Archive of Our Own

It's a strangely quiet night.

Too quiet, if you ask Peter. After so many years as Spider-Man, he's learned the hard way that quiet rarely means safety; it usually means trouble is brewing somewhere far away from him, getting ready to blow right in his face.

"The odds of Matthew Murdock being the target of an assassination attempt within the next two weeks have decreased by twenty-three percent since my last analysis." E.V. informs him in his ear with her usual calm tone.

Peter lets out a barely audible snort, rolling his eyes beneath his mask.

"Only twenty-three percent." He mutters, sarcastically. "What a relief."

"The decrease is statistically significant." His best friend reminds him, and Peter sees before him—inside the mask—a series of numbers and statistics. Then they disappear, and the edges of his vision flicker briefly with green light. "I'd say it's a good thing."

That almost makes him laugh.

"E.V., if someone told me that my chances of being crushed by a vending machine went down by twenty-three percent, I'd still avoid vending machines."

"Vending machines cause approximately—"

"I don't want to know." He cuts her off immediately.

"Okay."

Peter rests his forearms on his knees and looks out at the streets below, before letting out a long sigh. Patrolling Queens and Hell's Kitchen every day is, to say the least, exhausting. Sure. But Matt had asked him to, and, without meaning to sound corny or romantic, Peter would do anything for him.

The truth is, thinking about Hell's Kitchen without Daredevil feels strange. And it's even stranger to think of Matt locked up. He's still having a hard time getting used to the idea, even though it's been over a year. But that's the thing. Matt in prison just feels wrong. For years, he'd been one of those constants in New York, one of those people who seemed to be everywhere at once. A lawyer by day, a vigilante by night, and, occasionally, the most stubborn person Peter had ever met in his life. And now he's in that prison. Without having done anything wrong.

Peter doesn't know which is worse: that Matt is there, or that he agreed to be there.

Frank always says that both are equally bad. And stupid.

"Internal reports continue to indicate that certain criminal groups view Matt as a threat even within the prison system." E.V. continues. "However, the fragmentation of the organizations associated with Wilson Fisk has significantly reduced their operational capacity following your takedowns and Frank Castle's."

Peter tilts his head slightly. "And do we still believe that Fisk will stay on his island forever and never bother us again?"

There's a pause of barely a second.

"No."

Peter smiles beneath his mask. "Exactly."

For a few seconds, neither of them speaks. Below them, an ambulance crosses a distant avenue with its sirens off, and a train roars several blocks away. 

Peter fixes his gaze on the lights on the horizon and, for the first time in a long time, allows himself to relax a little. He hasn't been able to relax since Matt went to prison. In fact, he hasn't been able to relax since the spell, but everything got worse when Matt decided to leave. Deep down, he knows that his mutations weren't caused solely by the trauma of losing May and MJ, but also by Matt. The man didn't die, and he didn't forget him, but at the end of the day, he left, and the idea that something might happen to him in there terrifies him.

But maybe E.V. is right. Maybe Matt will be okay. Maybe Fisk is really gone. At least for a while. Maybe for a few years. Maybe, for once, the world is giving him a break.

He deserves it, doesn't he? It's been two months since his body started mutating, since he fought the Hulk, since Metzger became a fugitive, and since he saved his kid who isn't really his kid, but at the same time she is because, well, she is, isn't she? Peter saved her, took her under his wing, and personally took her to Charles's school. So yes, Jean Grey is his kid.

It's also been two months since MJ told him she didn't love him.

Because I don't even know you.

Peter just stares at the lights. There's nothing interesting down there, but he needs to look at anything other than the memory of that conversation. Two months later, MJ's words still have the unpleasant habit of popping up when he least expects them.

Because I don't even know you.

Peter had tried to convince himself it wasn't a big deal. He'd nodded, he'd accepted it because, what else was he supposed to do? He couldn't ask her to love him. He couldn't demand that she remember a life that no longer existed. And, above all, he couldn't blame her for not feeling anything for a stranger who, from her perspective, had appeared out of nowhere and seemed to know too much about her. He understood. He really did understand. He understood that he had absolutely nothing to fight against.

But it hurts.

Peter slowly lowers his gaze to his gloved hands. He flexes them once, then again, watching as his fingers close and open.

His body isn't the same either. That's another thing he's learned to accept, though "accept" is probably too generous a word. Every day he looks in the mirror and sees nothing but a complete stranger. The mutations, the strength, the cobwebs, the changes he still doesn't fully understand, it's all become something else he must learn to deal with. Now all that's left is this strange, tired Peter—too young to feel so old—trying to figure out what the hell he's supposed to do with everything that's left.

"Peter, I've detected a new intruder in the apartment."

He lets out a sigh and rolls his eyes. "Jean isn't an intruder, E.V. We've already talked about this." He says wearily, getting up with a lazy leap.

The walking carrot has a key to his apartment and visits him every weekend without fail. And yet, even though Jean is practically the only family he has, E.V. has this annoying habit of calling her an intruder.

"I'm not talking about Jean."

Peter turns his head slightly to the left and frowns beneath his mask. "Show me the cameras." He orders, and though he tries to make his voice sound calm, E.V. probably detects the tension in every syllable.

The screen on his mask changes immediately, and one of the windows on his HUD expands to fill almost his entire field of vision.

And something really is wrong with the cameras in his apartment, because Tony Stark is definitely not eating pizza in his kitchen.

