Chapter Text
MARYAM
───
The dispatch comes towards the end of Maryam Damra's shift.
She's just finishing up a drop-off at the hospital, one of their frequent flyers. Gertrude Meller calls for an ambulance just about every week, anything from chest pain (indigestion) to sudden leg numbness (sleeping in the wrong position). Jay, Maryam's partner, gets irritated every time Gertrude's address flashes across their MDT.
Maryam can't find it in herself to be upset, though. Most of their frequent flyers are lonely, elderly people.
“What's the dispatch?” Jay asks.
“Vehicular collision.” She reads quickly through the information the 911 operator has gathered for them- two car collision, drivers of both vehicles currently conscious but possibly injured, passenger conditions unknown. Be advised- celebrity on scene.
She frowns, rereading the last part.
“What?” Jay asks, leaning over from the passenger seat to peek at the screen.
“Somebody famous involved.”
Jay grins, flicking on the sirens. “You know what that means. No selfies.”
It's not a situation Maryam has faced before. Most of the time she deals with the Gertrude Mellers of the world. Regular, sometimes forgotten, people. A celebrity is an entirely different matter. Despite her professionalism she finds her mind wandering as she speeds to their destination- who's their celeb? A politician? A movie star?
It doesn't take them long at all to reach the standstill of traffic. Maryam hits the shoulder in lieu of stopping, kicking up dust and gravel as she races to the end of their bottleneck. That bottleneck comes fast, too, and before Maryam knows it she's looking at the twisted wreck of their two vehicles.
One of them is an old Ford truck, and from Maryam's vantage the driver's side is what suffered the impact. The entire front end is warped, like a soda can crushed beneath a boot.
The other vehicle? A Rolls Royce.
Jay whistles beside her. “Bingo. There's our celeb.”
“And thankfully our backup, too.” She motions to the police officers surrounding the scene, keeping back the tide of bystanders. Bystanders and paparazzi, judging by the huge cameras balanced on some of their shoulders.
“Distasteful,” Maryam murmurs, bringing the ambulance to a stop and slamming it into park. Maybe with a bit more gusto than strictly necessary, but there's something so horrifically disturbing about seeing people jockeying to get a photo of someone debilitated or possibly even dead.
“You know what to do,” Jay says, unbuckling. “Try and protect privacy as much as possible. The police will help.”
The second they open the ambulance doors and hit the ground, one of those aforementioned officers is waiting for them. An older man who looks like he's spent an entire lifetime on the force.
“Pickup truck struck the Royce, passenger side,” he says in greeting. It's the kind of brusque introduction Maryam has long since grown accustomed to in her line of work.
They follow the officer towards the luxury vehicle, and Maryam finally gets a good look at the damage. The rear passenger side has been devastated, the door crushed inwards. There's shattered plastic and twisted metal all over the freeway asphalt, though somehow the tinted windows have remained intact.
“Pickup truck driver smells of booze,” the officer continues. He points to one of his officers, interrogating the man who must be the driver of the totaled truck. He sways unsteadily on his feet, either from alcohol or accident, Maryam can't yet tell. She motions to Jay, who immediately catches her intent. They've been working together long enough now to communicate without words.
“Probably gonna end up being booked on DUI,” the officer says, watching Jay head that way. “The other driver, the one driving the Royce, seems relatively unharmed.”
She can see another cluster of officers, and with them the man who was behind the wheel of the Royce. He looks relatively unscathed, but they'll know more for sure after Jay gives both men a full work-up.
“The two of them are the least of my concerns at the moment,” the officer says pointedly.
“And your biggest concern?” Maryam asks.
The officer leads her to the rear door on the driver's side, to the man standing there. When Maryam gets a good look at him, her mental processing glitches completely out.
The person posted beside the rear door with his arms crossed isn't a celebrity. He's the celebrity.
Tony Stark.
Probably the most famous man in the world.
She blinks, momentarily speechless, and in her brief pause Tony Stark's expression darkens.
“You gonna help or what?” He snaps.
Abashed, she quickly shakes herself out of the daze. Famous or not, it's irrelevant. A celebrity is still human, still flesh and body and bruises and shock and fear. And that's what she sees when she looks at Stark, underneath the bleeding gashes on his face. She sees that fear.
“Where are you injured, sir?” She asks, making her way over to him, appraising him the whole time. Besides the facial lacerations, she can see several deep contusions starting to take hold-
Stark scowls more, motioning aggressively to his wrecked Royce. “Not me. Jesus christ! The kid!”
Maryam bends over at that, peeking into the Royce's opened door, and that's when she spots him. The vehicle's second passenger, sitting on the side of the car that has been crushed inwards. With a piece of Rolls Royce metal embedded into his thigh.
“Hello,” the kid greets, giving her a little wave with a blood speckled hand. He can't be more then fourteen or fifteen. “I, um. I'm stuck. Impaled, actually.”
“I can see that,” she says calmly, giving him the same quick lookover she gave Stark. “Let's see what we can do to fix that, shall we? Can you give me your name?”
“Peter.” The boy inhales deeply. “Peter Parker.”
“And how do you feel, leg aside? Having any trouble breathing?”
“No. Nothing- nothing like that. Just the leg. And that's like, not even that big of a deal.”
“Okay then. Give me one moment, Peter.” She smiles at him before straightening up, already mentally checklisting what they're going to need to do to free the boy from his pincushion situation- stabilize the metal, pack the wound, procure a sawzall-
“Well?” Tony Stark demands. His tone is angry, argumentative, but Maryam can see how badly his hands are shaking. And just like Gertrude Meller, she can't conjure up a single shred of annoyance for him.
“I'm going to stabilize the wound now, stop the bleeding. Would you like to have my partner check you over while-”
Stark rears away. “No one is fucking touching me until the kid is safe, okay? Understood? That's your priority.”
And there's a special kind of fracturing that Maryam can see in the man's eyes. The same kind of fracturing she saw once in her father's. When the doctor diagnosed her older sister, Nadia, with stage two leukemia. The desperate, dismayed look of a man discovering that his child is mortal.
And Tony Stark is about five shades too pale to look like Maryam's father, and childless as far as she's ever heard, but the comparison comes anyway.
“I'm going to stabilize the wound,” she tells him carefully. “And then we're going to have the Fire Department help us cut the metal piece that's embedded into his femoral region so he can be transported to the nearest hospital.”
Tony Stark seems to pale even further. “Oh Jesus.”
“It sounds more daunting then it really-”
“Happy!” His attention has turned before she's even finished her sentence, gaze focusing in on the man being questioned by one of the responding officers. The driver of his Royce. “Call Helen! Call May! Pepper! Call the goddamn Attorney General!”
“And the fire department, too,” she tacks on, because why not? Tony Stark already has the attention of nearly every single cop within earshot. “Find out their 20. We're gonna need extraction.”
