Archive of Our Own

If anyone, Tony Stark had seen battlefields before.

New York. Sokovia. Titan.

It was not a new concept for him, cities burning or even worlds falling apart.

Somehow, this still felt different. The ruins of what remained of the Avengers Compound stretched around him in pieces. Concrete and steel, which just a few hours ago was their home, had been ripped apart and littered the field, causing smoking craters. Dust hung thick in the air, so thick even that the sky itself seemed to be at war. Sunlight barely broke through the grey.

The battleground was a mess, with Sakaaran soldiers, Outriders, Chitauri, and the Black Order slowly taking the upper hand against the allied forces. For every soldier that fell, more replaced them. Tony watched their numbers swallow the battlefield.

Fighting against them were the people who had answered the call, every person willing to stand between Thanos and everything they loved.

Tony still hadn’t really understood how Steve made it happen. He had spent years studying impossible things. Wormholes, quantum mechanics, alien technology. But still, he hadn’t seen anything quite like the hundreds of orange glowing portals that opened up behind the tall-standing Captain with a simple touch to his ear.

Just—open door, save everyone. Looked very heroic. Very Steve.

Tony had had barely any time to think about who exactly came back through the portals before the battle had exploded and he was thrown into fighting several Culls.

Despite the layers upon layers of impact-dampening padding in his carefully manufactured suit, being thrown around in forty-something pounds of metal still felt like shit, believe it or not. So sue him if his pounding head needed more than one second to get up after being smashed to the ground by one of those damned Outriders.

He had half a mind to turn around and blast the creature coming at him multiple times—shit, why was it not dead already?!—it kept stalking closer, Tony readying his repulsors to distance himself when suddenly a few quick, familiar “thwips!” sent the Outrider flying across the field and right under the boot of a giant Scott Lang.

The sound echoed in Tony’s ears, a tiny mechanical click that he himself had designed. A familiar hiss, the unmistakable sound of webbing shooting through the air. A sound he hadn’t heard in five long years.

His mind came to an abrupt halt. It couldn’t be, could it?

That sound belonged to a kid who was gone. A kid who slowly faded away in his very own arms. A kid that had lived with the team for several months before the Blip. A kid who, before his last mission, left a note on the large TV in the common room saying, “Don’t watch the next episode without me! I’m serious!”

It had been a bittersweet note to find, returning after the battle followed by the Blip. Considering no one at that time had known it would be his last mission.

Nobody had touched the common room remote ever since.

Another thwip, closer this time.

Tony turned around faster than he ever had before, head spinning for a second.

The battle around them faded into the background, unimportant for the time being.

There he was. Standing up from his crouched landing position that Natasha had helped him improve.

In suit and all, although his mask had already retracted—and, oh God. Tony thought he might cry, seeing the kid’s face. Pale, and bruised but very much not fading and alive. Tony quickly retracted his own mask in turn, drinking in the sight of his kid without a barrier in between, and quickly hoisted himself up from where he was thrown to the ground.

The red and black suit was still battered from the fight the kid had practically died in five years ago, his movements still young and so familiar.

Peter was moving closer now—Peter!!—and Tony closed his hanging mouth, trying to formulate any kind of sentence that would justify all that he had wanted to say in those five years of absence. Before he could, though, Peter was speaking, because shit, of course he was. He hadn’t realised just how much he missed the kid’s voice or his never-ending rambling.

“Mr. Stark!” the kid began, excitement clear on his face, unaware of the amount of emotion washing through the older brunette. “Holy cow, you would not believe what’s been going on. Do you remember when we were in space?”

“And I got all dusty?”—God, kid. Really? Dusty?—

“Imust’vepassedoutbecauseIwokeupandyouweren’tthere,” the kid, Peter, rambled on unbelievably fast. And Tony couldn’t seem to mind, didn’t want him to stop talking, ever. Cause God, how he had missed that voice.

Peter took a deep breath and continued, “but Dr. Strange was, and he was like, it’s been five years, c’mon, they need us. And then he started doing that yellow sparkly thing he does—” He began wildly moving his hands in big circles, talking with his body and voice at the same time, and there were creatures flying around them and rubble being thrown around and people—or maybe aliens—screaming around them and—

The only thing Tony was looking at was the kid’s rising and falling chest. Breathing. Living.

Tony took the last remaining step between them, eyes scanning his kid’s face for the last time—Peter shutting up and smiling sadly at his mentor’s face—and Tony grabbed him with a desperate force, arms wrapping around him like he was afraid the kid would disappear again if he loosened his grip. Neither of them spoke. They just held on, squeezing out five years of “I missed you.”

“Hi, dad,” Peter choked out after a while, voice cracking and holding Tony just as hard as Tony was clutching the younger genius. Tony moved one of his hands from Peter’s shoulders to the back of his curly hair and pressed his nose into the boy’s hair. Under the scent of smoke and dirt was the warm scent of his kid. His eyes filled with tears, he huffed out a laugh and pressed his cheek to the top of Peter’s head. “Shit,” a small breathy laugh from both of the brunettes, “hey, kid.”

They pulled apart at that, the older brunette keeping the younger at arm’s length and just taking in Peter’s frame for a moment. He looked like he hadn’t aged a day, his unruly hair was curled up, and even though Peter was there in the moment with him, he could see the kid’s spider-sense going crazy at all the commotion around th—shit!

“Kid, behind you!” he yelled as Peter immediately ducked low. A repulsor blast screamed over his head, catching an Outrider mid-leap and throwing it backwards into the rubble. Before the creature even landed, Peter’s web-shooters thwipped two sharp webs. Webbing latched onto another Outrider’s leg, yanking it off balance just long enough for Tony to drive a boot straight through its chest.

“I see you’re still doing the almost-getting-half-eaten thing, huh, kid?” Tony called as he sealed his helmet around his head again, looking at Peter doing the same.

“Missed you too, Mr. Stark.” Peter grinned sheepishly.

Another wave of creatures hit them. There was no time for catch-up conversations or hugs anymore. That could wait till after this, Tony had to convince himself. Tony fired upward, scattering a cluster of Chitauri skiffs while Peter vaulted over him, using the edge of Tony’s shoulder as a springboard without so much as a warning. When they first met and Peter started fighting along with the team, Tony would’ve probably sarcastically barked at him for it.

Now he simply adjusted his stance before Peter’s weight even landed, instinctively readying his momentum for Peter to maximise his jump, like they had done a hundred times before five years ago. Some habits apparently outlived death. Huh.

