Chapter Text
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Sprawled across his bed in the tower, feeling stuffed to the brim with pasta and garlic bread and still teetering a little too close to a linguine-induced food coma to risk swinging out on patrol for at least another hour, Peter idly spins a fidget toy between his fingers, watching as the Jarvis-projected hologram of his best friend adds another bullet point to the whiteboard behind Ned’s desk that bears the all-caps heading of ‘Super Awesome Spring Break Plans’.
“Okay, so that’s Monday through Thursday covered,” Ned says cheerfully, spinning back towards Peter and pointing the whiteboard marker at him, his hologram glitching for a split second as the vidcall’s connection wavers. “Fun ideas for Friday, go.”
“Uhh…” Peter racks his brain, trying to push past the sleepy mire of food-fog to grasp for any remaining tendrils of creativity.
Computation error. Intelligence levels depleted, belly too full.
“Sorry, dude, I got nothing,” he sighs, dropping the fidget spinner to knuckle tiredly at his eyes.
Ned puts his hand on his hips, an action so very reminiscent of Mrs Leeds that Peter can’t help the way his lips kick up at the corners. His best friend is ten kinds of cute sometimes.
“Bro,” Ned complains. “Why do I feel like you’re not taking this seriously?”
“Hey, no, I totally am,” Peter promises with a smile, rolling over to give Ned his full attention. “S’just, I kinda ate my body weight in carbs thirty minutes ago. The brain’s not really braining like it’s supposed to right now.”
Ned makes a noise of understanding. “Super secret team dinner?”
Peter sniffs a grin. “Not exactly ‘secret’, but definitely super. And like I keep saying, man, you gotta come over to the tower next time Sam’s cooking. His food’s, like, professional chef level good. Olive Garden could never.”
“For real?”
“Dude, it was a religious experience. Like, I fully transcended.”
Sam had volunteered to host this week’s ‘Friday Night Dinner and Bonding Bonanza’ (it’s a working title, Peter’s open to feedback before he orders the team personalised t-shirts); and yeah, spectacular as always, no notes.
Also, portion sizes.
He isn’t sure if it’s Sam’s military background or the fact that he comes from such a large extended family, but whenever he cooks for the team, Sam always makes enough to feed at least thirty people. Peter had refilled his plate no less than six times before his stomach had finally reached peak capacity, but there had still been enough leftovers to fill multiple plastic containers (now stored away in the massive refrigerator down on the team’s shared recreational floor for ease of access).
Which means Peter’s post-patrol second dinner is already taken care of.
Booyah.
He physically couldn’t eat another bite at the moment without combusting, but give him a couple more hours and a quick swing around New York to burn off some energy, and his enhanced metabolism will handle the rest.
No matter how much Peter eats at dinner, he’s always hungry by midnight.
“I seriously can’t believe The Falcon cooks for you on the regular,” Ned admires, his smile wistful. “What even is your life, Peter? Also, thank you. For allowing me to be a part of your journey and-”
“Oh hey, speaking of journeys,” Peter suddenly interjects, his memory jogged. “Are you still interested in taking that mini roadtrip to Six Flags we’ve been talking about since, like, forever? Because we could do that on Friday. Aunt May won’t get back from her cruise until the following Monday, but Bucky said he’d be happy to play designated driver if we don’t mind the company.”
Ned gives a loud whoop of delight, throwing his arms in the arm and almost knocking his Lego succulent plant off the shelf above his desk in his enthusiasm.
“Hell yeah! Dude, that’s so cool of him, he’s officially my new favourite Avenger.” Ned clutches a hand to his chest and bows his head briefly. “Sorry, Dr Banner.” Then he brightens anew. “Hey, do you think he’ll want to go on any of the rides with us? Because that’d be so awesome, bro. I bet they didn’t have anything like the Ride of Steel back in the 40s-”
A sudden, deafening crash of thunder interrupts the teenager mid-sentence, and with a sharp inhale, Peter sits bolt-upright in bed, enhanced senses immediately at full-alert.
A beat later, there’s another booming clap of thunder, significantly louder than the first one, and the lights in his bedroom flicker briefly.
Across the room, projected-hologram-Ned audibly gasps, hands clasped together in excited disbelief.
“Peter!” the other teenager whisper-shouts. “Please tell me that’s who I think it is?”