"E.V." He calls out in a low, weary voice, watching a car drive down the street. It runs a red light because it thinks no one is watching, and he lets out a sigh when, just two seconds later, his heightened senses pick up the siren of an approaching patrol car. He shakes his head. "Tell me what I'm seeing."

"My biometric data matches Anthony Stark's historical records at 99.8 percent."

"Tony Stark is dead." He says impatiently, turning his back on the street. He puts his hands on his hips and stares at the floor, waiting.

He looks back at the camera; the man—who is definitely not Tony—is sitting on the kitchen counter, with an open pizza box in front of him and a bottle of wine resting by his elbow. He's wearing a black T-shirt, sweatpants, and has his sleeves rolled up to his forearms. His hair is slightly disheveled.

He looks normal. Too normal. As if he weren't dead.

Which is stupid, because he is dead.

"Zoom in."

At his command, the image zooms in. Tony takes another slice of pizza. Peter stares at him.

"Zoom in more."

The image zooms in again. Tony chews absentmindedly, reading the labels on his protein powders.

He shakes his head. With the movement, the image disappears. 

"How stupid." He mutters. "So? What's going on? Is this an illusion? I thought Beck was dead."

Sure, therapy is expensive, but Peter is seriously considering going because getting excited at the idea that Beck, the man who ruined his life, is alive isn't right and isn't healthy. Honestly, it's pretty pathetic.

"My sensors would detect it if it were an illusion."

So it's not Beck. Peter is definitely not disappointed about that.

"So what is it? A Skrull, a robot, a zombie, a ghost?"

He's already fought zombies. Exactly one month ago, when several of them ended up—somehow—here from another dimension, and he and Stephen had to take care of the situation before New Yorkers decided the city was some kind of Plants vs. Zombies game board.

"It's a human." E.V. replies. "The thermal scan of the room shows a stable body temperature of thirty-six point seven degrees. Ninety-two beats per minute."

"That's not possible."

"Isn't it?"

The question feels like a joke because, well, isn't it? Isn't it possible? In the world they live in, is it really not possible? The multiverse is real, time travel exists, there are people with superpowers everywhere, some giant shows up in the sky at least once a year, and there are like four Hulks out there… I mean, you get the point? Peter himself was dead for five years, what's so new about that?

If the world were told that Tony Stark had come back to life, no one would bat an eye. They'd be happy, of course, but would they be surprised? Peter knows the answer.

Peter runs a hand over his mask, pulling the fabric down in a gesture of pure frustration. He feels like his temples are about to explode. He grimaces beneath the mask and shudders, shifting uncomfortably in his spot just thinking about the fact that…

"Stephen is going to kill me."

It's no exaggeration. Peter knows Stephen Strange well enough to know that the man has a pretty limited tolerance for nonsense, and showing up at his door at two in the morning because Tony Stark is alive is probably somewhere very close to the limit of that tolerance.

Although, come to think of it, maybe he won't even have to wait until he gets to the door. Maybe Stephen will just appear in front of him, stare at him for five seconds, and ask what the hell he did this time.

Peter doesn't remember doing anything, but you know what? It's probably his fault.

It always is.

It takes him exactly four minutes to get to his apartment, and during those four minutes, Peter has enough time to go through pretty much every emotional stage known to humankind. First, there's disbelief. Then confusion. Then a kind of hope so absurd he refuses to acknowledge it as such. Next comes fear, because the last time someone showed up in his life with Tony Stark's face, things ended pretty badly.

Finally, he comes to a much simpler conclusion: he's in trouble.

He lands silently against the wall of his building and doesn't allow himself to stop and think about what to do, because if he thinks, he'll hesitate, and if he hesitates, he'll end up at Stephen's door. So he opens his window, lands on the floor of his apartment, and closes the window. He does it all with strong, loud movements, a way of convincing himself that he's sure about this, that he knows what he's doing, and that he's an adult perfectly capable of dealing with weird shit.

Of course he can. He's Spider-Man. He fought Thanos, saved the multiverse, faced the Hulk. He can handle this.

He makes sure the window is securely closed, to prevent anyone from entering or leaving, removes his mask, and turns around, preparing to face whatever is in his kitchen.

He stops.

Tony Stark is still there, still in his house, in his kitchen. He's standing by the counter, opening a bottle of wine with a corkscrew Peter bought on a whim because he doesn't drink. The man pretends not to notice him at first, too busy opening the bottle, but then, when the silence drags on, he turns his head toward him and... well, he looks at him.

And Peter looks at him too. He can see him, in the flesh. Worse, Peter can hear him; his pulse, alive, his breathing, alive. Everything about him screams alive.

"Ah, there you are." Tony says, as if he's barely seeing him. He has a small, gentle, amused smile on his face, devoid of any arrogance.

Peter says nothing, just stares at him.

Tony nods, as if that explains something.

"So, I was dead." The man begins, pouring the red liquid into two glasses that Peter has no idea where he got them from. "And then I wasn't anymore. Then Rhodey told me it had been five years. Then I thought: Oh, so it was my turn to spend five years dead." He sets the bottle aside once both glasses are filled and continues: "Then I looked at my ex-wife and asked her where the boy I died for was." He turns to face him, resting a hand on the counter. "Then imagine my surprise when Pepper looked at me with those beautiful eyes of hers and said: Who is Peter?"