She ducks back into the ruined Royce interior, trying to carefully shimmy her way across the seat. Considering the state of the vehicle, it's her only real access to the patient.
“Hey, Peter,” she greets. “Ready to get out of here?”
“Sounds good, ma'am.”
She grins at him, pulling a couple sterile gauze rolls from the trauma kit slung over her shoulder and across her front. “You can call me Maryam, if you want. I'm going to use this to pack your wound, okay?”
He gives a nod. “Alright. Whenever you're ready.”
As carefully as possible, she starts packing the gauze into the boy's slitted thigh. It soaks up a little blood, but not much considering the embedded metal acting as flood control. He hisses as she stuffs the last swath into place.
“Sorry,” he says.
“Pete? Bud? You okay?” Stark calls from outside the car. Maryam guesses that if she were to turn around, she'd see those same dismayed eyes staring in at them.
“Hunky dory, Mr. Stark.” The kid gives a strained smile over her shoulder. “You really should get yourself looked at, and maybe check on Happy, too-”
Stark makes an unhappy, growly noise. “Yeah, right.”
“I'm fine-”
“You're impaled, remember?”
“It could've been worse-”
“Don't. Don't make me imagine worse, kid.”
The boy sighs, turning his attention back towards her. “The guy who was driving the other car, is he okay?”
“My partner is checking him out, but yeah. He seems just fine.”
“Not for long,” Tony Stark grumbles.
Peter's eyes cut towards him. “Don't mind Mr. Stark, he's just-”
“Protective?” Maryam finishes knowingly.
“I was gonna say insane, but sure-”
Stark scoffs. “You make me insane. I literally can't take you anywhere.”
“Parker Luck,” the boy tells her. Maryam nods along like she has any idea what that means. She hears the familiar sound of a firetruck siren, and she sighs a little, relieved that her needed sawzall is almost here.
“How's that breathing, Peter? Any change?”
As if to demonstrate his satisfactory breathing, the boy takes a deep breath. “Nope. All good.”
“Next up, we're gonna cut you free.” She inclines her head towards the fireman who pops his head into the Royce. After a brief introduction meant to establish enough rapport to hopefully keep the boy calm, it's time to cut.
“It's gonna be loud,” the fireman announces, and even under their PPE, it is. She sees Peter slam his eyes shut and throw his hands up against his covered ears.
Once the metal shard is cut clean through, Jay is there with the stretcher. Carefully, using technique honed by experience, they transfer the boy over.
“This is, like, honestly so embarrassing,” Peter says.
“Embarassing,” Stark repeats incredulously, jogging alongside the stretcher. “That's what you're worried about right now.”
“Loading,” Jay announces, hopping into the back of the ambulance.
“I'm going, too,” Stark orders. The look in his eyes and the tone of his voice brokers no argument.
“Told you,” Peter mock-whispers. “Insane.”
She hops into the driver's seat while Jay remains back, prepping the boy for quick transport. She hears only snippets of conversation as she rockets them towards the hospital- We really don't need to tell Aunt May about this, she'll freak out and gonna need to bubble wrap the damn cars now, kid and I can't believe this is gonna ruin lab day and stop worrying about stupid shit, Pete, worry about being shishkebabed-
Thanks to the sirens parting traffic like the red sea, they reach the hospital in under five minutes. She hops out and quickly heads to the back doors, helping Jay unload the boy. There are already nurses pouring out of the intake doors, grabbing at the stretcher.
“We have the entire floor blocked off for you, Mr. Stark,” the head nurse assures. “Blackout protocols in place-”
“Helen- is Dr. Cho here yet?” He demands, following the boy through the intake doors. “It's very important she's here, Peter is- she's his doctor-”
Peter Parker gives her a bloody goodbye wave as they disapear completely inside the hospital, but Tony Stark never even turns to look at her.
And honestly, Maryam never expected him to.
Jay gives her a knowing look. “That's totally his secret kid, right?”
“Ah, ah, ah,” she chastises playfully. “Protect privacy, remember? No selfies and no hypothesising on secret relationships.”
───
She sees a photo of them later, while scrolling her newsfeed. Not one taken from the scene, thankfully, but something from weeks after.
Tony Stark and Peter Parker out to eat at an ice cream parlor, both of them smiling, both of them healed. She can see it in the boy's posture, the way he isn't leaning on one leg. But mostly she can see it in Tony Stark's eyes.
It's the same look her father had after countless chemotherapy treatments, after Nadia's once shorn hair started to grow again, after a diagnosis declaring her cancer to be officially in remission.
A father's relief that mortality can wait another day.
EDDIE
───
Eddie Contreras knows he's a good guy.
Sure, most people wouldn't agree with that self-assessment; he's got a rap sheet as long as his forearm and an ex-wife who hates his guts, but deep down, he's a good guy.
Why else would he be out in the blistering cold a few days before Christmas, trying to break into a convenience store after hours? It's damn sure not for his comfort.
It's for Cece.
"Hurry up, will you?" He bites out, his lips chattering.
"Don't fucking rush me," Reynolds snaps back. He's crouching in the snow, trying to jimmy open the front door.
Eddie isn't too thrilled about having the man as his partner, even if Reynolds is the fastest lock pick he's ever met. He's also a goddamn loose cannon, more prone to fighting than flighting, which is the entire reason Eddie got busted last time. Instead of taking the opportunity to flee out the back door of the convenience store they were shaking down, he decided to stay and shoot it out with the cops.
This time, Eddie's taking off at the first sign of trouble.
He’s a flighter. Always has been. Just ask his ex wife.
He glances up and down the street again, his nerves alit. "Yeah, yeah," he mumbles.
He sees Reynolds grit his teeth, apparently just as irritated with Eddie as Eddie is with him. “Asshole,” the man mutters and then-
Click.
One of Eddie's favorite noises- the telltale sound of a lock giving up the fucking ghost.
“Hell yeah,” he says, grinning.
"Get in and out," Reynolds orders, slipping open the door and inside. “Don't know if the cops will show or not.”
“Don't worry about me,” Eddie says. He's gonna be gone long before the cops show.
Reynolds heads straight for the bourbon, tossing bottle after bottle into the large pillowcase from his coat pocket.
Eddie goes to the toys.
See? Differences.
He scans the shelves for what Cece has been asking for going on months now. It's the only toy she really wants, and also completely out of both his and the ex-wife's price range.
Is it a little counterproductive to rob a convenience store to buy a Spider-Man action figure? Yeah. Can Eddie afford to care? Nope.
Not when Cece's Christmas is on the line.
“Bingo.” He grins, plucking the toy off the shelf. It's about 12 inches tall and fully articulated, so Cece can pose the webslinger to her heart's desire. “You're coming home with me, Spidey.”
“I'd rather not,” comes a voice that is decidedly not Reynolds.