An Outrider lunged from Tony’s left side. It was always that goddamned left side. He never saw it.

A web caught the creature around the neck and attached the opposite end to a flying-by Leviathan, the Outrider helplessly dangling along with the flying war beast.

“Got you! How ever did you even survive those five years without me being there to save you, Mr. Stark?” Peter said with a grin in his tone, bantering away as he always seemed to do best mid-fight.

Almost didn’t, kid, Tony thought, but he’d keep that particular fact to himself.

Tony turned around to retort to that comment and looked just in time to see Peter latching his web onto another flying-by war creature and using the momentum to swing back into battle.

He smiled inwardly, proud of his kid being so eager to help, and blasted back into battle himself.

⊹ ࣪ ˖ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ⊹ ࣪ ˖

The ongoing battle didn’t leave much room for Peter to think.

Which was probably a good thing, he quipped to himself as he swung over the battling crowd and scanned for anyone in need of help.

Because every time he did let himself think, everything became too much.

He was alive, at least he hoped he was. He wasn’t so sure about anything anymore. It all kind of felt like a fever dream.

But Tony was alive.

And now it was their job to keep everyone present alive.

Another shock wave rattled the area, and Peter landed hard, rolled across the dirt, and immediately fired a web at the nearest alien-looking thing he saw before it could get back up.

“Okay…” he muttered to himself as he pulled himself upright, curiously inspecting the weird—animal? Alien? Beast?—creature and leaping back in a jump as it snapped at him. “Definitely missed the part where the world became even more terrifying.”

Right then, a familiar shield flew past him.

Peter froze. He knew that shield. Who wouldn’t know that shield?

Steve.

Peter turned around just in time to see Steve catch it, spin, and knock three Chitauri soldiers off their feet. Except it wasn’t just Steve. An arrow lodged into the shoulder of one of the three soldiers, and then another two arrows for the remaining two knocked-down creatures. The arrows exploded right as a certain red-headed assassin used Steve’s shield to jump into the air and stab another soldier right in the head mid-jump. The next second, Natasha was beside Steve, both moving with the same sharp precision Peter remembered.

He spotted Clint above them, firing arrows from a piece of broken machinery like he hadn’t aged a day.

Except, of course, they had.

They all had. Five years.

Peter’s chest tightened. They had lived five years without him. Would things change back at home? Would they still see him the same way they had before he disappeared five ye—

A group of Outriders suddenly surrounded them, pushing closer by the second. Peter reacted before he even thought. A web shot from his wrist, catching one creature around the throat and slamming it into another.

His spider-sense screamed at him, and he automatically followed his body’s orders as he shot out a web at Clint’s ankle, yanking the archer out of the way and to the ground just as a blast hit right where his head would’ve been.

“Whoa!” he heard the older man yell as he caught his fall in a neat roll, safely on the ground now.

“Okay, whoever that was, I owe you a big one,” the archer shouted as he looked toward his fellow assassin and Captain, only to be met by confused looks.

Peter swung down between them.

“Good news, Mr. Barton. I can add it to the other twelve you already owe me,” Peter sheepishly remarked, trying to break the ice. Yup. Yeah. Yes. Hello, guys! I’ve been gone for five years, but hi, I’m back!

The three of them stopped.

A look of realization hit the three of them all at the same time. Steve lowered his shield, Natasha went completely still, and Clint stared.

“…Peter?” Steve was the first to speak up.

Peter slowly lifted the mask. “Hey, guys.”

The battlefield continued around them, but just like with Mr. Stark, it seemed like the universe granted them their moment just for a minute.

Peter had imagined coming back, had imagined seeing them again. But he hadn’t imagined the way they looked at him, like they had been mourning the person in front of them.

Clint was the first one to move, stepping closer. A broken, disbelieving laugh left the man.

“You’re kidding me,” the archer said, grabbing Peter by the shoulders and ruffling his hair. “Look at you, you still look like a baby.”

The older man teased, but a look of genuine relief passed across his features.

Before Peter could retort, Clint was pushed aside by Natasha, who gently grabbed the youngster’s face with both of her hands.

The assassin scanned his face quietly, smiling tenderly at the other spider before pressing her lips to the kid’s forehead and holding them there for a few seconds.

“We missed you,” she whispered against his head before pulling away and making space for Steve.

Peter half expected a firm hand on his shoulder and perhaps a “Welcome back, Queens.” Something very Steve Rogers.

Instead, strong arms wrapped around him in a tight embrace, smashing the younger’s face into an armour-clad shoulder.

Peter froze before hugging him back just as tightly.

“You have no idea how good it is to see you, Pete.” A broken voice came from above him.

“Good to be back, Cap.” Peter smiled as they pulled apart, already longing for more. But it could wait. Tonight, they’d probably have the time in the world to catch up and perhaps cuddle up with the whole team.

But not now, not now when they were amidst battle.

Peter pulled his mask back down as the battlefield came crashing back in. And somehow it all felt natural, as they complemented each other’s attacks and strengthened one another’s defences. Because fighting alongside them wasn’t unfamiliar; it was like coming back home.

⊹ ࣪ ˖ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ⊹ ࣪ ˖

The longer the fight went on, the more Peter started realising that there was something wrong. They weren’t winning. It felt like for every soldier Thanos’s army lost, two more replaced its head, very hydra-like actually.

At first, it had felt like they were winning, too many impossible great things happening at once for it not to feel like victory. Everyone was back, the team together, and they had a new chance. But the inhumane creatures just didn’t tire or back down. They didn’t feel exhaustion, desperation.

Things humans very much did feel. A cold thought slowly crept up then. They weren’t fighting to defeat Thanos anymore; they were fighting to survive him. A sudden realisation came to him. They would need the gauntlet. Just before Dr. Strange had pulled him to the battlefield, the doctor had mentioned the sacred gauntlet. “An artifact that could wipe out an entire army in just one snap of the fingers,” he had said.

Then suddenly, as if reading Peter’s mind, Thanos’s voice beamed over the battlefield.

“Get me the gauntlet.”

Everything shifted then. Sure, both parties were still very much fighting each other, but heads shot up and spun around, searching for the powerful device. The entire battlefield seemed to understand the same thing at once. The stones, the gauntlet. They weren’t a weapon anymore; it was the entire war. Whoever controlled it decided everything.

The battle went on, Peter slamming multiple Chitauri soldiers to the ground before webbing himself to a bypassing Leviathan and flying behind the flying beast. He tried his best to focus on the gauntlet being passed around the battlefield from above.