Tony tilts his head, studying him with analytical eyes. 

"So, Peter Parker, kid, you have no idea what I'd give for you not to understand this question, but what the hell did you do to our lives?"

He doesn't answer that. Definitely not. His gaze shifts to Tony's chest, sharpening his senses, allowing the distant pulse to resonate in his ears, sounding like drums inside his own head.

Alive.

He blinks, pushing the sound away from his mind. He looks back into his eyes.

"Who are you?" He asks, finally, in a low voice, more threatening than he intended.

Tony blinks. "What do you mean who am I? It's me, Tony." Then he narrows his eyes. "I know it's been five years, but I'm not so easily forgotten."

Peter can already feel a headache forming behind his eyes.

"Tony Stark is dead. At least the one in my world."

He takes two steps forward, not to approach the man, but to place his mask on the sofa. He pauses for a moment, staring at his gloved hand on the mask. Then he takes a breath and looks back at the man in front of him.

"Which Earth are you from? I can help you get back, but it has to be quick or Stephen will find out, and... you don't want that to happen."

The gentle smile on Tony's face vanishes. He slams his wine glass down on the counter.

"Which Earth am I from?" Tony repeats, with a dismissive gesture. "What, now there's a multiverse?"

"The multiverse has always existed." He replies curtly.

It's weird to hear himself speak to Tony like this. Years ago, he would never have dared. Tony Stark was untouchable to him; he had too much respect for him to even consider raising his voice. But of course, this isn't his Tony, and even if it were, Peter isn't the man he used to be.

"The Tony Stark of this world died five years ago. He saved the universe. He's gone, and everyone knows it."

He pauses. He feels his hands tremble for a moment and almost grimaces on impulse as he feels a strange twinge in his chest. He inhales sharply and, with some difficulty, manages to say:

"I was the one who carried his dead body off the battlefield, so you are not him, and you shouldn't be here."

Peter glances down for just a moment, unable to meet Tony's gaze as he recalls the weight of that body in his arms, the shattered armor, the silence where the heartbeat should have been, the heartbeat he now hears perfectly from across the kitchen.

"I was in a coma." Tony says after a pause. Peter still doesn't look at him. "I... died, yes, but... they... revived me? God, it sounds awful, but yes, something like that. They kept me stable, and I was in a coma for these five years."

Coma.

Coma?

Five years. Revived. Stabilized.

Each word hangs suspended somewhere in his head, colliding with the others until it forms an unbearable noise he can't seem to organize.

He had learned to recognize Tony's heartbeat even among hundreds of people. He had learned its rhythm, its slight irregularities, the way it raced when he was angry, when he was worried, when Peter did something stupid. That day, there was nothing. Only silence. And Peter had had to accept that the man he loved most in the world was dead.

He had to step past Pepper and Rhodey and carry the dead body of his mentor in his arms, the dead body of the first person who believed in him. He had had to watch it disappear beneath a sheet. He had had to live five years knowing he would never hear his voice again.

"I had to come back."

Peter blinks and lifts his head.

Tony has moved closer without Peter noticing, and now, just a few steps away, he seems to be struggling to keep from collapsing. Peter wants to hold him, keep him whole and safe in his arms, but he doesn't know how anymore. Tony may not have changed, and apparently he hadn't, but Peter had.

"I had to fix it." The man continues in a low voice, looking at him with serious, honest eyes. "Fix us."

"You shouldn't know who I am." He says immediately, too quickly. "If you were in a coma, the spell should have affected you too."

"Spell." Tony repeats, narrowing his eyes. "Is that why no one else knows who you are?"

For a moment, Peter wants to protest, because there are people who do know him.

MJ knows him; she doesn't remember their history together before the spell, but she knows him. Ned knows him; and he's the only one who remembers who Peter was before the spell. Frank knows him, Matt does too, as do Bruce and Charles. Jean knows practically everything about him. It wasn't in his plans for DeWolff and her children to also know the man under the mask, but he was so tired of being alone. Stephen knows him because, during one of their many multiversal missions together, Peter simply took off his mask and introduced himself as Peter. The same with Yelena.

As for Kate... well, Kate is Yelena's girlfriend. Let's just say Peter didn't have a choice.

"That son of a bitch."

Peter blinks.

"That son of a..." Tony continues, looking away from him. He starts pacing, muttering, "It was Strange, wasn't it? I'm going to kill him, I swear, I'm going to—"

"It wasn't Stephen's fault." He blurts out.

Tony glares at him, looking offended. "Stephen? Seriously? Now you're calling him Stephen?"

"We're friends." He says, expressionless, not understanding why this is important to the man in front of him.

"Friends?" Tony repeats the word as if it has a rancid taste, taking a half-step back while still staring at him. "You and the carnival magician are friends? Peter, that man handed you over to Thanos on Titan. I saw you turn to dust because of him. And now you're defending him?"

"Stephen has saved my life four times." Peter retorts, keeping his voice dangerously low and firm. He's not going to let Tony come here and question the dynamics of a world he wasn't even a part of. "And as for the spell, it wasn't his fault. It was mine. I ruined his spell."

Okay, no, Peter hadn't planned to blurt it out like that, but the headache and the sheer exhaustion of carrying the weight of everything on his shoulders were getting the better of him.