Fuck yeah, it is.
Peter grins as he feels the tiny hairs on his arms stand on end.
It had taken him a little while to learn how to differentiate between a good Peter Tingle and a bad one, but he’s spent enough time around Thor and Dr Strange these past couple of years to familiarise himself with the way his Spidey-instincts automatically respond to the presence of magic. And the distinct lack of that awful sense-of-impending-doom makes it easy to know when it’s the friendly kind of magic, too.
“Thor’s back!” Peter whoops, flinging himself out of bed, pasta-induced fatigue already long forgotten as he rushes for the door, waving a flailing hand towards Ned’s hologram. “I gotta run, debrief later?”
“Dude, ohmygod, yes!” Ned agrees enthusiastically. “You’re literally the best, I love you so much. Call me back, tell me everything.”
“I will, I promise,” Peter laughs, and waits only long enough for Ned’s hologram to wink out of existence as Jarvis cuts the call before sprinting out of his bedroom and down the corridor.
Another clap of thunder booms outside the tower, now directly overhead, and there’s a faint sort of buzzing in the air that Peter can practically feel in his bones, heralding the imminent arrival of his favourite Asgardian hero.
When he’d first experienced the sensation (over two years ago now, not long after Tony and Steve and Bucky had first discovered Spider-Man’s true identity (or more importantly, his date of birth) and sort-of-semi-demi-kidnapped him in the middle of a particularly disastrous evening patrol, taking him back to the tower for urgent medical treatment and a serious discussion about the importance of safety and having a support network to watch your back and not getting shot in the arm by car thieves), it had briefly sent his heightened senses into haywire, his body utterly convinced that there was danger looming on the horizon.
Now, it sends a giddy sort of electric zing down his spine that makes him laugh a little breathlessly as he runs barrelling down the corridor towards the set of security-sealed doors that lead to the tower’s stairwell (because the elevator takes ages and Peter is genetically predisposed to be impatient, it’s a Parker flaw).
He’s almost made it to the exit when a figure suddenly emerges from the study doorway to the right. Despite his enhanced reflexes, Peter isn’t quite able to stop his accelerated forward momentum in time to avoid careening straight into them.
“Whoa, hey,” Bucky reacts, a warm huff of laughter, hands automatically coming up to catch hold of Peter to keep him from falling on his ass when he rebounds off the supersoldier’s chest. “Where’s the fire?”
“Sorry!” Peter apologises quickly, shifting from foot to foot, still brimming with energy. “Thor’s back! We gotta go, c’mon-”
“Pump your brakes there, half-pint.” Bucky’s grin is one of fond amusement. “You might wanna put some pants on first.”
Peter glances down quickly, staring in dismay at his bare legs and Hulk themed boxers (Tony seems to delight in filling up his closet with Avengers merch as a joke, but really the joke’s on Tony because Peter totally would’ve bought a bunch of team merch for himself if his mentor hadn’t gotten there first), belatedly recalling his long-since-abandoned jeans and their current place of honour on his bedroom floor where he’d sluggishly kicked them off right after dinner, feeling too full to tolerate wearing anything even remotely snug around his waist.
Cursing under his breath, Peter ducks out from underneath Bucky’s gentle grip on his shoulders, darting away back up the corridor towards his bedroom.
Bucky’s laughing voice follows him, “Don’t let Stevie hear you usin’ that word, pal.”
“What word?” drawls the man himself, appearing in the doorway at the far end of the hallway, broad frame silhouetted against the warm yellow-toned light of the living room beyond.
“I said fudge!” Peter lies like a lying liar, and disappears quickly into his room to dive for his discarded jeans, wrestling his legs into them in record time.
He’s still fumbling to fasten the fly as he hops back out into the corridor, shooting what he hopes is a convincingly innocent smile towards Steve where the man’s now leaning against the living room doorway with his hip and shoulder braced against the frame, arms crossed and eyebrow raised as he observes Peter with poorly hidden amusement.
“Fudge, huh?” the captain voices doubtfully.
Peter abruptly turns and makes a beeline for the stairwell once more, poking out his tongue out at a still-grinning Bucky as he passes by (because he’s mature like that), slapping a hand against the biometric security panel and pushing the emergency door open even as he calls back to Steve over his shoulder.
“I plead the fifth, Your Honour!”