It got passed from a really cool-looking lady on a—was that an unicorn?—to a glowing woman who got knocked down by a Leviathan, and then to Pepper in her suit. She passed it down to Thor. Every person carrying it became a target. Every person protecting it became a shield.

“No, no, no—” Peter mumbled to himself as he saw everyone collectively targeting the person in possession of the gauntlet. The Chitauri weren’t even going for the kill anymore; they were just trying to get the gauntlet back to their master.

As Thor got overthrown by dozens of Outriders all at once, Peter jumped down from his web and landed hard, catching himself in a practiced roll. He sprinted towards the pile of aliens and managed to web a few up and away from where he last saw Thor. Underneath, Thor quickly held out the gauntlet for Peter to grab, and holy shit! Peter grabbed the gauntlet. Oh shit, he actually had the gauntlet now.

“Run, man of spiders!”

And so Peter did.

He closed his eyes and let himself get fully controlled by his sixth sense as he squeezed the gauntlet to his body for dear life. It came naturally, the dodging, ducking, and swinging as he let himself get moved around by his spider-sense.

Eventually, though, his sixth sense went off so suddenly his body hadn’t had the time to dodge. He thought he heard Tony’s worried voice shouting his name somewhere in the distance.

Pain exploded through his stomach as he flew backward. For a second, Peter didn’t understand what was happening. He opened his eyes just in time to see the large armour-clad shoe of Thanos slamming into his face, and he once again flew backward. The world around him blurred as he crashed into a pile of debris, pain hot in his face and especially his nose.

His fingers loosened on impact, the gauntlet slipping before his brain could catch up.

“N-no—” the word barely left him before the gauntlet hit the ground and slid several meters away from where the young hero was trying to get back on his feet.

And then suddenly everything stopped.

Well, not literally. Not the fighting, never the fighting. But several faces tracked the gauntlet sliding a few meters across the battlefield.

Peter forced himself to breathe, one hand pressed against his ribs as he looked up at his surroundings. The battlefield had almost formed around them without anyone noticing, a broken circle carved out of destruction. Smoke drifted through the air, pieces of buildings surrounded them. That which remained of the new compound stretched behind them.

And standing among it were the people who carried the weight of the universe on their shoulders. Steve stood a few meters away, shield raised despite exhaustion written on his face. Tony was there too, armour damaged and helmet zeroed in on Peter’s hurt frame. Standing across from him was Dr. Strange, holding his ground with a defensive pose. Watching, calculating, waiting.

At the centre of it all stood Thanos. Eyeing the gauntlet just like everyone else seemed to be doing now. Peter pushed himself upright, every muscle screaming in protest. His eyes, too, found the gauntlet. Found Thanos. Found the space between the two.

Steve was the first one to jump back into action as he tightened his grip on the shield and launched forward. The others followed immediately.

The shield slammed against his arm with enough force to shake the ground. For a second, it looked like it worked, but then—then Thanos started pushing right back. Steve’s boots dragged through the dirt. Peter saw the impossible strength behind the movement.

Mr. Stark came in then, unleashing everything his suit had left. Repulsor blasts, missiles, every weapon that still answered him. Thanos staggered half a step back and downright smirked.

“Peter!” Tony shouted, and Peter reacted instantly.

He shot out webs, wrapping around Thanos’s arms and pinning the other end to surrounding debris, hoping to tie him down. Strange’s magic followed, glowing restraints twisting around Thanos like chains.

Tony went to grab the gauntlet as Steve continually slammed his shield on Thanos’s face, and for a second it looked like they were in their favour.

But then Thanos ripped himself out of the webs, sending Peter flying a few meters across the ground and hitting the back of his head against some debris. There was a hot, steady flow of something gooey oozing down the back of his head and—oh crap, that was definitely blood.

When Peter looked up from his position on the ground, he could see Thanos prying the gauntlet out of both Tony and Steve’s grip, who were using all their power to pull the glove back towards them.

Everything seemed to slow down then.

Peter spotted Dr. Strange on the opposite side of where Tony and Steve were still trying to pull the gauntlet back.

The doctor was on one knee, on his way up from being knocked down when Peter met his eye. He thought he saw somewhat of an apology written in them. Why? He did not know.

Then Strange looked past him.

Toward Tony, who by now had retracted his nanotech helmet to use as footing instead. Peter followed his gaze to see that Tony was looking back at the doctor already.

There was some kind of understanding between the two of them, and Tony’s face paled. Peter turned to look at Strange.

Then he saw it.

One finger.

Raised.

Peter frowned. What was that supposed to mean?

His gaze flickered back to Tony, waiting for confusion or frustration. Instead, Tony just looked at the finger with a glassy look in his eyes. Mr. Stark’s gaze drifted from the finger to Peter. He gave him a small, sad smile before his eyes once again found the gauntlet, and he continued pulling together with Steve.

But something in his mentor’s face had changed. There wasn’t any fear or hesitation left. Just certainty.

Peter’s stomach dropped.

No.

Tony had looked like that once before in a fight when he was prepared to sacrifice himself to save New York.

“No…” Peter whispered to himself, choked up.

Tony looked away from the gauntlet.

Towards Strange one last time, then towards Thanos.

And then Peter understood, not the finger, but Tony.

Tony knew whatever the finger meant, and whatever it meant… Mr. Stark was going to do it.

No.

There had to be another way.

There was always another way.

If there’s one thing Tony taught him, it was that there was always another way.

“Think.”

“Rebuild.”

“Adapt.”

You didn’t just—he couldn’t just decide to die.

“Mr. Stark!” Peter shouted. Tony didn’t reply. Because with one final effort, Mr. Stark and the Captain threw themselves in union against Thanos.

Peter was moving before his head caught up. His legs protested, and his vision swayed as blood steadily oozed from the wound at the back of his head. None of it mattered.

He crashed into Thanos from the side, shoulder slamming into the titan with everything he had left.

Steve grunted, forcing the gauntlet backward another inch. Tony immediately seized the opening, both hands locking around the metal device containing all their futures.

“Pull!” Steve shouted.

Peter planted his feet next to Tony and grabbed ahold of the gauntlet, too.

Every muscle burned and screamed in protest.

But the gauntlet shifted.

Then another inch.

Thanos snarled and pulled back with all his strength.

Peter felt himself sliding through the dirt but stood his ground.

“Come… on—!”

The nanometal scraped against Thanos’s fingers.

Almost.

“Pull!” Tony shouted, and with one violent wrench from the three of them combined, the gauntlet tore free. Momentum sent everyone tumbling and sent the gauntlet flying after them. Peter’s vision blacked out for a second as he fell.