Tony freezes. The indignation on his face quickly transforms into a grimace of intense concentration. He crosses his arms over his chest, hiding the rapid thumping of his heart, though Peter can still hear it perfectly.

"Did you ruin a spell?" Tony tilts his head, his tone descending to a dangerous gravity. "Explain yourself. And do it quickly, because my patience is still on the gurney I just got off. If that guy did something to you, if he forced you to erase yourself from everyone's mind—"

"Nobody forced me to do anything." He interrupts. "The multiverse was breaking apart. People from other worlds who knew Peter Parker was Spider-Man were crossing over to this Earth. The only way to stop the collapse and save everyone... was for the entire world to forget who Peter Parker is."

Tony blinks, processing the words. His jaw clenches so tightly Peter thinks he hears his teeth grinding.

"And Strange just did it? Erased your damn life?"

"I asked him to." Peter states. "It worked. The rifts closed. My friends are safe. Your wife is safe. Your daughter is safe. You're welcome."

"She's not my wife anymore."

Peter wants to scream.

"How is that important?" He asks, exasperated.

"Okay, this isn't going as planned." Tony says, raising his hands in a gesture of peace, though he looks suddenly exhausted.

For the first time in a long time—eight hours, to be exact—Peter feels that familiar pang of guilt settling in his chest, chilling his stomach and burning his throat.

It's absurd; he hasn't done anything wrong, not this time. And yet, there it is. Guilt. A bitch. It always comes before anything else.

Peter slowly lowers his gaze. His shoulders tense and then slump, as if he's just remembered he's tired. And, God, he is tired. Suddenly he feels the weight of every muscle in his body, the stiffness in his back, the pain behind his eyes, the exhaustion he's been ignoring for weeks because there's always something more urgent to do.

"Were you really in a coma?" He finally asks, his voice low.

Tony watches him for a few seconds before nodding.

"Yeah."

Peter looks down again. His fingers are trembling. He studies them for a few seconds, almost curiously, as if they belonged to someone else. Then he slowly closes them, trying to stop the trembling, but only succeeds in making his hands hurt.

"And Stephen knew?"

"I... I don't know. I guess?" He shrugs. "He'd seen the future, so he knew I'd snap, so maybe he knew I wouldn't die."

Peter blinks. Hearing Tony so uncertain feels absurd.

"Sure, yeah." He murmurs. "And Happy? Did he know?"

"Yeah."

That hurts. Not too much; almost nothing, in fact, Happy is more of a distant memory. Still, Peter would like to exaggerate because, isn't that betrayal? It feels like it.

Stephen always knows more than everyone else; if he didn't tell him, it was for a reason, something only he understands, so Peter understands.

But Happy? What's his excuse?

"And where were you these past five years?"

"Oh." Tony blinks, as if he hadn't expected the question. He quickly recovers and answers: "In Wakanda."

That does make him frown. "Wakanda wasn't attacked by Namor? How did you survive that?"

"Oh, yeah, Aquaman." Tony mutters to himself, as if he's just now remembering. "I wasn't... there. I mean, I was in the palace, fast asleep; I seriously had my Sleeping Beauty moment, but I was very well protected and the attack didn't reach the area where they were holding me."

Peter wants to laugh. He tries. He realizes he can't.

"So how long have you been awake?"

Of all the questions he's asked, this is perhaps the most reasonable. Nobody knows Tony Stark is alive. Well, some people do, but the world doesn't. There hasn't been any announcement, any press conference, nothing to tell the world that Iron Man's death was a drill. So, if Peter hasn't completely lost his mind and is still thinking straight, Tony can't have been awake for very long.

"Twelve hours."

"What do you—" He stops abruptly, exasperated, offended, and tired in equal measure. "Twelve hours? Seriously? You woke up today and your best plan was to come here? For God's sake, Tony, someone could have seen you."

Tony throws up both hands, like someone who's just been caught doing something particularly stupid and is trying to show he's not a threat.

"Why are you mad at me? I should be mad. I wake up and the first thing I'm told is that the boy I died for doesn't exist."

Peter opens his mouth, but for several seconds he can't find anything to say.

What's he supposed to say to that?

"You didn't die for me." The words come out before he can stop them. "You can't say that. You didn't do it for me. You were saving everyone. You saved the universe. Millions of people. Billions. You..." He breaks off, desperately searching for a way to say it without his voice cracking. "You did what you had to do."

Tony stares at him for a long moment. Then he takes a breath and opens his mouth: "Peter—"

He shakes his head and looks away. His eyes are fixed on something on the counter, on the wine bottle, on the two glasses Tony has poured.

"You can't make it personal."

"It was personal."

Peter looks back at him, his brow furrowed. Tony doesn't smile this time, just gives him a wary look.

"It was very, very personal."

He doesn't say anything to that, but he still shakes his head again, his brow furrowing even more. No way. No damn way.

Why would Tony do all that for him, for Peter Parker, an ordinary kid who's done nothing but cause him trouble?

He followed him around for years like a lost puppy, so desperate for guidance and approval that he never realized how annoying he was. A problem. Tony had to die for Peter to realize that. He'd always been a problem, the problem. So there's no way. Tony couldn't have done what he did for him. He couldn't have looked at him, picked him out of millions, and decided his life was worth it.

Why would anyone choose to die for Peter Parker?

There's nothing about him worth it.

"You're an idiot." He says finally.

Tony looks at him for a few seconds.