He gasps. Whirls around. Comes face to face with the webslinger himself, crouched on the goddamn ceiling. All he can think about for a solid fifteen seconds is how thrilled Cece would be about this turn of events.
Reynolds isn't. “Shit!” He shouts, fumbling into the pockets of his trenchcoat for what Eddie can only assume is a concealed gun. Fucking trigger-happy Reynolds, who wasn't even supposed to bring a gun to this shindig.
“We just met, after all,” Spider-Man continues, nonplussed. “And honestly guys, first impressions aren't looking great-”
“Don't fucking move!” Reynolds shouts, and there's the gun he swore to Eddie he wasn't carrying, pointed straight at Spider-Man's chest.
And now Eddie can't help but think about how disappointed Cece would be. He shoots a glare Renolds’ way. “Put the gun away, come on-”
“Not a fucking chance,” Reynolds snarls. “You didn't see this guy come in?”
“Well, obviously fucking not-”
“I can be sneaky, when I wanna be,” Spider-Man offers. “It's just not usually my thing. I like to be perceived, y'know, like to let everyone know the friendly neighborhood Spider-Man is around to help, but well, I figured I'd sneak in tonight and see what was happening here, after hours, this place is closed, not sure if you guys knew that-”
He's still hanging onto the ceiling. It's disconcerting, the more Eddie looks at it.
“Stealing me?” Spider-Man asks, glancing at the toy still in Eddie's hands. “Kinda ironic, isn't it?”
Eddie shrugs a little. “It's for my daughter. She's a big fan of yours-”
“Shut the fuck up,” Reynolds growls. “Both of you!”
“Okay, rude,” Spider-Man says.
Reynolds sneers. “Here's what we're gonna do. Me and my partner over there are gonna walk out that front door, and you're not gonna stop us. Got that, Spidey?”
“Actually my whole gig is stopping criminals, which you happen to be, so…”
Reynolds plays around with the trigger. “You try and stop us, I shoot. Spidey insides become Spidey outsides-”
“Very gross visuals, dude. But also, I'm like famously hard to shoot-”
Reynolds seems to hesitate. For good reason. Cece has shared enough Spider-Man facts with Eddie for him to know the webslinger has some spooky psychic sense that lets him dodge speeding bullets.
Eddie sighs. “Come on, man. I do not wanna deal with the fallout of another shootout-”
Eddie sneers his way. “You know what, Eddie-?”
“Whoa,” he says, holding up his hands. “Names. Names.”
“I think we might be past names,” Spider-Man stage whispers. And sure, the vigilante probably has a point but it's the propriety of the thing- no first names on heists. Duh.
“Eddie,” Reynolds says again, with purpose. “I think you're a piss-poor partner.”
And then he snaps the gun from Spidey's chest over to Eddie's.
Eddie inhales sharply, seeing everything in slow motion, he sees the ghost of christmas future, sees Cece crying over his coffin instead of unwrapping presents, he sees her growing up fatherless and bitter, just like her mother, he sees his body smoldering in the ground, largely unmissed-
And then that haunting future diverts, changes course, leaves him behind, because Spider-Man leaps off the wall and directly between him and Reynolds’ gun.
The bullet strikes the hero somewhere in the chest. Eddie watches him stagger back, shooting out webs as he struggles to stay on his feet.
Reynolds grunts as the web sends him flying back, sticking his entire body to the wall. He makes muffled screaming noises through the webs over his mouth, the gun skittering off somewhere. Under a shelf or under the cashier's desk, Eddie doesn't know and doesn't really fucking care either.
Spider-Man whirls his way, one hand pressed against his chest and one ready to web Eddie up, too.
Eddie holds up his hands in surrender. “Whoa. Don't shoot?”
He can't quite see the blood, but he can smell it. That coppery tang of disaster on the air. And the way Spider-Man is swaying where he stands, about to keel over, must mean that disaster is coming fast.
And Eddie can admit it occasionally, only to himself; he really isn't as good of a guy as he likes to pretend. He steals, he schemes, he leaves too many father shaped absences in his daughter's life.
But he isn't a bad guy. He loves Cece.
And he isn't going to let her favorite superhero die.
“I can help,” he offers cautiously. “And you might wanna sit-”
No sooner has he said it then Spider-Man crashes to the floor with a groan. Eddie quickly hurries over, surveying the damage up close. From what he can tell, the bullet struck Spider-Man dead-center in the chest. Not a good place to catch a bullet.
“No funny business,” Spider-Man manages, and even that sounds strangled and rough.
Eddie shimmies out of his jacket, wads it up, and presses it firmly against Spidey's bleeding sternum. The hero hisses, and almost immediately Eddie's jacket becomes saturated with blood.
“Oh shit,” he mutters. He's gonna be the goddamn reason Spider-Man dies. Fuck. Fuck. “Should I- do I need to call an ambulance?”
He's not too sure how Superhero Health Insurance works- does Spider-Man have an HMO? Does he have deductible money laying around?
“Help- incoming-” Spider-Man mutters. “Calvary arriving shortly-”
“Better fucking come quick-” Eddie mutters. He can feel the hot blood on his hands now.
“He's gonna be mad,” Spider-Man says. “I was not supposed to be shot again. We had a whole PowerPoint presentation on it.”
“PowerPoint, sure,” Eddie mumbles.
“I'm-” Spider-Man makes a wet, wheezing sound, like there's blood in his lungs. Eddie feels his own run cold. “I'm so getting another lecture-”
“Hey, preaching to the choir on that one. Try going to prison, nothing but lectures in there.” Eddie lets out a nervous little chuckle, and then the white lenses on Spidey's mask slide shut.
“My daughter's name is Cece,” he shouts desperately.
One white lense on Spider-Man's mask slits open. “Pretty name.”
“She's seven,” Eddie continues, because it seems to be keeping Spidey semi-conscious. “And her favorite superhero is Spider-Man.”
“Ha, I'll have to tell Iron Man, make him jealous-”
“She- she was on the city bus with her mom, and there was a horrible accident. Semi truck collided with them, crushed the back end and sent the front spinning nearly off the bridge. They dangled like that for a solid five minutes.”
Eddie has to stop for a moment and collect himself. Spider-Man waits, the one white eye slitted open.
“And then you swooped in, Spidey, and you webbed everyone to safety.”
“Friendly…neighborhood…Spider-Man….” He takes another wet inhale.
“It was my fault, you see.” Eddie closes his eyes for a moment, reliving the moment he found out about it. He'd been in a jail cell at the exact moment Cece nearly lost her life, hungover as hell. He'd been fighting with her mom the night before, in that vicious way of theirs, and did what he always does. Left. Down to the closest bar to drink himself into oblivion, and coincidentally, one hell of a bar fight. “I was supposed to pick her up that day, take her out for ice-cream. She wasn't even supposed to be on that bus. But I was stupid. I got myself arrested on a drunk and disorderly-”
“Mistake, you gotta try and fix it-”
“That's why I'm here, trying to get her this stupid Spider-Man toy, no offense-”
“None taken-”
“Because she believes in you in a way I don't deserve.” Eddie laughs a little. The words sting, but they're true. It's no wonder she's become so fixated on Spider-Man. “So yeah, if I let you die I'm officially the shittiest father who ever lived and the shittiest person, considering you just saved my life so stay alive-”
And then the convenience front door blows completely off it's hinges, a fully formed Iron Man stomping through the gaping hole. The man takes stock of the store for one single second before his gaze zeroes in and Spider-Man, and then quickly Eddie.
