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The common room at the Avengers Compound sounded like an active warzone, but to anyone who had lived there for more than a month, it was just a Tuesday.
The argument had started over something utterly trivial like whether Steve’s morning training sessions were "dinosaur-era authoritarianism" or if Tony’s late-night lab runs were "reckless self-destruction." Within ten minutes, it had escalated from passive-aggressive jabs to full-throated yelling.
"I am trying to keep this team functioning, Tony! That requires structure, not whatever chaos you're running down in the workshop!" Steve shouted, his voice echoing off the glass walls. He stood tall, jaw set, chest broad, towering over the kitchen island.
"Structure?" Tony scoffed, throwing his hands in the air, a half-empty mug of coffee sloshing dangerously. "You call micro-managing everyone's alarm clock structure? Some of us actually build the tech that keeps you alive out there, Cap! I work when the genius strikes!"
"You work until you collapse!" Steve snapped, stepping forward, his finger pointed directly at Tony’s chest. "And then you make mistakes!"
"Don't talk to me about mistakes, Rogers!" Tony jabbed back, shoving Steve’s hand out of his face.
The physical contact sparked the usual fuse. Steve shoved Tony back—hard enough to send him stumbling into the counter. Tony sneered, grabbed an empty metal thermos from the island, and hurled it straight at Steve’s chest. It clanged off the Super Soldier’s arm with a deafening CRACK, denting the metal and dropping to the floor. Steve lunged forward, grabbing Tony by the front of his shirt, and Tony swung a right hook that caught Steve squarely on the jaw.
In the corner of the room, Natasha didn't even look up from her iPad. Clint was casually buttering toast at the far end of the counter, stepping slightly to the left to avoid a flying couch cushion. Rhodey was scrolling through his phone, completely unfazed. They all knew the routine: Steve and Tony were both stubborn, loud, and competitive. They blew off steam like volatile chemical reactions, threw a few blows, yelled until their throats were raw, and then usually sat down twenty minutes later to share a pot of coffee and review mission schematics. It was their bizarre, dysfunctional way of recalibrating.
Except someone else was in the room.
Peter Parker was sitting on the plush leather sofa, a half-finished trigonometry worksheet in his lap. He had only been living at the Compound on weekends for a few months. He knew about the Civil War, he’s the one who had been recruited to fight in Leipzig, an event that still gave him night terrors. He knew how fragile the team had been, how hard everyone had worked to piece the Avengers back together.
To Peter, this wasn't a normal Tuesday. This was the end of the world.
His super-sensory hearing amplified every smack of fist against flesh, every harsh, venomous insult hurled back and forth. His heart slammed against his ribs like a trapped bird. They're doing it again, his brain screamed. The team is breaking. It's happening right now, and it's going to split apart forever.
"Hey- h-hey, guys?" Peter’s voice was small, entirely lost beneath Tony’s roar of, "You think you're the only one carrying the weight of the world?!"
Steve threw another punch, clip-boarded Tony in the shoulder, sending him tumbling back toward the glass display.
"Stop! P-please, j-just stop!" Peter scrambled off the couch, his homework scattering across the floor like leaves. Panic seized his throat, tightening until he could barely breathe. He rushed forward, throwing himself into the space between the two titans.
"Mr. Stark! Captain Rogers! Don't do this!"
"Get out of the way, Peter!" Tony barked, his face red, hair messy, utterly blind to the terror in the kid's eyes as he tried to push past him to get another shot at Steve.
"Stand back, kid, this doesn't concern you!" Steve grunted, stepping around Peter, his fists balled, broad shoulders tense and ready for another strike.
Peter held his hands out, trembling, trying to push them apart with his incredible strength, but he was too terrified of hurting either of them to apply real force. He felt completely powerless. He watched Steve's furious eyes, saw the bruise already forming on Tony's cheek, and the sheer weight of the memory of Siberia, Leipzig, the text messages that went unanswered for months came crashing down on his chest.
"Please," Peter choked out, his voice cracking violently. "Please don't break the team again... don't leave... please..."
Steve raised a fist to dodge around Peter’s arm, and Tony pulled back to counter-
And then a sharp, wet gasp cut through the sound of their heavy breathing.
Both men froze mid-motion.
Peter was standing between them, his hands still raised defensively, but his shoulders were shaking uncontrollably. Tears were streaming freely down his pale cheeks, spilling over his jaw and dripping onto his t-shirt. His chest heaved in rapid, shallow hitches, his eyes wide and glossy with pure, unadulterated terror. He looked impossibly small, swallowed up by his oversized hoodie.