Then he smiles. It's a small, almost relieved smile.

"Wow." He exhales silently, looking almost sad for a moment. Nostalgic. "You've really grown up."

Peter slowly lowers his gaze.

"Yeah."

The word comes out almost inaudible.

Tony smiles a little more, though there's something odd about his eyes. Something Peter can't quite put his finger on. He watches him for a few seconds, his gaze sweeping over him in a way that feels strangely familiar, as if he's trying to compare the man in front of him to the boy he remembers. And Peter understands, with an unexpected pang, that time hasn't passed the same way for Tony.

Tony fell asleep a man who knew one Peter. Then he woke up five years later and found another.

"You're twenty-two now, aren't you?" He tilts his head slightly. "Your birthday was in August."

"Oh." He raises an eyebrow, feeling a small smile begin to form on his lips. "You remember my birthday?"

Tony shrugs, somehow managing to make the gesture look guilty or regretful or... something. Peter still can't quite put his finger on it.

"How could I not?"

"You're bad at remembering birthdays."

"Not yours." 

Peter runs his tongue along the inside of his cheek. "I can drink now."

"I know, baby." Tony says gently, looking at him fondly. "That's why I brought wine."

Peter glances at the wine bottle and then at the two glasses on the counter. One is for Tony. The other is for him. It's a small detail, and yet it still manages to bring a lump to his throat.

"Can I...?"

He blinks, averting his gaze from the glasses. He looks back at Tony, who seems uneasy in his place, staring at him with something close to helplessness as he extends a hesitant hand toward him.

"Can I hug you?" He's practically pleading, and Peter feels his heart break. "Can I...? I want to feel you, I want—"

It just happens.

One second Tony is standing in front of him, with that vulnerable expression Peter never imagined he'd see again, and the next his arms are wrapped around him so tightly it almost seems like he's trying to stop the man from disappearing again.

His fingers grip the fabric of the black T-shirt, crumpling it between his knuckles, and for a few moments Peter can do absolutely nothing but stay there, his face buried against Tony's shoulder, breathing in the familiar scent of someone who, for five years, had been nothing but a memory.

He's alive.

The thought pierces him again with an almost painful force.

He's alive.

Tony doesn't hold back; his arms close around Peter with desperate force, and then Peter feels a hand on the back of his head, tangling in his hair. The other rests on his back, pulling him closer.

"I missed you." Tony's voice is barely a whisper against his hair. Then he exhales against his cheek, the gesture heavy with longing. "God, Pete, I missed you so much..."

"Me too." He murmurs, his eyes closed. "Everything's been wrong since you left."

The hand on the back of his neck stops moving and stays there, warm and firm, as if Tony needs to check that he really exists, that beneath his fingers there is hair, skin, and warmth.

"I know, I'm sorry."

Tony's voice is so low Peter barely hears it. He frowns.

"Why?"

"For not being there." Tony answers, sounding hurt and regretful. "I shouldn't have left you alone. I never should have. I was an idiot. Everything I did, I did it for you, and yet I couldn't be here when you needed me. I'm sorry I wasn't here. I..." He pulls back slightly, just enough to cup his face in his hands. "I wouldn't have allowed it. You know that, right? I wouldn't have let it happen."

Peter swallows hard. Tony's hands are still on his face, and the contact should feel strange after all this time, but it doesn't. It's too familiar. The roughness of his fingers, the warmth of his palms, the way his thumbs rest near his cheeks as if checking for any wounds. It all feels familiar.

"I know." He whispers, finally. Then he smiles at him affectionately. "You've always taken care of me."

"And I always will, understand? I'm going to take care of you."

Peter wants to tell him no, that he doesn't have to anymore, that he saved the universe, that he doesn't have to keep taking care of him. He wants to tell him that he's not a child anymore, that he's spent a lot of time alone, and that now he has his own kid to guide and care for.

But.

A small, wounded part of him still misses the feeling of being cared for.

Obviously, he doesn't say anything about it. He knows the difference between knowing he no longer needs someone to take care of him and wanting, for once, someone to do it.

Peter remains motionless in Tony's hands, feeling his thumbs slowly trace his cheeks. There's recognition in Tony's expression. The man is looking at him as if trying to memorize every change, every new line on his face, every tiny difference between the boy he remembers and the man standing before him.

"I'm not the same anymore." He says after a while.

Tony doesn't remove his hands. "I've noticed."

"I'm not a kid anymore."

"No." Tony's voice lowers slightly. "You're not."

Peter feels his ears grow hot.

He doesn't know why. He definitely doesn't know why.

Tony's hands slowly descend the sides of his face, grazing his jaw with a deliberation that makes Peter's pulse race. The heat in his ears spreads up his neck, and Peter has to force himself to keep his gaze fixed on Tony's dark eyes to avoid giving himself away.

Tony finally breaks the physical contact, taking a step back toward the counter, though his eyes never leave Peter's face.

"A glass of wine, then." Tony says, grinning broadly. "To celebrate that you can no longer cost me an expensive sexual harassment lawsuit."

The heat he felt in his ears now explodes across his face, rising in a fiery wave that flushes his cheeks a furious red.

"I..." Peter begins, though his voice comes out an octave higher than usual. He clears his throat hurriedly, feeling like his heart is going to burst out of his chest. "What?"