When he came to, sluggishly taking in his surroundings, he saw that Tony was the one to catch the gauntlet and was just looking at it for a moment.

Peter’s heart dropped.

No.

Tony’s eyes lifted, but not towards the battlefield.

Towards the stones. Towards his retracting armour on his right hand.

To whatever decision he had already made.

‘There’s always another way,’ Mr. Stark had said when Peter had refused to continue his impossible prototype.

The younger brunette stumbled up from where he’d been knocked away. Every muscle burned and protested, his vision swimming and his ribs aching. But it didn’t matter.

‘There’s always another way,’ his mentor had said when Peter needed guidance in training with the team.

Peter breathed in and locked his eyes on his mentor’s shaking frame.

‘There’s always another way,’ Tony had said when he’d found out about Peter’s suicidal tendencies after May’s passing.

There’s always another way.

If Tony Stark had spent years teaching Peter there was always another way, then Peter refused to let this be the day his mentor stopped believing his own words.

So Peter found another one.

Tony wasn’t looking for another way anymore.

So Peter would find one for him.

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He opened his eyes to look at his dad slowly inching the gauntlet closer to his hand.

Peter didn’t think.

Consequences damned.

He launched himself forward. One web snapped around Tony’s wrist and tugged it toward the younger brunette’s way, making the genius lose his balance just enough for him to be caught off guard by the sudden body slamming into his side.

Peter snatched the gauntlet and rolled his landing a few meters away from a recovering Tony and a shocked Steve.

For a heartbeat, Tony couldn’t process what just happened. His hands closed around… nothing? The weight in his hands vanished.

Panicking, Tony looked up and around, half expecting to see Thanos with that damned gauntlet.

He couldn’t think of a worse sight than that.

Until he could.

Peter watched as his dad’s eyes widened from where the older brunette was getting to his knees.

“I’m sorry, Tony,” Peter mumbled.

There.

This is the other way.

He slid on the gauntlet.

Pain exploded unlike anything his mind had ever been capable of imagining.

It erupted from his fingertips the instant the metal sealed around them, white-hot and absolute. As though every nerve ending had been set alight at once, each one screaming louder than the last. Heat tore through his hand, devouring skin, muscle, and bone alike, not as though they were burning, but as though they were being unmade.

The agony crawled relentlessly up his wrist.

His forearm.

His elbow.

His shoulder.

It spread through the entire right side of his body in violent waves, each one worse than the last, until it felt as though molten stars were coursing through his veins instead of blood.

His vision whited out.

The world vanished beneath the unbearable weight of it.

His legs buckled, and he dropped to his knees. Every instinct in his body begged him to tear the gauntlet off, to make it stop, to do anything to escape the pain.

But he wouldn’t. He wouldn’t give in. This was the best way.

He opened his eyes, which were filled with wet, hot tears, and locked them with Steve for a moment. Steve was gathering himself off the floor and looked ready to sprint towards Peter. A desperate expression was on his face as his own eyes found Peter’s.

Peter just gave a small smile.

The battlefield disappeared for a heartbeat.

He was sixteen again, sitting on the roof of the Avengers Compound with Captain America. The city glittered below them, summer air warm against his face. Steve had two paper cups of hot chocolate balanced beside him, despite insisting hot chocolate was not “acceptable in all seasons.”

“You know,” Steve said, “when I was your age, I thought courage meant never being afraid.”

“And?”

Steve shook his head. “Turns out courage usually starts with being terrified.”

Silence settled comfortably between them.

“So…” Peter said after a minute. “Do you ever get scared?”

Steve took longer to answer than Peter expected.

“Every time.”

Peter blinked. “Seriously?”

“Every mission.” Steve nodded. “The trick isn’t not being afraid. It’s deciding that someone else matters more than your fear.”

Peter looked down at his hands. “I don’t know if I’ll ever be like you.”

Steve let out a quiet chuckle.

“I hope not.”

Peter frowned.

“I hope you’re better.”

Steve reached over, ruffled Peter’s already messy hair despite Peter’s loud, indignant “Hey!”

Everything seemed to be moving in slow motion as Peter snapped back to reality.

“P-Peter, no!” Natasha’s voice sounded.

Huh.

He thought he’d never hear her stutter.

His eyes left Steve as they found Natasha having just entered their kind-of circle, and his vision blacked out for a moment, but he thought he could make out Clint next to the redhead. He smiled.

The rain had been deafening against the Compound windows, and Peter, shivering from a rough patrol, had been curled on the couch.

Without a word, Natasha had draped her favorite heavy wool blanket over his shoulders, tucking it tight around his neck. On his other side, Clint had set a steaming mug of hot chocolate in his hands, slouched down beside him, and pressed his shoulder firmly against Peter’s.

“Breathe, kid,” Clint had murmured, his voice low and grounding over the thunder. “We got you. You’re home.”

Natasha had sat on the armrest, her hand resting gently on top of Peter’s head, her thumb softly rubbing circles against his temple until his shivering stopped.

Breathe, Peter reminded himself, forcing his lungs to draw in a ragged, painful gulp of air through the battlefield smoke. The cold was trying to drag him under, but he clung to the memory—to the phantom feeling of Nat’s warm hand in his hair and Clint’s steady weight beside him—using it as an anchor to keep his eyes open just a little longer.

Tears were slowly trickling down his face against his will as he tried his best to smile at the duo.

His eyes then found Tony’s, who was trying his hardest to get his armour to work enough to get to Peter in time.

In the midst of it all, Tony’s watery eyes found Peter’s teary ones.

It was his third night at the Tower after the funeral.

Peter had been sitting on the floor of the dark lab, trapped in a silent panic attack, clutching an old sweater of May’s. He hadn’t heard Tony walk in, but suddenly the sharp cold of the floor vanished as Tony sat right down in the dust next to him.

Without a word, Tony had pulled Peter into his chest. He didn’t offer fake promises or empty platitudes. He just wrapped his arms around the boy, let Peter sob into his shoulder, and kept a firm, steady hand cupping the back of Peter’s head, grounding him against the storm in his mind.

“I’m right here, Underoos,” Tony had whispered, his own voice thick with emotion, pressing a quiet kiss into Peter’s messy curls. “I’m not going anywhere. You’re my kid now, alright? I’ve got you. It’s okay, Pete.”

It’s okay, Pete.

He snapped back to reality as a particular hot flash of pain shot through his shoulder.

It’s okay, Pete.

He opened his squeezed-shut eyes and found Tony’s again.