He raises a gauntlet. “Step the fuck away from Spider-Man.”
Spider-Man coughs. “Okay, wait, do not shoot Cece's dad-”
“Did you shoot him?” Stark demands, the question directed to Eddie. And Eddie knows the wrong answer gets him knocked out until next goddamn year.
“Nope.” Eddie jerks his head towards Reynolds, still stuck to the wall. “That'd be him.”
Reynolds muffle-screams again.
“I repeat, do not shoot Cece's dad, we've bonded-”
Iron Man's gaze quickly drops back down to Spidey, and then the man follows, knees hitting the floor beside the injured hero. Eddie watches as the face plate pulls back, showing off a very harried looking Tony Stark.
“You forget about the PowerPoint, huh?” Iron Man says, sounding more gentle than Eddie has ever heard.
“instructions- unclear-” Spider-Man breathes.
“No, no, they were very clear, very concise. Maybe you don't know how to read, Spidey-baby, maybe I need to do a PowerPoint presentation on the ABC's-”
Eddie watches as Iron Man carefully, gently, scoops Spider-Man up into his arms. Spidey lets out a pained hiss.
“Sorry, sorry. I really wish we could stop meeting like this, kid.”
And there's so much sincerity in the man's voice it nearly makes Eddie feel sick. Because he knows that kind of sincerity. It's the same tone he uses when he tells Cece he wishes he could be there for her birthday, except he won't be out of jail by then.
The kind of sincerity that won't change anything, no matter how much you want it to.
“Stay put,” Stark orders Eddie.
And then he blasts out, Spider-Man cradled in his arms.
But Eddie does what he always does.
He flees.
───
They catch him only a day later, and very quickly lock him up. He deserves it, he knows he does, and yet he can't quite reconcile the fact he's missing another of Cece's Christmases.
He never even got the Spider-Man toy to send to her.
And as excited as he is to use his Chrisrmas Eve phone call to talk to her, he's also dreading the disappointment he's going to hear in her voice. No Daddy and no Spider-Man either.
He sighs, cradling the jail phone to his ear. It's the closest he'll get this year to cradling his little girl on Christmas.
“Cece?”
“Daddy!” She cries, and maybe it's just wishful thinking, but she doesn't sound disappointed at all. She sounds amped the fuck up.
“Well hello there. How's daddy's girl today?”
“How-how-how-”
“Whoa, take a breath, slow your words, remember what your speech therapist said?”
“How did you ge-get Spider-Man?!”
Eddie stops, confused. “Um. What?”
“Spider-Man!” She practically shouts.
“I, uh.”
“He-he brought the Christmas presents you got me, he said you a-asked him to be Santa s-since you were in jail! And I love my new Spider-Man doll and I loved meeting Spider-Man and t-thank you s-s-s-so much, Daddy!”
And Eddie finally clocks it; Spider-Man paid his special little girl a special Christmas Eve visit. And gave her the present she wanted. And let him take all the fucking credit for it.
And yeah, Eddie doesn't deserve that. And yeah, Eddie's gonna take that credit anyway. Just like Spider-Man intended.
“And Iron Man came too!” She continues. “He was so cool too but not as c-cool as Spider-Man-”
He thinks about that night in the convenience store, surrounded by Spidey's blood. He thinks about Iron Man bursting in, scooping the injured hero up and cradling him like cracked priceless porcelain in his arms.
It's how Eddie cradles Cece, every chance he gets.
And yeah, he can't imagine Iron Man being anywhere else on Christmas Eve then wherever the hell Spider-Man is.
ALAN
───
Alan Saltman is incredibly pleased at the game's progress, despite everything.
It's been a long developmental process, full of nothing but complaints from his creative team; the artists calling it sexist, the writers calling it cheap, the developers calling it pseudo-porn. There have been several occasions where Alan has had to remind them all who exactly gets to make the final call- ergo, him, Mr. Creative Director.
And if there's one thing Alan knows, it's that sex sells.
Next week when their new game Revengers officially releases, Alan knows he'll prove them wrong. Who wouldn't want to buy a game with Black Widow wearing an itty bitty teeny weeny polka dot bikini?
He's picturing her, their Black Widow knockoff, when Debra knocks on his office door. As an elderly woman outside of Alan's usual preferences, she isn't exactly a welcome interruption into his current thoughts.
“I told you not to disturb my lunch break,” he snaps.
She slowly opens the door, poking her head inside. “I know, Mr. Saltman, but, well, I think this is something you're going to want to do.”
Alan pauses. Debra is a good secretary, age and appearance aside, so her coming to him at all during his lunch break is a big deal in and of itself. “Well, what is it?”
“It's Tony Stark.”
Alan's brain fizzles out for a second. “What?”
“He wants-” She hesitates. “He wants to talk about the game.”
It's something Alan has considered as a possibility, considering he's got a knock-off of everyone who is or was an Avenger in the game. But that's the thing- they're knock-offs. Metal Man, Admiral America, Eagle Eye. They should be far enough away from the source material to avoid copyright.
That's all Alan needs to do- remind Stark that his characters aren't the Avengers. The Avengers are a legitimate super hero group that save the world. The Revengers like to fight crime half naked. Any resemblance to real people is purely coincidental. Any court would laugh at the idea of them being the same thing.
He swallows. “Well, what are you waiting for? Send him in.”
Debra gives a curt nod before disappearing, and it isn't more then two seconds before the Tony Stark is strolling into his office. He's got sunglasses on and a swagger to his walk like he's already won the fight.
Alan can't help but gulp again.
“Mr. Stark,” he greets politely, trying to wrestle control of the situation back to himself. “How can I help you-”
“Revengers,” Stark says.
Alan fights to keep his expression from betraying anything. “Ah, yes. That's- that's our game releasing next week, all platforms-”
Stark foregoes the chair sitting opposite Alan's, choosing instead to sit on the edge of the desk. It knocks over a pen caddy, sending them rolling across the tabletop.
“Why don't we cut to the chase, hmm?”
Alan pretends not to notice the mess. “What do you mean?”
“Metal Man? Battle Machine?”
He feels a bead of sweat slide down his cheek. “They are original characters created by my development team. Any resemblance to reality is purely coincidental, as the law says-”
Tony sighs, slips the glasses down his nose to peer at Alan over the rims. “Alan, can I call you Alan?”