Tony rolls his eyes and makes a dismissive noise. "Believe me, keeping my hands still when you were fifteen and looking at me with those puppy-dog eyes was the hardest test of self-control I've ever had. And I have a reputation for being impulsive."

Peter is pretty sure he's having an aneurysm.

"Tony, it's not funny."

"I'm in my fifties, I don't have the energy to make up these kinds of confessions anymore." He grabs a glass of wine and hands it to him. "It's bad for my blood pressure."

He takes the glass, even though he has no appetite for wine. "You look young." He says, because choosing the other topic of conversation isn't going to end well for either of them.

"Oh, that."

Tony puts two slices of pizza on a plate that Peter hopes isn't for him because he's not hungry. He's never had an appetite lately.

"Extremis."

That does catch his attention.

He blinks and unconsciously takes a couple of steps toward Tony. "Wait, the latest version?" He can't hide the fascination in his voice. "The one—"

"The one you made." Tony finishes for him, nodding with a gentle smile. "Extremis is what kept me stable all these years. And you did it, so, technically, you saved my life."

It was like a huge weight had been lifted from his shoulders.

Knowing that Tony created time travel and snapped his fingers just for him, so he could come back and live and have a future, wasn't the flattering news Tony probably thought it would be. It only made him feel worse.

Tony had a good life; retired, with a wife and daughter. The perfect life, if you ask Peter, and none of it was enough. It wasn't because Peter wasn't there. So he risked everything he had to get him back, because apparently a life without Peter Parker wasn't really a good life. So he left his family behind and died. Because of him. Because of Peter.

He already felt guilty about May's death, even about Beck's death; he didn't need to feel guilty about Tony's death too.

But Tony is alive. And it's... thanks to him. Somehow.

He vividly remembers the weeks they spent working on Extremis. Although it was actually Peter who was working on Extremis, with Tony helping him from time to time, sometimes supervising him. He spent sleepless nights because he'd become obsessed with creating something that, perhaps, could one day save someone's life.

He spent many sleepless nights. Sometimes Tony would go to sleep and come back a couple of hours later; he'd try to convince him to go to bed, fail, and stay with him until dawn. Sometimes he helped him, sometimes he supervised him, sometimes he just sat on the couch in the workshop and worked on his StarkPad while Peter did his thing.

Those were good times.

Eleven years ago.

Man, it's been a while.

"And what about your strength?" He asks, looking him up and down in amazement.

"Yeah, uh." Tony grabs his own wine glass and turns to face him, his expression thoughtful. "Let's just say I'm still getting used to it. I broke a lot of things in Wakanda. No hard feelings. I told Shuri I'll pay for everything."

Peter lets out a small laugh, but can't hide the disbelief that still weighs on his face.

"It worked?" Peter repeats, setting his glass down on the counter without even tasting the wine. "Really?"

Tony smirks. "What? Surprised? I thought you had more faith in us."

"Yeah, well, science is very precise, but not very flexible."

The man's eyes widen for a moment before returning to normal. He looks almost scared. Or offended. Or something in between.

"Don't freak out, but Cap said the same thing."

He raises an eyebrow. "Sam talking about science? I've officially seen it all."

"He says it's a super-soldier serum."

The stupidity of that whole sentence leaves him expressionless for a moment. Then it makes him blink.

"Which it isn't."

"Exactly." For a moment, Tony looks genuinely relieved. Then he rolls his eyes. "But try explaining that to someone who doesn't have your brain or mine. Or Shuri's."

Peter lets out a snort that's half laughter and half genuine exasperation, feeling the familiarity of their scientific debates completely dissolve the last traces of discomfort.

"It's a bioprogrammable virus that rewrites the genetic code at the cellular level, not some glorified steroid from the 1940s." He retorts, crossing his arms. "Calling it a super-soldier serum is basically like calling nanobot armor a highly advanced can."

"Thanks!" Tony gestures to Peter with his wine glass, his eyes gleaming with the same manic enthusiasm he always has when someone validates his genius. "Exactly what I told him. Sam, man, I appreciate you, but your lack of forward-thinking vision is hurting my feelings and the kid's."

Peter smiles. He can't help it. It's a small, almost involuntary smile, but it's there. And for a moment he's surprised at how easy it is. How natural it feels. It's as if someone has opened a door that's been closed for years and, behind it, everything is still exactly where they left it.

Tony goes on, explaining, with almost childlike indignation, how Sam "lacks the sensitivity to grasp the nuances of advanced genetic engineering", and Peter can barely follow because he's too busy watching him.

Tony's hands, the way he holds his glass, the slight movement of his eyebrows when something strikes him as stupid, the way he moves his hands when he speaks. It's all there. It's all still there.

He is still there. 

"...so I told him that if he ever compared my organic nanotechnology to a World War II lab experiment again, I'd reprogram his wings." Tony concludes, taking a triumphant sip from his glass.

Noticing Peter's silence, Tony stops. He looks at him for a moment, and in an instant, the indignation dissipates, softening into a much gentler, almost intimate expression.

"I don't like it when I'm ignored." Tony says in a lower tone, though there's no reproach in his words. He sets his glass down on the counter with a subtle click. "What are you thinking about?"

Peter slowly uncrosses his arms, letting his hands fall to his sides.

"That you're actually here." He admits, and the honesty of his own voice takes him by surprise. He takes a short step forward, closing the distance. "You're alive. And you're still just as insufferable when someone doesn't understand you."