His chin trembled.

Just once.

Then he swallowed it back down and tried for a smile.

It’s okay, Pete.

“It’s okay,” Peter echoed the comforting words Tony whispered to him many years ago.

It wasn’t.

Tony knew it wasn’t.

Peter felt his vision blacken as his breaths came too fast.

He just wanted it to be over now.

The Nanotech Gauntlet screamed with power, the raw, cosmic fury of six Infinity Stones surging up Peter’s arm. Black and purple veins pulsed wildly beneath his suit, tearing through skin and flesh, but Peter forced his knees to stay planted in the dirt. He forced his chin up. He tried to lock his jaw, tried to look like the heroes he’d spent years looking up to. He tried to look brave.

Tony saw right through it.

He was on his knees twenty feet away, his own armour battered and failing, but his eyes were locked on Peter. He didn’t see Spider-Man. He didn’t see an Avenger.

He saw a kid—his kid—trembling so violently his teeth were chattering.

Peter’s left hand was balled into a white-knuckled fist at his side, his breath coming in ragged, shallow gasps through the cracked visor. A tiny, choked sound escaped Peter’s chest—a soft, involuntary whimper that was entirely, heartbreakingly young.

He was trying to stand tall as much as the position on his knees allowed him to, but his posture was caving inward, his shoulders hitched high, instinctively trying to make himself smaller, like a frightened child trying to hide from a storm.

He didn’t want to die.

Tony could read it in the way Peter’s eyes darted frantically around the shattered battlefield, looking at Clint, at Natasha, at Steve, at Tony.

“Peter, don’t you dare—” Tony’s voice cracked over the comms, raw and terrified. “Kid, look at me right now! Drop them. Peter, drop them!”

Peter swallowed hard, a tear cutting a clean track through the grime on his cheek. “T-Tony,” he whispered, his voice small, breaking on the last word.

It’s okay, Pete.

“I-it’s—o-okay.”

Peter raised his right hand.

The heat was blinding. The Stones flared in unison, a deafening hum rattling the earth beneath them. Peter’s fingers twitched, heavy as lead, bringing his thumb and middle finger closer to each other.

It’s okay, Pete.

“NO!”

Tony didn’t think; he just launched himself forward, thrusters sputtering brokenly and wildly as he scrambled across the dirt.

Beside him, Clint was already sprinting, his bow dropped in the mud, lunging with everything he had. Steve right beside him. Natasha was a blur of motion, screaming Peter’s name as she reached out, her fingers outstretched, just inches away from the boy’s suit.

The whole team was moving, a desperate, frantic surge of red, gold, and black rushing toward the center of the crater to rip the glove off his hand.

“Peter!”

It’s okay, Pete.

Peter looked at Tony one last time, gave him a small, trembling nod, with a sad smile. “I-it’s o-okay…” he repeats.

…

..

It’s okay, Pete.

..

…

Peter closes his eyes, breathes and snaps.

It’s okay, Pete. 

A blinding sphere of golden light exploded from the center of the battlefield, throwing of a shockwave that knocked everyone off their feet and swallowing the world in silence.

⊹ ࣪ ˖ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ⊹ ࣪

The world came back in pieces.

First was the ringing—a high, deafening whine that vibrated through the bone of Tony’s skull. Then came the smell of copper, ozone, and scorched earth.

Tony blinked, his vision swimming in a sea of gray and static. His head thudded against the inside of his cracked helmet, his HUD dead and flickering with error codes.

He’d been thrown backward like a ragdoll; the crater beneath him was still smoking. For a terrifying second, his brain couldn’t register where he was or what had happened.

Then he heard—or rather, not heard—the silence.

The roar of Thanos’s war engines, the metallic shrieks of the Outriders, the thunder of gunfire—all gone.

The sky above was clear, the dust slowly settling over an empty, quiet crater.

Thanos was gone.

His army was gone.

Tony forced himself up on one elbow, his chest heaving, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. He retracted his damaged helmet with a mechanical rasp, coughing up ash.

To his left, Clint lay unconscious still, and to his right, Nat was getting up on her knees.

A few meters away, through the haze, two figures were kneeling in the dirt.

Doctor Strange was on his knees, his golden magic completely dark, his hands hovering frantically over a small form lying motionless in the rubble. Beside him, Steve was on both knees, leaning down so low his forehead almost touched the ground.

Steve’s broad shoulders were shaking.

Tony’s breath hitched in his throat.

“No,” he rasped, the word barely a whisper. “No, no, no…”

He didn’t bother trying to repair the suit. With a desperate double-tap to his chest, Tony retracted the broken, sparking armour entirely, letting the metal slump off his body. He stumbled to his feet on trembling legs and sprinted.

He didn’t care about the sharp glass cutting through his boots or the agony in his cracked ribs. He covered the space between them in seconds, throwing himself onto the dirt right beside Steve, shoving his way into the circle.

Peter was lying on his back, small—god, had the kid always looked this small?—and fragile against the vast expanse of the ruined earth.

The right side of his body was devastatingly burned—the Nanotech suit melted away, leaving skin that was blackened, bleeding, and raw with cosmic radiation.

His arm was unnaturally still, the gauntlet fused to his charred knuckles, cold and spent.

His eyes were half-open, glazed and unfocused, fixed on the sky. He was breathing, but barely—each shallow, wet gasp rattling in his chest like dry leaves.

“Kid,” Tony choked out, tears forming in his eyes. His voice instantly cracking as he reached out, his hands hovering frantically over Peter, terrified that touching him would hurt him more.

“Peter. Hey, hey, look at me. Look at Tony.”

At the sound of Tony’s voice, Peter’s eyes fluttered weakly, slowly rolling toward him. A tiny, faint breath escaped the boy’s parted lips, carrying the quietest, broken “T’n-ny.”

“Peter, just stay awake, okay baby? Just stay awake.” Tony frantically looked towards Strange, who was hovering above them. Then back at the kid in front of him. “We’re going to fix you, okay, kid? Don’t worry. You’ll be just alright, hm?”

“FRIDAY, give me something,” Tony gasped in his earpiece, his trembling hands flying across Peter’s chest, trying desperately to find a pulse, a bleed to stop, anything.

“Scan him. Divert power from my arc reactor, run a localized field, put him in stasis—Jezus! do something!”

“Boss… his vital organs are failing,” FRIDAY’s glitching voice echoed softly through his earpiece, gentle and devastating. “Medical intervention is unviable. I am sorry.”

