally complies.
“My dad…” Mr. Stark begins, then exhales. “Howard wasn’t exactly the gold standard. There was a lot of ignoring. Some yelling. Then more ignoring.” A faint shake of his head. “Not exactly the blueprint you’d frame on a wall.”
Peter remains still. Listening.
“I’ve spent most of my life trying not to be him,” Mr. Stark continues. “So if you… if you look at me and see something better than that? If you want to call me that?”
Swallow reflex visible.
“I’d be more than okay with it.”
Peter’s eyes fill before he can prevent it. Tear accumulation threshold surpassed. He wipes at them with visible frustration.
“Sorry,” he mutters. “I don’t know why I’m crying. This is good. I want this. I just — I didn’t know if you did.”
Mr. Stark’s smile this time is unfiltered.
“Kid,” he says softly, nudging him again, “that’s the best birthday present I’ve ever gotten. No offense, FRIDAY.”
“None taken, sir,” FRIDAY replies. “This was the statistically probable outcome when compiling your gift.”
Mr. Stark tilts his head upward. “Oh, so my AI’s been plotting against me?”
“Plotting for your benefit, boss.”
Peter releases a wet laugh. “This is why FRIDAY is my favorite.”
“While I am not capable of favoritism,” FRIDAY answers evenly, “you are currently ranked second in my priority hierarchy, Peter. Directly behind Mr. Stark.”
“Go ahead and move him to number one, FRIDAY,” Tony says. “That’s where he is on mine. Perks of being his dad and all.”
Peter’s laugh steadies. “You’re really gonna run with that?”
Mr. Stark shrugs, sliding his arm around Peter’s shoulders. Proximity restored.
“What else are dads for?”