“Well, I would prefer-”
“We both know your characters are ripoffs, Alan.”
Alan cringes inwardly, thinking of Metal Man. He wears two replusors and a red and gold speedo. A very tiny red speedo. By design, there's plenty of iron to be seen below on Metal Man's lower half. “Mr. Stark, I-”
“I really particularly do not like Tarantula Man.”
Alan stops mid sentence. “You don't like…Tarantula Man?”
“Not one bit, Alan.”
That's not at all what Alan expected Stark to say. He could almost understand Stark pitching a fit over the Revengers, considering the man owns the copyrights to the Avengers, but Tarantula Man? He's a knock-off Spider-Man. No one copyrights those guys.
“What about Tarantula Man do you not like?” He says cautiously.
Stark scoffs. “All of it. The fact he's not wearing any goddamn clothes.”
“Well, that's not entirely true. He has his web outfit-”
“That. You. Can. See. Through,” Stark grits out.
“The fans like the sex appeal,” Alan tries.
Stark pulls a face. “Ugh. No. No, no, no. No sex appeal for Spider-Man. He has a squeaky clean reputation, you know. He saves cats from trees and helps old ladies cross the street, for Christ's sake. What part of that screams web themed BDSM to you?”
“It's- well, it's more of a corruption kink thing-”
Stark's expression darkens. “Yeah, no. Not happening.”
Alan sits back in his chair, flummoxed. No part of this conversation is something he could have predicted. Instead of discussing the dubious legality of the Revengers, the man is fixated on Spider-Man. A vigilante with no copyright claim at all. “To be frank, Mr. Stark, I don't understand why you care.”
“Because I've spoken to Spider-Man, the real deal, and he isn't super keen on your portrayal of him either.”
The pure venom in Stark's voice is enough to make more sweat bead along Alan's brow line. He forces himself to take a deep breath, to recite the legalese he always knew they might need when the Revengers concept started to form. “I can understand Spider-Man's uncertainty. But unfortunately, vigilantes fall under free use-”
“Unless a copyright claim has been made,” Stark interrupts.
Alan swallows. “Spider-Man has no such claim.”
Face splitting into a smug grin, Stark pulls a folded up document from his breastbone pocket. Even doubled over, Alan can see the embossing of an official government seal. “As of this morning, Spider-Man is a legally trademarked name owned by Stark Industries. By creating Tarantula Man you have stolen his likeness-”
“Now wait a moment,” Alan sputters.
“As well as stealing the likeness of the remaining members of my team-”
“They're entirely different characters-”
Stark snorts. “Yeah? How about we see if the courts agree with that assessment?"
Alan can see it in his mind's eye- millions of dollars lost in court cases he will never win, because no one ever wins against Tony Stark. Millions lost on a game that will be deleted before it ever sees the light of day.
“And I will sue you, unless we can come to an agreement.”
Alan peeks up at Stark, still sitting on the corner of the desk. “What agreement?”
“I'll fund the redevelopment of your game. All of it. I want to tear this shitshow down and rebuild it into something good.”
The statement almost makes Alan laugh aloud. Because at the end of the day, his creative team will love it. The chance to remake the game however they and Stark see fit, completely eliminating Alan's final say. He wants to turn Stark down, to fight it out in court to its bitter end, but he knows it will be futile.
“Do I even have a choice?” He says, bitterly.
Stark levels a stare at him. “I know a kid who really likes your studio, who says you have a talented crew capable of making great games, when you're not doing whatever the hell compelled you to do the shit you're doing now. You need to know that's the only reason I'm willing to make deals with you at all.”
Alan can't help but roll his eyes. “So that's my choice. I have to step aside and let you become the new Creative Director and lose everything, or let you ride me through the courts and still lose everything-”
“You'll remain as Creative Director,” Tony interrupts. “With a few tweaks, here and there.”
“Tweaks,” Alan repeats. “Meaning?”
“Stop sexualizing my team. Put Natasha in some goddamn clothes. And most importantly, treat Tarantula Man with some fucking respect.”
“And what makes you think a game like that would sell?”
"You have any kids, Alan?”
"I-" Alan pauses, taken aback by the sudden change of conversation. "Well, yes. A boy and a girl.”
"Okay, perfect. I want you to treat Spider-Man exactly like you would treat your own son if you put him in one of your games.”
“You want me to treat Spider-Man like a child?”
“Treat him like he's somebody's child. Because he is. Just like we all are.”
Alan forces himself to stare Tony Stark down. “When do we start?”
Stark stares right back. “Now.”
───
It takes many miserable months of work before the game is ready to release again. And in the end, it isn't Revengers they release at all.
Revengers met it's untimely end that day in Alan's office, when Tony Stark came to collect. Metal Man and Tarantula Man and all the other characters are now permanently gone, sent to unreleased afterlife.
Instead, they released the first official Avengers game. With Stark's funding and public support, the game became an overnight success.
And Alan is forced to admit two things. First, that his creative team is right. Sex does sell, but sometimes so does good ol’ fashioned heroism.
And Tarantula Man was never anybody's child. Not the creative team's. Not Alan's. He was just another faceless character in a sea of breasts and bulges.
But Spider-Man definitely is somebody's kid. When Stark finally approves the Spider-Man character design- after several rounds of making it faster, stronger, cooler- Alan has a pretty good guess on whose.
You only ever work that hard on a character that you love.
ERIN
───
Erin Monis can't help but squint at the intern sitting beside Tony Stark.
He's incredibly young. Younger than even her baby brother, who only recently turned eighteen. The boy beside Stark doesn't look anywhere near eighteen. He doesn't look old enough to be working at all.
Furthermore, Erin has never seen him do anything an intern should do. He's been to several different S.I. meetings, plastered to Stark's side, and not once has Erin seen him leave it. He doesn't fetch coffee. He doesn't take notes. He doesn't answer phone calls.
But somehow he's sitting in the coveted spot. The holy grail of internships- Stark's personal intern.
She doesn't like the kernel of jealousy that settles deep within her stomach- she's not a woman prone to jealousy, not a woman who ever judges people based on first appearances, yet she can't help herself. What has this kid done to earn himself an internship that Erin hasn't? She's worked for Stark Industries for years-
He must sense her scrutiny because his gaze flits towards her and then very quickly away. He murmurs something to Stark, who glances up at her.
She swallows and quickly averts her gaze.
“Pep,” the man calls, cutting off a very prominent shareholder in the middle of his sentence.
“Mr. Stark,” she hears the boy mutter. “No-”
Ms. Potts shoots him a perturbed look. “Tony. Mr. Manetti is speaking-”
“I know, I know.” He waves the reprimand away. “And you can continue in one sec, Mr. Man, I wanna hear all about our dividend yield this year-”
Ms. Potts sighs, massaging her temples.
“I just need a teensy weensy little thing- for productivity purposes-”
“Pray tell,” Ms. Potts says tersely.