“Shut up! No! Re-route the nano-tech, seal the skin—” Tony dragged his scarred palms over his face, his vision completely blurred by hot, blinding tears.

He looked frantically at Stephen, grabbing the sorcerer by his dusty collar. “Strange! I’m begging you, you’ve got magic, you’ve got time tricks, use something! Save him! Fix him!”

Doctor Strange didn’t pull away. He just looked down at the boy, his stern eyes full of agonizing, heavy grief. Slowly, agonizingly, Strange just shook his head.

Once.

A quiet, heartbreaking no.

Tony’s breath hitched, a sob tearing right through his throat. “No, no, you don’t get to do that—”

A faint, feather-light pressure touched Tony’s hand where it rested on Peter’s chest.

Tony froze and looked down.

Peter’s uninjured left arm had moved, his small, dirt-caked fingers wrapping weakly around Tony’s thumb. He couldn’t squeeze hard—he barely had the strength to hold on—but he was holding him.

Peter’s chin twitched, his mouth opening and closing, his cracked lips trembling as he fought through the unbearable agony just to draw one last thread of air.

“…’s okay,” Peter breathed again, like he was put on repeat, the whisper so quiet Tony had to lean down until his ear was inches from Peter’s mouth. “Mr. St-Tony… it’s… ’s okay…”

The panic in Tony’s chest collapsed, replaced by a sudden, terrifying stillness.

He stopped digging through his armor. He stopped shouting at Strange. He stopped trying to fight the impossible.

The suit didn’t matter. The tech didn’t matter.

All that mattered was the scared kid lying in front of him who was spending his last, precious breaths trying to make Tony feel better. Goddamnit, kid.

Tony let out a long, shuddering exhale and wiped his eyes with his sleeve. He leaned in close, pulling Peter’s weak left hand up to cup it between both of his own, holding it tight against his chest.

“Yeah, bug,” Tony whispered, his voice turning impossibly soft, smoothed over with a gentle, loving warmth. He used his thumb to wipe a smudge of soot off Peter’s forehead, smoothing back his messy, burnt hair. “Yeah, Pete. You’re right. It’s okay. You’re okay. You did it. You saved everybody. I’m so proud of you, baby.”

Peter’s glazed eyes softened, the frantic terror fading from his gaze as Tony’s quiet voice wrapped around him, warm and safe.

Tony leaned over Peter’s small frame. “You can rest now, buddy,” Tony murmured, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to the top of Peter’s forehead, refusing to let go of his hand. “I’ve got you. I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere, baby. I’m right here with you.”

Peter’s heavy eyelids fluttered, his glaze-filmed eyes searching blindly through the haze until they locked onto Tony’s.

“Hey,” Tony choked out, a wet, breathless sound. He cupped Peter’s cheek with his palm, his thumb gently smoothing over the boy’s temple. “I love you, kid. I love you so much.”

He felt it was important to say.

The words hung in the quiet air.

Peter’s chest gave a small, shaky heave. Through the blinding agony, through the cold creeping up his spine, a tiny, genuine smile tugged at the corner of Peter’s lips. It was small and wobbly, but it was Peter. Tears leaked from the corners of his eyes, pooling into his dark hair, but the fear in him was completely gone.

His mouth opened and closed, trying to say the words back, but nothing was coming out.

“It’s okay, baby, I know. I know.” Tony smiled right back, tears streaming over his cheeks.

Peter’s fingers gave one last, microscopic twitch against Tony’s thumb. Then the tension in Peter’s small frame melted away.

His deep, dark eyes slowly lost their focus, settling into a quiet, painless stillness.

His head rolled slightly to the side, resting heavy against Tony’s chest, as his chest gave one final, peaceful exhale.

He was gone. No pain, no fear—just falling asleep in his father’s arms.

Tony didn’t scream like he thought he would. He just buried his face into the crook of Peter’s neck, his shoulders shaking violently as silent, wracking sobs tore through him, his arms wrapped tight around the boy’s small body, holding him close to his chest.

Behind them, the quiet shattered into soft, heavy weeping.

Clint dropped to his knees right into the dirt, burying his face in his calloused hands as his eyes went unseeing. Natasha sank down, her usual iron composure completely shattered. She reached out with a trembling hand, burying her face into Clint’s shoulder, her fingers gripping his vest as she let out a choked, heartbreaking sob.

Steve stood frozen for a second, tears overflowing and dripping down his jaw. Slowly, he moved forward, kneeling behind Tony. Without a word, Steve laid a heavy, grounded hand on Tony’s shaking shoulder, pulling Clint and Natasha close with his other arm.

They gathered around the crater in a tight, silent circle—holding onto each other, keeping watch over the boy who had saved them all.

Slowly, Tony felt a warm hand wrap around his from above, still firmly holding Peter’s hand. He opened his eyes, blinking away the tears, to see Steve’s hand firmly wrapped around his own on top of Peter’s. Soon, Natasha’s hand sneaked in to hold onto Tony’s hand, too. And eventually, Clint laid his warm hand on top of the three of them like a blanket.

⊹ ࣪ ˖ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ⊹

3 months later.

Tony stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows of the communal kitchen, wrapping both hands around a mug of dark roast that had long since gone cold. The sun was just starting to climb over the New York skyline, painting the kitchen in pale yellow light.

Three months had passed. The world was spinning again—Thanos was ash, the Blip was over, people were reuniting with their family and friends all over the world after five long years. Humanity was piecing itself back together.

And here, on the top floor of the Tower, they were trying to do the same.

Because they had to. Because if Peter were here, he’d be wringing his hands, looking at them with those massive, panicked brown eyes, begging them not to spend the rest of their lives moping in the dark. “Not for me,” the kid would say.

Tony had more trouble sleeping lately, constantly checking on Pepper and their daughter in her room next to theirs. Making sure they were—well… alive.

The impending doom he felt as night came and it was time to sleep was only explainable in his nightmares, where he’d have to see the kid snap again and again, Tony always a fragment too late to save the child.

Cause that was what he had been.

A child.

His thoughts were interrupted as Clint was the first one tumbling down to the common floor. Padded footsteps shuffled across the hardwood. He didn’t say good morning—they’d mostly dropped the meaningless pleasantries—but he bumped his shoulder against Tony’s as he reached for the coffee pot.

He looked better than he had a month ago. He was shaving again. He’d even spent yesterday afternoon in the training room with Natasha.

Natasha drifted in a moment later, wrapped in that same oversized, soft cardigan she’d stolen from Steve ages ago. She poured a glass of juice, sat on the kitchen island counter with her legs pulled up to her chest, and just leaned her head against Clint’s arm.