…
It’s entirely too poetic that AC/DC’s Thunderstruck is blasting through the workshop speakers when the alert system activates.
At the persistent beeping, Tony glances up from the gear he’d been tinkering with (a new harness adjustment for Sam’s uniform that’ll allow him to carry additional tech and compact medical equipment without it interfering with his maneuverability in the air), quirking a grin at the hammer icon that has appeared as a glowing projection above his workstation.
“Kill the music, Jay,” he calls, and leans back in his workchair, flexing his jaw so that his ears pop in the ringing silence left behind in the absence of rock music.
He reaches up with a groan to stretch out the muscles that have stiffened up during the hour he’s spent hunched over Sam’s suit.
Damn, he’s getting old.
“I take it we’ve got an incoming Asgardian?”
“Indeed, Sir,” Jarvis confirms, and the projection above him changes to show the newest data from the tower’s medium-range electromagnetic scanner. “Current readings indicate a significant spike in static electricity directly above the tower. The initial distance of approximately three-hundred metres is rapidly closing. I’ve taken the liberty of sending the elevator to your location, despite Mr Barton attempting to call ‘dibs’.”
“And that’s why you’re my favourite child.” Tony claps his hands together and rolls to his feet as the elevator doors slide open just beyond the transparent bomb-proof enclosure that surrounds his workshop.
“Keep an eye on things down here for me, won’t you?” he requests, tapping on his Starkwatch to double check Peter’s whereabouts (still in the tower, good, maybe with Thor around as a distraction the kid might actually skip Spidey-patrol altogether and take a night off for once). “We don’t need anyone ‘helping’ with Sam’s gear while I’m gone. Ah-bah-bah! No! That includes you, Dum-E.”
He points a chiding finger at the bot that has been surreptitiously inching itself closer to his abandoned worktable. Dum-E gives a quiet whir of disappointment, waving around the welding tool still clutched in their claw.
“Absolotely not,” Tony forbids, even as he strides for the door. “Bedtime protocol initiated; everyone back to your charging stations. Jarvis has full permission to magnetise your wheels to the floor if anyone tries to play mechanic. You good to babysit, Jay?”
“Happy to oblige, Sir.”
There’s a distant, heavy-sounding boom that seems to reverberate through the entire tower, and the lights in the workshop flicker for the briefest span of a second before stabilising.
“Mr Odinson has arrived,” Jarvis informs him helpfully.
“Yup,” Tony agrees, stepping into the elevator, which whirs to life as soon as the doors close and begins to ascend rapidly towards the penthouse.
He’s both amused and completely unsurprised when he ends up making several pit-stops along the way.
Clint and Natasha bustle inside first (silently bickering with each other in ASL the entire time, barely sparing a glance in his direction), followed by Sam and Bruce two floors later (at least Tony gets an amiable “hey, man” from Sam and a tired smile from his fellow sleep-deprived genius), and then the elevator doors are opening again in the entrance hall to his own apartment, where his two favourite supersoldiers are waiting, looking as handsome and kissable as ever.
In tandem, Bucky and Steve move to the back of the elevator to slot themselves in neatly on either side of Tony.
It should be a tight fit, but it’s not.
They’re all so damn lucky that Tony had the forethought to commission such an ego-strokingly large elevator when he’d first sketched out the blueprints for the tower all those years ago. He’d been single back then, and utterly convinced he’d remain that way indefinitely, but a giant-ass elevator for his giant-ass new Stark Tower had seemed stylistically appropriate at the time.
“Hey there, handsome,” Bucky drawls charmingly, sliding a casual arm around his waist (the vibranium one, because he knows it’s Tony’s favourite), his taller frame practically draped over the mechanic. “What’s a cute fella like you doing in a dive like this?”
With a sigh, Clint pointedly begins removing his hearing aids. Natasha and Bruce share a lingering glance of vaguely amused longsuffering.
“Oh my god, let me out,” Sam groans, and makes a half-hearted pretence at trying to pry the elevator doors open again as it continues its ascent towards the penthouse. “Jarvis, open up, it’s a code red-”
“Belay that order,” Tony interjects, leaning back into Bucky’s solid frame unapologetically. “Can’t keep our Asgardian guest waiting; we gotta roll out the welcoming mat, break open a casket of mead, all that jazz.” He glances sideways at Steve (who’s trying and failing not to grin at Sam’s dramatics). “Peter’s not coming?”