“A mocha frappuccino with extra chocolate drizzle.”
“A mocha frapp…” She trails off, looking at him like he's grown another head, before her gaze slides to the boy at Tony's side.
Erin thinks she's about to finally send the young intern off to do intern duties- certainly fetching coffee in within the boy's wheelhouse- but then Ms. Potts expression melts away to something soft and mysterious. She sighs, turning to Erin.
“Ms. Monis, could you please go to the coffee shop on the 5th floor and fetch Mr. Stark's coffee order, please?”
Erin gapes for a moment. She shouldn't be fetching coffee. She's a senior intern. Her eyes find the boy's, and she's surprised to see him looking apologetically at her.
Sorry, he mouths.
Erin takes a deep, grounding breath, and then turns and marches from the boardroom. The little kernel of envy inside her grows larger with every step she takes. By the time she reaches the coffee shop, it's nearly ready to pop.
"One mocha frappuccino, extra chocolate drizzle,” she says curtly to the man working the counter. He's pale and lean with patchy stubble growing all over an unfamiliar face. Probably another new hire, like the intern.
She wonders bitterly if this man stole his job out from under another barista, too- and then quickly shakes the thought away. Jealousy, turning her into someone she doesn't know. Doesn't even like.
The new barista glances across her before turning to the blender. “Rough day?” He asks knowingly.
She exhales deeply, trying to center herself. Trying to put those beginner yoga classes to good use. “Something like that.”
“Well, maybe a little sugar will fix that.”
Erin glances at the frankly nauseating drink the man is topping with whipped cream. “Ugh, that's a no for me. I like my coffee black. This is for Stark.”
The man glances at her over his shoulder. His eye twitches. It's a look Erin has seen before, in conjecture with their eccentric boss- nervousness. No one wants to disappoint Tony Stark. The thought sends Erin on a miniature epiphany- maybe that's exactly what happened, maybe she disappointed the man in some way and that's why he decided to hire outside the company for his personal intern-
“Oh. I better make sure I do a good job then, huh?” The barista says.
Erin makes a noncommittal humming noise, still inside her own head. By the time the barista hands her the drink she's no closer to an answer. It haunts her all the way back up to the boardroom.
“Thank you, Ms. Monis,” Ms. Potts says diplomatically as Erin places the drink down in front of Mr. Stark. She forces a polite smile that immediately fades as Stark slides the drink directly to the intern at his side.
“Enjoy,” Stark tells the boy.
He hesitates, glancing at her once more, before taking an obedient sip.
“Can we continue now?” Ms. Potts asks pointedly.
Tony waves a dismissive hand. “Yes, yes. Where were we? Dividends, I believe. Scintillating conversation.”
Mr. Manetti goes red, but continues nonetheless.
Erin can't help but watch the boy, even as he seems to studiously avoid her gaze. He's quiet as he sits there, drinking his mocha frappuccino. He's usually quiet in these meetings, usually respectful, usually polite. None of those things an intern make. And Erin, for the life of her, can't figure out what makes him qualified to sit where he is.
He coughs, trying to muffle the sound into the palm of his hand. It doesn't work, many of the gathered board members turning their attention his way.
“Gazuntite,” Stark says mildly.
“Sorry, sorry,” the boy manages. “Don't mind me-”
He coughs again, deeper, longer, wetter.
Stark's body shifts to the boy, a frown crossing his features. “You okay there, bud?”
“Yeah, just-” More racking coughs. “Something- my throat-”
He pulls his hand away from his mouth, and Erin sees it the same exact time Stark seems to- the boy's palm is covered in blood.
“Oh,” the boy says weakly.
Stark rockets to his feet. “Jesus! What happened, Pete? Something on patro-”
He shoots a glance around the room, seeming to remember all the gathered board members. Erin catches the man's gaze for only a moment, but she can see that his expression is full of panic.
“Pep,” he says desperately, bracing a hand against the intern's back as he coughs again, spraying blood across the tabletop. Anyone still in their seats quickly jerks up and away. “Get everyone out, now, we need Helen-”
Ms. Potts gets down to business immediately, ushering the entire board right out the doors. Erin finds herself unable to move, temporarily forgotten, transfixed to the spot, watching the young intern cough up what looks like gallons of his own blood.
“Not- not patrol-” He manages between painful hacking.
“Then what the hell-” Stark tapers off, zeroing in on the half empty coffee cup on the table. And Erin comes to the same horrifying conclusion the second Stark does- they seem to be remarkably in tune under the current circumstances. She can picture the unfamiliar barista down on the fifth floor, the way his face changed when she mentioned Stark's name, she can see it all repeating in slow motion, she can see all her decisions leading to this exact moment-
Stark's fiery gaze snaps to her. “You,” he spits.
Erin takes an instinctual step away, holding her hands up. “No. No.”
And then Ms. Potts is back, crowding around Stark and the young intern. “Helen is ready, lets get him to Medbay- Here, Tony, let me-”
She attempts to reach for the boy, but Stark is already on the move, practically carrying his young intern out of the doors- intern? her mind demands, almost mockingly, would hellfire burn in your eyes over an intern?
“Bring that drink to the lab,” Tony orders, his last parting words. “Have Happy come and deal with that.”
That, Erin realizes, being her. Ms. Potts looks over at her, clearly conflicted. “Erin. Erin. You're gonna have to talk to- talk to security-”
They both look down at the blood speckled tabletop, simultaneously. Erin swallows. “I didn't- I didn't do anything, Ms. Potts. I promise.”
Ms. Potts exhales sharply. “Someone did. And that someone won't be happy when Tony finds them.”
───
Security comes within moments, escorting her down to part of the tower she's never been to before- the Head of Security's office. They unceremoniously lock her inside, and Erin can do nothing but sit and wait and think.
She keeps thinking about Stark, about the pure panic on his face. And now that she's thinking about his face, she's thinking about the intern's too, and she's seeing similarities between the two, she's seeing the same four eyes, the same two noses, and she's coming to conclusions that feel long overdue-
It takes about twenty minutes for Hogan to arrive.
“Mr- Mr. Hogan,” she stammers. He's an imposing man, even on the best of days. Today decidedly isn't a best day. “I didn't, I don't-”
He doesn't look at her, doesn't acknowledge her at all, not until he slowly lowers himself into his office chair. When he does lift his gaze to hers, full of ire, Erin can't help but cower.
“I have it stated here that Mr. Parker felt you disliked him,” Hogan states.
She swallows, trying to remember that horrible jealousy that had been swelling inside of her only an hour ago. That hour feels like it happened a lifetime ago, that kernel of jealousy feels like it belonged to someone else entirely. Someone Erin wouldn't like very much.
“That's not-” She closes her eyes for a brief moment. “I was jealous at first, yes. He became Tony Stark's personal intern seemingly overnight. Who wouldn't be jealous?”