They were rebuilding, brick by brick. They all were.

Then, after an unknown amount of time, came the soft patter-patter of small feet against the tile.

“Daddy?”

Tony turned, setting his mug down, and felt his chest loosen just a fraction.

Morgan was standing in the doorway, wearing her oversized alpaca pajamas, rubbing her eyes with the back of her fist, her other hand holding a well-used Spider-Man plushie.

Pepper was right behind her, hair tied back in a messy bun, offering Tony a tired, immensely tender smile that held him together more than she knew.

“Hey, Maguna,” Tony murmured, crouching down as she padded over and threw her small arms around his neck. He lifted her up, holding her tight against his hip, breathing in the scent of her baby shampoo.

Morgan buried her face in his shoulder, then looked over at the empty stool by the end of the counter—the one where Peter had always sat, the one where Tony had always pointed when telling her bedtime stories about the legendary “Petey.”

“Daddy?” Morgan asked softly, her tiny voice carrying through the quiet kitchen. Clint looked down at his coffee. Nat’s hand stilled on her glass.

“Yeah, pep-pop?”

“Is Petey ever coming to the Tower?”

Tony’s throat tightened, a sharp, familiar ache flaring behind his ribs. Pepper stepped up beside him, resting a hand gently on his lower back, her fingers giving him a grounding squeeze.

“No, honey,” Tony whispered, keeping his voice as smooth and steady as he could, brushing a stray lock of dark hair from her forehead. “Remember what we talked about? Petey’s sleeping now.”

Morgan’s lower lip quivered, a tiny tear welling in the corner of her eye as she clutched the fabric of Tony’s shirt. “It’s not fair,” she mumbled, burying her head against his neck. “You and Mommy talked about him e-every day! You promised when he came back, he was gonna be my real big brother.”

The room went completely still. Natasha swallowed hard, looking away for a second as a fresh tear spilled over her lash line, before she gently stood up and walked towards the little girl. Natasha knew how bad it hurt Tony to talk about Peter, even if it came from his own daughter.

“He really, really wanted to hug you too, Morgs,” Nat said softly, her voice thick, but offering a warm, genuine smile. “He loved you so much, even before he got to meet you. He knew all about you.”

Or, well… kind of. Peter knew Pepper had been pregnant. He was actually the one to find out, having heard two heartbeats when he was alone with Pepper and freaking out. But it was true, the kid did already love the baby Pepper was carrying.

“Yeah,” Clint added, his mouth twitching into a quiet, fond smile as he looked at the four-year-old. “He would show you all his stupidly dangerous lab tricks. You were already his little sister, kiddo. He just didn’t get to tell you in person.”

Morgan sniffled, looking between Clint, Nat, and then back to Tony, her tiny hands framing Tony’s jaw.

“I will wait for him to wake up then, daddy. S-so he can tell me in person either way.”

Tony held her a little tighter, pressing his forehead against hers, letting a tear slip down his own nose without caring who saw it.

“Okay, baby,” Tony breathed, looking around the kitchen at Pepper, at Clint, at Nat, feeling the quiet, fierce love of the family Peter had given everything to protect. “Okay.”

⊹ ࣪ ˖ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ⊹

To make sure everyone understood why Peter wasn’t buried in a quiet Queens cemetery under a marble headstone, Doctor Strange had been very clear: the Stones leave a stain.

Even with the gauntlet spent, the raw, cosmic radiation of six Infinity Stones remained fused to Peter’s body. Burying him in ordinary soil wasn’t an option—the energy would decay anything around it.

So, Strange had opened a portal to an ancient, subterranean vault hidden deep beneath the Sanctum Sanctorum.

It was a quiet, sacred space—a private tomb built from dark, heavy stone, sealed off from the outside world. In the center sat a high-tech chamber designed by Tony and reinforced by Strange’s magic: a sleek, polished obsidian chest that ran at a perpetual, frost-covered sub-zero freeze.

It preserved Peter completely, suspended in a peaceful, frozen stillness where time couldn’t touch him, decay couldn’t reach him, and the leftover hum of the universe could slowly bleed out harmlessly over centuries.

The air inside the vault was frigid, carrying the faint, metallic scent of frost and old stone. Soft, ambient blue light pulsed gently from the base of the chamber, illuminating the thin layer of ice coating the dark metal.

Steve and Tony stood side by side in the chill, their breath fogging in the dim light.

Tony had his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his dark coat, his shoulders hunched against the cold. He hadn’t said a word since they’d stepped through the portal fifteen minutes ago. He just stood there, his tired eyes fixed on the center of the chest, staring as if he could look straight through the steel and see the kid’s face inside.

Beside him, Steve stood like a sentinel. He wore his heavy leather jacket, his hands clasped low in front of him, his posture quiet and somber.

The silence between them was vast, filled only by the low, steady hum of the vault’s cooling system.

After a long while, Tony let out a shuddering breath that rose in a white cloud between them. His right hand came out of his pocket, his knuckles red from the cold, and he hesitated for a second before resting his palm flat against the frosted side of the chamber.

“Feels too cold for him,” Tony rasped, his voice barely audible in the quiet room. “Kid hated the cold. Used to steal my sweaters every time the AC in the lab was turned down two degrees.” He huffed a soft laugh breathlessly at the memory.

Steve turned his head slightly, looking down at Tony. He saw the sharp strain around Tony’s eyes, the deep shadow of exhaustion that weeks of grieving hadn’t erased.

Without a word, Steve stepped closer, closing the distance between them. He reached out and placed a heavy, warm hand firmly on the back of Tony’s neck, his fingers giving a gentle, grounding squeeze—the same silent comfort he’d offered on the battlefield.

“He’s resting, Tony,” Steve said softly, his deep voice carrying a quiet, unwavering warmth that seemed to push back the chill of the room. “He’s safe here. Nobody can hurt him anymore.”

Tony swallowed hard, his eyes glossing over with tears that reflected the soft blue light.

He didn’t pull away from Steve’s hand.

Instead, he leaned into the touch just a fraction, taking a deep, shaky breath, and kept his palm pressed tight against the cold steel.

“Yeah,” Tony whispered, his voice cracking on the word as he looked at the tomb. “Yeah. You’re okay, Bug.”

⊹ ࣪ ˖ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ⊹

It had been Steve’s idea, born during a quiet late-night sweep of the Tower’s main living area.

He had walked past the dark, cavernous home living room and realized, with a sudden, heavy tug in his chest, that none of them had sat down in there together to watch a movie in over five years. None of them had sat down there together since Peter’s note, urging them not to watch the next episode without him before he knew he’d get vanished for five years.