In his ear, Bucky huffs a quiet laugh, and Steve rolls his eyes fondly.
“He took the stairs; didn’t want to wait for the elevator.”
“Right,” Tony acknowledges, shaking his head a little. As they’ve all come to learn (often in the wake of patrol-related injuries and the kid’s general inability to sit still for more than fifteen minutes unless someone is there to physically enforce bedrest under the threat of calling Aunt May), patience is not a Parker virtue. “Colour me surprised.”
“The kid’s favourite Avenger is back,” Sam remarks, now leaning against the wall of the elevator, arms crossed as he smirks at Tony. “Prepare to be bumped down to second place. The rest of us might as well be chopped liver when Thor’s around.”
And although Tony has a very convincing counterargument lined up for that little nugget of bullshit (Peter doesn’t have favourites, but if he did it’d probably be Clint because they’re both chaos gremlins), the doors are already sliding open to the penthouse floor, so he mercifully keeps it to himself.
As the team exit the elevator, they’re greeted to the sight of Thor standing in the centre of the open-plan lounge in full Asgardian regalia, releasing Peter from what had clearly been one of his trademark sweeping hugs, setting the teenager back down on his feet again before resting one of his bear-paw sized hands on top of the kid’s brown curls.
“I vow you’ve grown even taller since last I saw you!” Thor remarks, jovial and booming, utterly incapable (as always) of mastering the art of an ‘inside voice’. “What magic is this?”
“That’d be the magic of puberty, Goldilocks,” Tony supplies, and Thor half-pivots to face the rest of the team, beaming like the absolute epitome of golden-retriever positivity that he is.
“Greetings, friends! I have returned!”
“Yeah, bud, we noticed,” Bucky acknowledges wryly, but he’s the first to step forward and allow himself to be swept up into Thor’s arms in a crushing hug, wheezing a little even as he pats the Asgardian’s back. “Ooft. Missed you too, big guy.”
With his usual enthusiasm, Thor makes a full circuit of the assembled group (nobody is spared his boisterous affections, not even Bruce, although Thor is notably more gentle when he sets the scientist back down again which is such obvious favouritism, Tony’s absolutely going to bitch about it to Steve later), before returning once more to Peter’s side and slinging one of his trunk-sized arms around the teen’s shoulders.
“Come, little one, tell me of your recent adventures,” Thor says cheerfully, towing (half-carrying) Peter towards the seating area. “When last we spoke, you were hard at work preparing for a great tournament of academic strength. How did you fare on the field of battle?”
“Oh, you mean Academic Decathlon?” Peter translates, matching Thor’s energy effortlessly, practically twitching in place as he sits cross-legged on the couch beside the Asgardian, body turned fully towards him as he gestures enthusiastically. “We did great! Our team made it through to Nationals, so we get to fly out to California next semester for the finals.”
“A mighty victory!” Thor cheers, and Peter’s almost glowing in delight as the prince yanks him into another embrace. “We must drink to your success. An ale! An ale for this fine young warrior!”
“Over my dead body,” Tony declines immediately.
Smiling, Steve moves over to the wet bar to retrieve a few of the drinks that Sam and Bruce have already begun setting out along the marble countertop for the team.
“Peter’s still a little too young for alcohol, pal,” he reminds the Agardian.
Thor sighs, giving Peter a commiserating pat on the shoulder.
“Alas for the watchful eyes of such attentive guardians,” the prince sympathises, although he’s smiling as he raises a hand in surrender. “But I concede to your wisdom in this matter; the laws of Midgard must be upheld.”
Peter’s energy remains undampened, and he accepts the soda that Steve passes to him with a cheery thank-you, barely taking his eyes off Thor as the warrior launches into one of his usual battle-story segues about the time when he and his brother had (accidentally, by all accounts) broken several rather obscure laws on the distant planet of Chivorri where it was apparently illegal to both drink in public and wear the colour red on certain days of the week.
Coming from literally anyone else, Tony would’ve been the first to call bullshit on the whole thing.
But given that Thor and his thankfully-no-longer-a-megalomaniac brother had teamed up with a ragtag group of crimefighting space aliens (and a couple of very-superpowered humans) less than six months ago to eliminate a crazed lunatic Titan intent on destroying half the known universe using a bunch of magic stones, this story is relatively tame by comparison.