Tony lets out a short laugh.

"I'm a misunderstood genius. I thought you'd already accepted that burden."

"I did when I was fifteen." Peter replies, a spark of shyness mixed with newfound boldness making him meet Tony's gaze. "But now I'm twenty-two; therefore, I no longer have to marvel in silence, and I can tell you to your face that you're an egomaniac."

Tony raises an eyebrow, visibly delighted by the change of pace.

"Oh, look at you. You've grown claws and now you bite. I like it."

Peter just smiles, remaining silent for a long moment. His eyes move over Tony's face, memorizing every detail as it finally sinks in that Tony is, in fact, alive.

"Welcome back." He says softly, with a gentle smile. "It's really good to see you. Things are a little more fucked up than before, but I think you can handle it. The world still needs Iron Man. And I mean that literally; everything went to shit after your supposed death. It's even a little scary, but yeah." He takes a breath and exhales loudly, feeling his muscles relax. "I'm tired of dealing with all those assholes on my own, thanks for coming back."

Tony's smile fades slightly, becoming softer, much more affectionate.

"No." Tony says in an intimate murmur. "Don't thank me for that."

"But I want—"

"I mean it." He interrupts him, and before Peter can react, Tony's hand rises once more.

His fingers, firm, warm, and slightly rough, settle deliberately on Peter's shoulder, tightening the grip just enough to anchor him to the ground. 

"I didn't come back for the world." He looks at him for a moment and then admits in a whisper, honest: "I came back for you. I woke up and all my brain could process was that I'd left you alone in a world that has no mercy on the good. I don't give a damn about anyone else; I already saved the universe once. I already paid my dues to humanity. This was my only remaining job."

A tear slides down Peter's cheek before he can stop it. He immediately wipes it away with the back of his hand, embarrassed, but Tony doesn't say anything.

That makes Peter cry a little more.

Not much. Just a few silent tears fall as he lies still, breathing heavily and feeling ridiculously exposed. Tony says nothing. He just raises a hand and places it back on Peter's cheek, wiping away a tear with his thumb.

Peter unconsciously tilts his face toward the touch. At that, Tony lets out a shaky breath.

"I missed you so much." He repeats.

Peter smiles slightly. "Me too. A lot."

The silence returns; it doesn't pierce them uncomfortably, it just envelops them in a kind of safe space, where Peter's racing pulse begins to synchronize with Tony's.

"Was it true?"

Tony blinks. "What?"

"That you see me..." He hesitates for a moment. "in a certain way."

"Pete..." Tony exhales fondly, a tender smile playing on his lips. "If you only knew how many times I had to bite my tongue to keep from saying something that would ruin the only pure thing I had left in life."

He swallows.

"Since when?" He demands.

"Since Germany." Tony admits in a whisper, his thumb still pressed against Peter's cheekbone.

Now, what?

"B-But... that-that was ages ago." Peter stammers.

"I know." Tony replies immediately, the corner of his lip rising in a wistful grimace. "I'm not proud of it. Believe me, I spent entire nights telling myself I was sick."

Peter feels his ears burning with a furious intensity, the heat spreading rapidly up his neck beneath his T-shirt. His mind races back in time at lightning speed, rewriting every interaction, every late-night text, every time Tony's hand lingered a second too long on his back, every time Tony got a little too close, every time Tony tried to convince him to stay over and deliberately placed a hand on his waist. Fuck. It wasn't his imagination. It wasn't the embarrassing, one-sided teenage crush he thought he'd take to his grave.

Tony felt it too. It was always there.

"But..." He blinks and shakes his head, his brow furrowed in the confusion swirling in his mind. "But you were with Pepper."

"Yeah." Tony admits almost immediately, as if it were a fact. "I was. And I loved her, in a way, but..." He pauses and inhales, thinking about how to continue, but ends up letting out a short, dry laugh, more like an exhalation. "But we were never going to work. She's great, and she's the mother of my daughter, but... even though I know she loved Tony Stark, she didn't—"

"—love Iron Man." Peter finishes for him.

Tony looks at him fondly. "Exactly." He says in an affectionate whisper, before continuing: "She said my suits were a distraction. She said I couldn't keep putting myself in danger, that I had to change, that Iron Man had to be left behind, but... but Iron Man, my suits, my technology, all of that is—"

"—part of you." Peter finishes for him, once again.

"See? This is what I mean when I say you complete me. You always finish what I'm going to say."

Peter remembers.  Before Thanos, Tony used to tell him all the time. When they were in the shop and Tony needed something, he wouldn't even open his mouth to ask for it before Peter was practically handing it to him. Then Tony would say "you complete me." No looking at him, no sentimentality, just a fact. When Tony was tired or angry or worried, and Peter just knew it, so he'd order cheeseburgers for dinner or walk into the workshop with coffee and donuts. Then Tony would say "you complete me." When Pepper, Rhodey, and Happy would team up against Tony in a debate, and Peter thought it was unfair that it was three against one, so he'd side with Tony and somehow they'd win the argument. Then Tony would say it again: "You complete me."

When someone said something stupid, and Tony was too tired or annoyed to correct them, but Peter would do it instead. You complete me. When someone would ask Tony a question, and Tony would just look at him, so Peter would answer what Tony was going to say. You complete me. When Pepper got annoyed with Tony for staying up late, Peter would deliberately distract her with rambling conversations until she practically ran away from the garage. You complete me.