Hogan stares at her for a long moment. “And how jealous were you, Ms. Monis?”
She shakes her head. “Not that jealous. Not jealous enough to ever hurt him.”
She thinks of the boy, of the mental image that will probably be burned into her eyelids forever- blood dribbling down his chin, eyes blown wide, shoulders shaking with the force of his coughs. And of Stark, struggling to breath nearly as much, utterly terrified beside him.
Erin had been terrified too, but not like that. Stark's had been all encompassing, overarching, like his entire fate had been entwined with whatever happened to that intern.
And it fully hits her then, how silly she was to be jealous of the boy at all. The boy who wasn't qualified to be an intern because he never was one.
“Will he be okay?” She asks tentatively.
“Do you want him to be okay?” Hogan says evasively.
“Yes,” she practically hisses.
Hogan must sense her sincerity, because his shoulders droop just the smallest amount. “Thankfully, yes. That drink you brought up was laced with a modified strain of ricin- designed to kill within minutes of ingestion. The man who made the frappuccino hired in with S.I. for one purpose and one purpose only. Killing Tony Stark.”
Erin gasps, covering her mouth with her hand. She feels vaguely like vomiting. “No.”
“I take it you don't personally know Ethan Silnat from the café?”
Momentarily mute, she shakes her head. It takes her a long moment to find her voice underneath the mounting nausea. “But the inter- Peter drank it,” she says, horrified. Because now that she isn't thinking of the boy as a competing employee, she's realizing what he really is- a kid. Someone truly younger than her brother, who still seems like a baby to her. That makes Peter an infant, in her eyes. “He must be so-so frightened-”
Hogan lets out a mirthless laugh. “Nah. He's actually rather glad he was the one to drink it. He's worse than Tony, in that regard. Says he's happy to be a human food tester, like the Kings used to have. The idiot.”
Erin can't really begin to decipher that statement, and decides she doesn't want to try. She's already solved too much of the mystery, as it is. “I imagine Mr. Stark isn't so….cavalier about the incident.”
There's no amount of yoga in the world that could ever keep Erin calm if something like that happened to someone she loved. She imagines her baby brother choking on his own blood and the nausea threatens to come back.
“No,” Happy agrees. “He's never happy when something happens to that kid. We're about to have 50 new protocols in this building come Monday morning.”
Erin nods. “Whatever it takes.”
“My advice, Ms. Monis?” Happy says, leveling a hard stare at her. “I'd stop giving Peter Parker dirty looks if I were you.”
She shivers. “Understood, Mr. Hogan. It will not happen again.”
Doug
───
Doug Cobb can't wait to shut his rig down for the night.
He's been behind the wheel for 10 hours today, maneuvering through the mountainous, dangerous roads of North Carolina. He wants nothing more than a hot meal, and a good, long rest in the back of his truck.
Sixty more days of this, and then he'll he heading home for an entire month.
He imagines that month as he pulls into his truckstop for the night and carefully backs his semi into an empty spot. This deep into the Appalachian Mountains, there are plenty of empty spots to choose from. With a truckstop that looks like it might already closed for the day and a nearly vacant parking lot, it's easy for his mind to wander as he shuts it all down.
It's Darla he thinks of first, always. They've been married fourty years now and Doug loves her just as much as he did that fateful day he told her I do. He can't wait to walk through his front doors and have her melt into his arms.
And he thinks of John, their only child. The boy will be turning thirteen in two months time, coinciding perfectly with Doug's planned vacation time. He can't wait to celebrate his son's tumble into teenagedom-
There's movement outside his truck.
At first he thinks it's another trucker- a rather short one, but a driver, nonetheless- the longer he watches, however, the more certain he becomes that it isn't.
The person seems to be limping as they make their way across the darkened parking lot to the truckstop entrance. When he passes underneath one of the dim lot lights, Doug can discern enough of his features to determine that the person is young. Painfully, familiarly young.
Again, he thinks of John.
He feels his heart beating faster, louder. It could be a ruse, something to lure an unsuspecting driver out of his truck to be robbed. That kind of shit can happen, no matter how remote the truckstop.
Trafficking isn't out of the question either. Even if the kid himself isn't a danger, whoever is chasing him could be. Maybe he's on the run from a pimp, or maybe he owes a drug dealer money or-
The boy stumbles as he walks, nearly falling over, and Doug is hopping out of his truck before he can think about it any further.
Darla would kill him if she could see him right now.
The sound of the truck door closing seems to startle the kid, and he slowly turns around to look at Doug. And yeah, he's as young as Doug worried he was, and covered in bruises and blood, too. It's a horrifying sight, one that makes Doug feel sick.
He'll never understand the kind of people who can hurt kids.
“You need help, son?” He asks when the boy doesn't speak.
“I-” The boy seems to struggle to find the words. “Could I use your phone, please? I need to make a phone call.”
“Okay,” Doug agrees. “Got it in my pocket here. You gonna be okay if I walk it over to you, son?”
“Peter,” the boy says softly. “My name is Peter Parker. And yeah, I'm not, like dangerous or anything. The blood, it's, uh, mine. So, yeah.”
That unsurprisingly doesn't settle Doug's worry. “Okay,” he says reasonably, “Because neither am I. I'm Doug. Doug Cobb.”
“Hi,” Peter says.
He holds the phone out to the boy, who takes it with trembling, bloodied hands. “You in some kind of trouble, Peter?”
“Not anymore,” he says cryptically. He makes a couple aborted sounds that sound like half-there sobs, and Doug feels his heart drop just a little. Kids in distress are the absolute worst sound in the world. “I just- I need to call someone to pick me up.”
“Pick you up? What about an ambulance, kid? Or the police?”
Peter shakes his head and places the phone against his ear. It takes only a couple rings before the call catches. Doug can't quite decipher the words being spoken, but the person on the other end of the line is decidedly male.
He frowns, trying to listen in for context. If it's a pimp or a drug dealer, he'll have to intervene somehow. Darla will kill him for stepping into a dangerous situation like that, but he can't leave a kid like Peter to the wolves.
“Hi, Mr. Stark,” the kid says. “I'm- I'm okay.”
Mr. Stark. Doug can't help but hate the sound of that. He imagines he own son calling someone named Mr. Stark in a time of crisis and it makes his heart hammer uncomfortablely. The kid should be calling a parent, or a guardian. Someone.
The mysterious man says something else, and Peter turns to look at him. “Um, Mr. Cobb, sir, where am I exactly? If you don't mind me asking.”
“At a truckstop in Wyattville, North Carolina.”
Peter stares at him, mouth agape for a moment. He mouths North Carolina like he can't quite believe it. Doug watches him physically try to shake that shock away, wondering where this wounded, inexplicable boy came from. "No, no. It's Mr. Cobb. I just met him. He says I'm in North Carolina."
Doug stiffens at his name, at this Mr. Stark knowing anything about him.