The rest of the team settle in comfortably on the surrounding couches to listen, Natasha and Clint on either side of Bruce (the three of them passing a bottle of something Russian back and forth), Bucky half-sprawled across Sam in the loveseat as he idly steals the lemon wedge from the other man’s drink, and Tony tucked up comfortably beneath Steve’s arm on the couch directly opposite Peter and Thor, leaning into the supersoldier’s solid frame as they both sip at their sodas.
“But in resisting arrest so vehemently, I believe the two of us may have inadvertently sparked rebellion among the local populace,” Thor finally ruminates, sipping from his beer. “Upon our return to the planet earlier this year, we discovered the people of Chivorri had erected several statues in our honour, having successfully overthrown the previous government.”
“Whoa,” Peter breathes, with that look of wide-eyed awe he usually reserves for new Lego sets or particularly interesting science experiments. “That’s so cool.”
Tony rolls his eyes fondly.
He isn’t jealous of the kid’s obvious hero-worship. He gets it; Thor’s an alien and a demigod and wields a magic hammer and travels through space in the blink of an eye and fights with lightning. The guy’s pretty damn epic. Tony had admittedly been a little bit starstruck himself the first few times they’d fought together…at least until he’d had to painstakingly explain to the Asgardian for the umpteenth time that he couldn’t just zap Midgardian technology with a burst of electricity to make appliances work faster (a toaster, his favourite coffee machine and several microwaves had been the unfortunate victims of Thor’s enthusiasm for snacks before Tony had put his foot down and barred him from using kitchen equipment unsupervised). The novelty of a lightning-wielding demigod had worn off pretty quickly after that.
Besides, Tony himself had been the primary focus of Peter’s unbridled awe for the first three solid months of their acquaintance, before the teen eventually started spending more time at the tower on weekends and after school and had begun to feel comfortable around the team - enough to actually be his true teenage self, unbridled sass and all.
Tony wouldn’t exchange that for anything. He adores his sarcastic little shit of a kid, and he never wants to go back to being “Mr Stark, sir” ever again.
But he does feel a bittersweet twinge at seeing just how young Peter looks right now, when he’s all wide-eyed and excited like this.
God, he’s growing up so fast.
Because Thor’s not wrong; Peter’s definitely gotten taller since the Asgardian’s last visit. The teenager has been going through yet another growth spurt recently, shooting up by a couple of inches within a matter of months and filling out a little (thanks in part to Bruce and Dr Cho’s extensive research into Peter’s enhanced and continuously fluctuating metabolism, highlighting the need for a very carefully tailored high-fat, high-carb diet). He’s finally starting to look like an actual seventeen year old and not that scrawny fresh-out-of-middle-school babyfaced kid Tony had first encountered swinging around New York in actual pyjamas with a gunshot wound to the bicep and clunky webshooters made out of a hodgepodge of recycled dumpster tech (and fuck, Tony still has nightmares about the ‘what ifs’ of that whole messy situation).
He’s not a newly graduated middle-schooler anymore. Another year and Peter will be getting ready to sit his final high school exams, prepping for college, taking his first strides towards adulthood.
Crazy how time flies.
“Not that we’re unhappy to see you, big guy,” Clint interjects as Thor looks ready to begin regaling them with battle-story number three, “but are you here just to hang, or was there something specific you wanted to tell us?”
“Ah, I’d quite forgotten!” Thor sits up a little straighter and turns his megawatt grin on Tony and Steve. “My friends, with your permission, I would like Peter to accompany me back to Asgard tomorrow morning for the opening ceremony of our Festival of Youth.”
“Ohmygod yes!” Peter cheers, rocking up so fast that he almost tumbles right off the couch in his haste to twist his body in his guardians’ direction. “I can go, right?”
Tony sits in silence for a moment, his lips parted in shock.
The invitation has come so far out of left field that he doesn’t even know how to fully process the request at first.
His initial gut instinct is to say no, but Tony swallows it back, takes a breath, forces his sputtering brain back into gear to think the proposal through properly, like a reasonable parent. .
Which he does. Thoroughly.