You complete me.

Over and over and over again.

God.

"You don't need to change anything." Peter finally says, his voice soft, silently marveling at how beautiful Tony's eyes are. They both share the same chocolate brown color, but Tony's are much more pretty. "This, all of this..." He gestures gently with his hand, vaguely indicating Tony's body. "It's perfect, Tony. You're perfect, all of you. Everything you are, everything you have, it's all perfect."

Tony remains completely still, his eyes locked on Peter's, his jaw clenched. Not like on the ferry, or like every time Peter did something stupid. He doesn't seem annoyed. Just affected, somehow. Maybe shocked.

Then he blinks and sighs.

"God, Pete... Don't say things like that. You know I'm far from perfect. I'm, quite possibly, the most flawed man alive."

Peter can't help but smile at that. Then, almost laughing, he begins:

"I love you—"

"I love you too."  Tony says immediately.

"—because of your flaws, not in spite of them." He finishes.

Tony doesn't respond. At least not right away. That makes the smile on his face linger a little longer, because Tony Stark always has something to say. Always. Even when he should be quiet. Not now. Now Peter has left him speechless.

He feels incredibly proud. He can barely stop strutting.

"You're going to be the death of me." Tony murmurs, and although he tries to use a sarcastic tone, his voice cracks subtly on the last syllable.

"So..." He swallows, looking at him. "Now what?"

"It's up to you."

Peter blinks. "Uh..."

"You decide." Tony helps him. "I'll let you take the reins of... this. Whatever you want it to be."

Peter is speechless, blinking slowly as he processes what his mentor just told him.

"I decide?" He repeats in a whisper. "Tony, I... I barely know what I'm going to do with my life tomorrow. You can't put me in charge of... this."

"Of course I can." Tony murmurs, smiling at him warmly. "I spent years setting the rules between us because it was the right thing to do, but... well, it's up to you now."

Peter swallows, his chest rising and falling slowly.

"I don't want you to be my mentor." He admits, and this time his voice doesn't tremble.

Tony raises his eyebrows slightly, visibly surprised, but the gleam of pure satisfaction that crosses his eyes is immediate. A big, warm hand slides to Peter's waist.

"No?" Tony teases. "Then what do you want?"

"I want you to be..." Peter begins, but the words catch in his throat. He frowns and looks away, as if he could find the answer written somewhere in his apartment. On the table. On the floor. On the wine bottle. Anywhere. "I don't know."

Tony says nothing. Peter presses his lips together.

"I don't want you to be my mentor." He repeats it, this time more slowly, trying to hear his own words. "I don't want you to be my boss. I don't want you to be the person who tells me what to do, or the one who shows up when I'm doing something stupid to save my ass, or the one who has to fix my mistakes because I can't fix them myself."

He pauses.

"I don't want to need you anymore."

Peter immediately sees something change in Tony's face. Just a subtle detail. The smile disappears, his eyes soften, and his hand loosens from its grip on Peter's waist, though it doesn't move away either.

Oh, well.

"No." He corrects himself quickly, looking up. "No, wait. It's not that."

Tony remains silent. Peter takes a breath.

"I mean..." He runs a hand through his hair, frustrated with himself. "I want to be able to choose you."

Tony blinks, looking disoriented or bewildered or confused, or all at once, and Peter, not for the first time, curses himself for being so bad with words.

"I want it to be because I want to be with you. Not because you're my mentor. Not because you're Iron Man. Not because you're the person who got me my first suit or because you've decided I'm your responsibility." His fingers slowly close at his sides. "I want to be able to look at you and know I'm here because I chose to be here."

Tony watches him for several seconds. Then he takes a breath.

"Pete..."

"I'm not finished."

That manages to elicit a small smile from him. Peter smiles too, though his own smile trembles slightly.

"I want to get to know you again, because I know who you were, but you don't know the man standing in front of you. And I don't know who you are now either. You woke up twelve hours ago. I've been living without you for five years. You fell asleep with memories of me and woke up expecting to find the same boy."

Tony lowers his gaze slightly.

"And I'm not that boy anymore."

"No." He replies.

"But I also don't want my life to become about trying to prove to you that I'm still him."

Tony looks up again, and Peter feels a lump in his throat because, oh, this is really happening.

His fifteen-year-old self would be going crazy. He feels like he's going crazy.

"I want you to get to know this Peter." He says, though it's more of a request. "And I want you to decide if you like him."

For some reason, somehow, Tony looks at him in a completely new way. As if he admires him. Obviously, he's not used to that. Tony used to look at him with affection, amusement, respect, concern, and anger when Peter did something stupid. But never with admiration. 

But he could get used to it.

So Tony nods, just once.

"Okay."

He blinks. "Okay?"

"Okay."

"Just like that?"

"No." Tony shakes his head, and a small smile appears on his face. "It'll probably be very complicated. It's you. Nothing with you can be easy."

His jaw drops a little, and he stares at Tony, mouth agape, for a moment. Then he blinks, confused.

"That's, uh, a little unfair, I think." He says, though it sounds more like a question.

"But you're gorgeous." Tony continues, still with a small, excited, almost childlike smile on his lips. "And you've got a brilliant mind, and a heart of gold, and I'm seriously dying to fuck you, so—"

But Peter is already kissing him.