Before he knew he’d die right after he’d get back from those five years.

The last time they’d all gathered on those plush sectional couches, Clint had been throwing popcorn at Thor, Natasha had been tucked into a corner reading a book with her feet on Bruce’s lap, and Peter—god, Peter—had spent forty-five minutes loudly arguing that Star Wars was historically significant enough to count as an educational documentary.

Steve glanced at the TV, at the butter-yellow sticky note and the black, hastily written message on it. It was in the exact same place it had been put more than five years ago.

They were all walking on eggshells, floating in their own isolated bubbles of grief. Steve knew they couldn’t force the hurt to go away, but he also knew they couldn’t survive if they stayed locked in their individual quarters, drowning in the silence.

They needed each other.

They needed to remember how to be a family.

So, Steve had taken it upon himself to rally the troops.

He’d recruited Pepper first, knowing she was the anchor that kept Tony grounded. Then he’d tracked down Bruce in his lab, coaxing him away from his monitors with the promise of a quiet night, and sent Clint up to the roof to fetch Natasha.

Now, standing at the back of the dimly lit living room, Steve let out a quiet, slow breath, a faint trace of a smile finally softening the firm line of his jaw.

The room was far from silent, but for the first time in weeks, the noise didn’t sound strained.

Down in the front of the couch, Morgan was practically swallowed whole by a mountain of oversized knitted blankets, happily sitting between Pepper and Tony.

She was clutching a stuffed alpaca, while Tony meticulously picked through a bowl of popcorn to hand her only the pieces that were perfectly buttered.

Pepper leaned her head against Tony’s shoulder, her eyes half-closed in a rare moment of absolute peace.

On the massive middle sofa, Clint had already claimed the best angle to the screen, slouched so low he was practically lying flat, balancing a giant bowl of pretzels on his chest. Natasha was curled up on the opposite end of the same couch, her feet tucked under her, wrapped in Steve’s old flannel shirt.

Bruce sat in a plush armchair to the left, wearing his wide reader glasses, softly chuckling as Clint tried and failed to catch a pretzel in his mouth.

Thor was off-world, helping rebuild New Asgard across the stars, but Steve knew the big guy would have loved this.

“Alright, Rogers,” Clint called out over his shoulder, waving a pretzel in Steve’s direction. “You dragged us all down here under threat of tactical deployment. What are we watching? If it’s another black-and-white newsreel from 1942, I’m going back to bed.”

“It’s was not a newsreel, Clint,” Steve said, his deep voice carrying easily through the room as he walked down the carpeted steps, holding a stack of extra pillows. He tossed one at Clint’s head—which Clint caught without looking—and took a seat on the edge of the couch near Nat. “And… I actually don’t know what to watch.”

“Good thing I do,” Tony chimed in, standing up from his place on the couch as he gradually made his way over to the TV.

Tony stood right in front of the TV screen, the faint glow of the display washing over his tired features.

His eyes didn’t go to the screen first, though. They went to the faded, butter-yellow sticky note peeling slightly at the edges, stuck there with five years of dust and history.

The black scrawl was so unmistakably Peter, rushed and crooked:

Don’t watch the next episode without me! I’m serious! - P

For five long years, no one had dared touch it. It had stayed right there through the dark days, through the silence of the Tower, and through the return. It was a promise they had kept, waiting for a kid who had finally come home, only to leave them again far too soon.

Tony stood there for a long beat, his hand hovering inches away from the note. His chest heaved with a quiet, shaky breath.

Slowly, carefully, his fingers pinched the top of the paper. With a tiny, soft peel, Tony lifted the note from the TV frame.

He held it in his palm for a second, stroking his thumb over Peter’s messy handwriting, before carefully folding it in half and slipping it securely into the chest pocket of his shirt—right over his heart.

He turned back to face his family, the note resting warm against his chest. A small, bittersweet smile touched his lips.

“I think we kept you waiting long enough, Underoos,” Tony murmured softly, quiet enough that it was meant just for Peter, but carrying clearly through the silent room.

He picked up the remote, his fingers easily dancing over it and clicking on their abandoned series soon enough. His finger stilled over the play button.

“Alright,” Tony said, his voice soft but steady and full of quiet affection. “We’re watching the next episode. God forbid he comes back to haunt us for leaving a cliffhanger hanging for five years.”

A wave of soft, quiet laughter rippled through the room—gentle and full of love.

Clint let out a breathy huff, wiping a stray tear from his cheek with the back of his hand, his mouth twitching into a fond, quiet smile. Natasha leaned back against the cushions, letting out a soft sigh as her hand reached out to give Steve’s arm a grounding squeeze. Steve offered her a quiet smile in return, feeling the suffocating weight in the room finally begin to lift.

Morgan looked up from her alpaca, her dark eyes shining as she watched her dad walk back over.

“Is this Petey’s favorite show, Daddy?”

Tony sat back down, pulling Pepper close to his side and scooping Morgan right up into his lap. He wrapped his arms around his daughter, resting his chin lightly on top of her head as the opening theme began to swell softly from the speakers.

“Yeah, Maguna,” Tony whispered, his eyes bright with tears he didn’t bother hiding as he looked around at the family sitting together in the warm light. “It was his favorite.”

And as the screen lit up the dark living room, none of them turned away. They watched it together. Like Peter had asked.

As the credits rolled, bathing the living room in a soft, fading glow, no one moved to turn off the TV right away.

Morgan had fallen fast asleep in Tony’s lap, her small hand loosely curled around his thumb. Pepper leaned her head on Tony’s shoulder, her breathing slow and steady, while Clint and Nat shared a quiet, knowing look from across the couch.

Steve simply sat back, a rare, peaceful calm settling over his features.

The ache in Tony’s chest hadn’t vanished. The empty spot on the couch would always belong to Peter, and the quiet moments would still bring tears.

But as Tony looked around the room at the family holding onto each other in the dark, he realized the suffocating weight of grief had finally shifted into something else. Something lighter.

They weren’t leaving Peter behind. They were carrying him forward.

Tony rested his hand over his shirt pocket, feeling the faint outline of the folded yellow note resting warm against his chest, and looked out the floor-to-ceiling windows at the glowing New York skyline.

“We’ve got it from here, kid,” Tony whispered into the quiet room.

And for the first time in a very long time, the Tower felt like home again.

The end.

⊹ ࣪ ˖ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ⊹ ࣪ ˖

Or is it?