Naturally, his second instinct is also to say no, but now with several very good reasons: Asgard is an alien planet, and Peter is a child under his care, and space is dangerous and what if something happens to the kid and he gets hurt, Tony can’t even monitor his vitals because they won’t be in the same solar system-
“We’ll need to speak with May first,” Steve answers before Tony can find the lung capacity to voice any of the worst-case-scenario visions tumbling around in his head. How is the man so unflappably calm about their kid going into space? “But a festival certainly sounds like a fun way to start your Spring Break.”
Tony can’t quite silence the tiny strangled noise of panic that escapes his throat, but Steve’s the only one who seems to hear it because Peter’s already talking a mile a minute, practically vibrating with excitement and asking Thor a barrage of eager questions.
Steve’s arm tightens a little around Tony’s shoulders, comforting and secure.
“He’s seventeen, Thor,” Tony tries to protest at last, when Peter pauses his rapid-fire questions to suck in another breath, and manages to keep his voice calm through willpower alone. “Look, buddy, it’s nothing personal, but you literally just tried to give my underage kid an ale less than ten minutes ago. And I’ve seen what parties on Asgard are like; I barely survived the last one, and I wasn’t even drinking. He isn’t ready for that.”
Thor raises a hand calmingly. “Peace, my friend. The Festival of Youth is not a place for drunken revelry - it’s a celebration of innocence and the blessings of childhood, where we encourage the younger generation to set aside the burdens of their studies and apprenticeships in order to embrace the freedom of their youth. The kingdom comes together as one to provide entertainment and merrymaking. Games, music, storytelling, sweetmeats, feats of magic, acrobatic performances…not entirely dissimilar to what you Midgardians might call a ‘carnival’, perhaps. I’m confident that young Peter will enjoy himself.”
The teenager in question has grown progressively more delighted at the Asgardian’s description of the upcoming festivities, and he twists back around again to send his mentor another pleading look.
“I swear I’ll do extra chores for a month and I’ll never miss curfew again.”
Bucky snorts, sending the teen an amused look. “Don’t go making promises you can’t keep, bub.”
Peter opens his mouth to defend himself, then seems to think better of it, and settles for pulling a face at Bucky instead. The supersoldier grins back at him fondly.
“Think of it as an educational experience, Tony,” Bruce reasons, the absolute traitor. “A cultural exchange, if you like.”
“Just so!” Thor agrees jovially, and glances back towards Tony. “Truly, Stark, you needn’t look so worried. Jane and I will act as Peter’s guardians for the duration of tomorrow’s festivities, he’ll be perfectly safe.” He ruffles Peter’s hair with one giant hand, smiling at him warmly. “And my mother is most eager to make your acquaintance, little warrior; I’ve spoken of you often and fondly.”
Tony’s internal freak-out quietens significantly at the knowledge that Dr Foster will be present and acting as one of Peter’s chaperones. He has a lot of respect for Jane as a fellow scientist, but more importantly, she’s got one hell of a sensible head on her shoulders (and has never been afraid to tell Thor directly to his face when he’s being reckless and/or stupid). She’s also a human and significantly more breakable than a genetically enhanced teenager, so if the festival has been deemed safe enough for Jane to attend, it’ll more than likely be safe enough for Peter too.
“Please, Tony?” the teenager wheedles, all Bambi-eyed and hopeful looking, and damn it, he’s gone and pulled out the big guns, that’s cheating.
Tony feels himself sag, the tension leaving his frame as he heavens a sigh, rubbing at his forehead where he can feel the telltale beginnings of a stress-induced tension headache.
“Alright,” he relents, and holds up a hand quickly before Peter can cheer prematurely. “But only if May’s one-hundred percent onboard with the plan, and on the airtight condition that you promise to stick with Jane the entire time. No wandering off, no petting the local wildlife, no eating anything that Jane hasn’t pre-approved.”
“I promise!” Peter hurries to reassure, jumping up from the couch and bounding across the room to launch himself at both Steve and Tony in an ecstatic double-hug. “Thankyouthankyouthankyouloveyou-”
The teen sucks in a sudden breath and rockets back to his feet once again.
“Ohmygod, I gotta call Ned!”
And he’s off like a shot, already calling out to Jarvis to establish a holo-connection with Ned in his bedroom as he dives into the waiting elevator and disappears from sight.
In his wake, Tony takes a bracing sip of his soda, grimacing a little at the lack of burn and wishing (certainly not for the first time in the past two-plus years he’s spent coparenting his danger-magnet of a teenage ward) that it was something stronger.