“I don't know,” Peter says, voice catching and breaking. "But could you- could you come and get me, please? I would like to get home..." Another pause as the boy listens, and then, “No. I had to- I had to bust myself out. Which y'know, gave away you-know-what, but they were gonna kill me, so-"
By the look of the kid, they nearly succeeded. Doug finds himself scanning the dark corners of the parking lot, looking for whoever was evil enough to beat a teenage boy nearly to death. At this moment, he isn't sure if he'd run from them, or meet them head fucking on.
“Okay,” the teenager says. “I'm gonna give Mr. Cobb back his phone-”
Whoever Mr. Stark is, he doesn't sound happy about that statement. Peter hesitates, seemingly conflicted, but eventually holds the phone out to Doug regardless.
Doug quickly snatches it back. Not because he's worried about the boy making off with it, but because he's hopeful he can convince him to call someone else. Anyone else.
“You sure you don't wanna call the police?” Doug tries, almost desperately. “It sounds like some pretty heavy stuff. Maybe…maybe Mr. Stark isn't the best option for you right now.”
The kid looks at him, cocking his head, and Doug gets a long look at his battered face. Even under the faint parking lot lighting, Doug can see the bruises and the cuts and the broken blood vessels in his left eye. It's ghastly.
“No,” he says firmly, and Doug's heart sinks. “I don't need the police. Or anything like that. I'll be okay. Mr. Stark is only about ten minutes away now-”
Doug sighs, deciding to level with the boy. It's what he would want someone to do if, god forbid, John found himself in a situation like this. “Listen, Peter, if this is a trafficking situation, if this Mr. Stark is going to hurt you-”
Peter gasps. “No, no. It's nothing like- like that. Mr. Stark is great. Seriously. He's always helping me out.”
“You should at least call your parents. Or guardian. Someone you trust.”
Peter glances away. “Well. Um. I mean, I do trust Mr. Stark-”
“Your mom or your dad-”
Doug hears it before he sees it. The loud whoosh of an airplane flying low over the land. It's what makes him look up, just in time to see what looks like a shooting star arch across the sky- until it gets closer, and larger, and louder, and the stardust turns into rocket fire, into a man.
Iron Man, to be exact.
Doug feels his eyes nearly bug out of his head.
The most famous superhero in the world lands on the aging blacktop right beside the two of them, and then Tony Stark is all but falling out of the suit, stumbling towards the teenager beside Doug.
“Peter,” the man says. “Hey. Hey. You okay?”
He doesn't look how he does in the magazines and interviews, all posh and put together. The Tony Stark in front of him tonight is disheveled, wearing a coffee stained t-shirt, looking about as far from put-together that a man can.
“I'm okay, mostly, I just- off-”
He pulls the beaten teenager into his arms, and Doug has the keenest sense of not existing. The billionaire certainly hasn't acknowledged him, and now that the enigamous Mr. Stark is here neither does the boy.
“How bad are you hurt? And spare me the bullshit, you'll be going to the medbay either way, I just need to know if you're gonna keel over on me anytime soon-”
Doug watches the two of them together, his worry slowly but surely melting away. Tony Stark examines the boy as he talks, gently, turning the teenager's face left and right to survey the damage. His face darkens at each bruise and cut.
“I'm not going to keel over,” Peter says softly.
Tony Stark sighs, abandoning his scrutiny to meet the boy's gaze. “Let's get you back to the tower, okay? I think you've earned yourself some R&R.”
The boy sniffles, wipes the back of his hand across his nose. “Hazard pay, too. And vacation time. Maybe a promotion.”
Tony Stark huffs a little. He reaches out, ruffles the teenager's messy hair. Peter leans immediately into the touch. “Yeah, yeah. I'll get Pepper right on that.”
It's only now that Tony Stark turns to him. “Thanks for letting the kid use your phone, Mr.-”
“Cobb,” he says, still wowed at the fact he's talking to Tony Stark. John would be losing his mind right about now. He loves the Avengers, just like all the teenage boys of the world. “Doug Cobb. You can call me Doug.”
“Don't tell anyone about this, okay, Doug? This is strictly incognito.”
Doug nods. “Sure. Yeah. Okay.”
Doug watches them blast off, all his lingering worry blasting away, too. If there's one thing he's sure of, it's that Tony Stark isn't going to hurt that boy.
───
Darla is still scolding him after he finally makes it home.
“Yes, dear,” he says, for what must be the millionth time. He isn't upset, just fondly exasperated. There are much worse things in this life than being cared for deeply by a loving woman.
She turns from the kitchen stove to glare at him, hands on her hips. One good look at Doug's playful face, though, and she turns back around to the sizzling bacon.
“I just couldn't bear to lose you,” she says emphatically.
“Mom,” John complains, rolling his eyes conspiratorially in Doug's direction; he's at that age now where Moms are ridiculously silly. Doug is thankful that Dads still seem to be cool enough to conspire with. “Come on. It was Iron Man. He's a hero. He wouldn't hurt Dad.”
Darla takes it in stride, like she does everything. She's an angel. Plopping a breakfast plate on the table in front of John, she says, “Oh yeah, mister? And what about if there was a bad guy there, chasing that boy?”
John grins triumphantly. “Then Iron Man would've kept Dad safe.”
Darla chuckles, dropping Doug his plate. She wipes her hands on the cherry themed apron tied around her waist before turning her attention to this morning's mail.
Taking a large chunk out of his bacon, Doug marvels at the joy of being home. At being able to enjoy a meal with his family, at sleeping in his own bed with his woman in his arms, at being able to attend John's first ever basketball game, at finishing Darla's rather lengthy honey-to-do list-
She gasps, an open letter in her now shaking hands.
“Darla darling?” He says worriedly, rising quickly to his feet. “What's wrong?”
She looks over at him, eyes wide. “It's a package…from Tony Stark.”
John jumps up, too. “What? No way! Let me see!”
She hands the letter over to Doug, John trying to peek at it the whole time. Reading quickly through the messy scrawl, Doug can hardly believe what he's seeing.
Doug,
I owe you more gratitude then I can possibly explain. Considering that gratitude is not my strong suit, please accept this gift instead.
I have paid off the remaining mortgage on your home and started a college fund for your son. Rest assured, wherever his academic interests take him, money will not be a concern.
P.S. I've included a signed copy of the new Avengers video game. I have it on good authority that teenage boys love video games- hope yours does too.
“Signed?!” John yells, voice going high and squeaky as he pulls the game case from the manilla envelope it was sent in. “Oh my god! It has Tony Stark's signature! And War Machine! And Spider-Man! And-”
“Who do you think that boy was?” Darla whisper-speaks, reading the letter over his shoulder again.
He shoots his excited son a fond look. “Someone else's John.”
Because maybe Peter doesn't call Mr. Stark the word, but Doug knows a dad when he sees one.