Sobriety sucks sometimes.
“Hey,” Steve murmurs, arm tightening around him again as his lips brush a chaste kiss against Tony’s temple. “Everything’ll work out, hon, you’ll see. The rest of us have visited Asgard often enough, we both know it’s arguably safer than the average New York suburb. And Thor’s gonna be right there with him, he’ll keep the kid safe.”
Tony nods, takes another swig of his very-sadly-nonalcoholic beverage, and tries his best to believe it.
…
Fuck.
Tony absolutely should’ve just gone with that initial gut instinct.
“Thor,” he manages, faintly strangled, finally breaking the shocked silence that had descended upon the penthouse suite in the wake of the Asgardian’s unexpectedly early return. “What the hell?”
Looking uncharacteristically chagrined, Thor carefully adjusts his hold on the scrawny maybe-six-year-old child currently dozing against his shoulder.
“Peter is unharmed,” Thor tries to placate them, albeit notably hushed (a feat never before achieved by the usually loud-spoken prince) to keep from waking his slumbering charge. “Merely weary from the strain of such a sudden transformation. But fear not, his present…state of being is but temporary. He’ll return to his original size once the magic wanes.”
“Shit,” Bucky articulates hoarsely, looking about as rattled as Tony’s ever seen him, flesh hand gripping at his hair as he stares at the definitely-not-a-teenager-anymore kid currently bundled up in Thor’s cape and drooling against the fabric of the Asgardian’s ceremonial tunic.
“No,” Tony finds himself saying, voice increasing in both strength and volume, because denial is about the only thing he can manage right now. “Absolutely not. You get your ass back to Asgard right this minute and fix him.”
The seriously-cannot-be-Peter child in Thor’s arms twitches a little at the sound of raised voices. His high-pitched whine of sleepy protest spears Tony through the heart like a knife.
Because fuck, he knows that sound.
Grumpy not-a-morning-person teenager Peter Parker does exactly the same thing whenever Tony comes to drag him out of bed for early morning training every weekend.
“Tony,” Steve breathes helplessly, and the captain’s already crossing over to Thor as if drawn there by instinct, reaching for the scrawny child that’s somehow (impossibly) Peter, their Peter.
The child lifts his head from Thor’s shoulder at the touch of Steve’s hand to his back, tiny features so crushingly familiar that it takes Tony’s breath away.
He’s seen photos of Peter as a little kid, dressed up for his kindergarten graduation in a miniature cap and gown, beaming adorably up at the camera with his too-big-for-his-tiny-head ears and wild mop of brown curls and cute button nose.
Fuck. That’s absolutely, undeniably their kid.
Albeit a frighteningly small and fragile-looking Shrinky-Dinked version of the gangly teen Tony had waved goodbye to this morning.
All at once, Peter’s sleepy-pouty expression transforms into a wide smile, and he unclenches his fingers from the fabric of Thor’s tunic to all but launch himself into Steve’s arms.
“Look, Cap!” tiny-Peter chirps excitedly, holding his hands up in front of the captain’s face to show him. “This crazy old woman pushed me into a magic pond and now I’m shrunk!”
Natasha swears vehemently in Russian.
Bruce takes several deep, measured breaths.
Sam’s wearing his “shit just hit the fan but I’m a trained medical professional and I know how to properly compartmentalise” resting face of carefully sculpted neutrality.
Clint is openly gaping.
And Tony’s knees finally decide to give out.
He sits down hard on the edge of the coffee table, his next breath coming out as a shaky wheeze. Bucky settles a hand on his shoulder, gripping it firmly in comfort or solidarity (or perhaps to keep his own knees from buckling, because the supersoldier seriously hasn’t looked this pale since Tony first pulled him out of that cryopod all those years ago).
“Thor,” Clint finally voices, low and incredulous. “Respectfully, man…what the actual fuck?”
“Language,” Steve chides automatically, his voice faint as he continues to stare at his exuberant armful of teeny-tiny-Peter.
Thor raises both hands placatingly, but his guilty expression inspires absolutely zero confidence.
“Allow me to explain.”
Tony doesn’t need an explanation, he needs an immediate solution, but he has a sinking feeling Thor won’t be able to provide him with one.
Fucking magic.
Oh god, May’s going to eviscerate him.