"I can't... I can't do it again," Peter sobbed, pressing the palms of his hands against his eyes, trying frantically to wipe the tears away, but they just kept coming. "I don't want you guys to hate each other... please don't go..."
Silence fell over the common room so heavy it felt tangible.
Clint froze with the butter knife halfway to his toast. Natasha lowered her tablet, her eyebrows drawing together in sudden realization. Rhodey set his phone down, rubbing the back of his neck with a guilty grimace.
Steve lowered his hands instantly, his knuckles white, the anger draining out of his face so fast he looked almost ghostly pale. He looked at Tony, then down at the crying teenager shivering between them, and the reality of the situation hit him like a freight train.
Tony stared at Peter, his mouth slightly open, the adrenaline instantly evaporating, replaced by a cold, sickening pit of guilt in his stomach. They had been so caught up in their own stupid, stubborn dynamic that they had completely forgotten who was in the room.
They weren't just two old veterans blowing off steam in front of seasoned spies. They were two towering figures fighting violently in front of a fifteen-year-old kid who already carried the weight of losing his uncle, his mentors, and his sense of safety.
"Pete..." Tony’s voice lost all its harsh bite, dropping into a soft, panicked register. He stepped forward, completely ignoring his aching shoulder, and reached out. "Hey... hey, kiddo. Look at me."
Peter shrank back slightly, letting out a small, miserable hiccup, his hands still clutching his face. "Are... are you guys going to split up?"
"No! God, no, Peter, zero percent chance," Tony said rapidly, his hands moving frantically as he tried to figure out how to touch the kid without scaring him further. He grabbed Peter gently by the shoulders, pulling him back from Steve just a fraction, though his own touch was entirely gentle. "Pete, buddy, look at me. Breathe. Come on, breathe for me."
Steve immediately dropped to one knee so he was below Peter's eye level, stripping away every ounce of his intimidating posture. "Peter, listen to Mr. Stark. No one is leaving. No one is splitting up. I swear to you."
"You-you were punching him," Peter sniffled, a heavy tear slipping down his nose. "You threw a thermos..."
"Because I'm an idiot!" Tony blurted out, placing a firm, reassuring hand on the back of Peter's neck. "Because Cap and I are two overgrown, stubborn, brain-dead idiots who yell when we should just go hit a punching bag. It’s just... it's how we argue, Pete. It doesn't mean we're mad for real. It doesn't mean the team is over."
"It's true, son," Steve said softly, his voice full of genuine remorse as he looked up at the boy. "Tony and I... we disagree a lot. We're both too proud for our own good. But we're brothers. We fight, but we don't walk away. Not anymore. I promise you, on my life, this team isn't going anywhere."
Peter hiccuped again, looking between Tony’s bruised face and Steve’s apologetic blue eyes. "You... you promise?"
"I double-promise. Cross my heart, hope to die, stick a needle in my eye," Tony said earnestly, completely dropping his cool facade as he pulled Peter into a firm, tight hug.
Peter hesitated for a fraction of a second before burying his face right into Tony's chest, his fingers clutching tightly at the back of Tony's shirt. Tony wrapped his arms securely around the kid, resting his chin on top of Peter's messy brown hair, shooting Steve a glance over the boy's shoulder that screamed Look what we did, you idiot.
Steve looked back with equal guilt, standing up slowly and placing a large, warm hand on Peter’s back, rubbing steady, grounding circles between the boy's shoulder blades.
"We're sorry, Peter," Steve murmured softly. "We forgot how loud we get. We never meant to scare you."
"I wasn't scared for me," Peter mumbled into Tony's shirt, his voice muffled. "I was scared for you guys."
Tony let out a wet, breathless laugh, squeezing the boy a little tighter. "Kid, you're a menace. You're tougher than both of us combined, you know that?" He pulled back slightly, framing Peter’s face with his hands and wiping a tear off the boy's cheek with his thumb. "How about we make a deal? From now on, if Cap and I start raising our voices, you have full permission to web both of us to the ceiling until we apologize."
Peter let out a small, watery giggle, wiping his nose on his sleeve. "Really?"
"Absolutely," Steve agreed immediately, offering Peter a small, warm smile. "In fact, I'll even give you permission to leave Tony up there for an extra hour."
"Hey! Don't ruin the moment, Rogers," Tony warned, though there was no heat in his voice at all—only relief as he saw the tension finally leave Peter's small frame.
Rhodey walked over, tossing a box of tissues onto the coffee table and shaking his head at the two older men. "You two are absolute morons," he muttered, though his eyes were kind as he patted Peter on the shoulder. "You doing alright, kid?"
"Yeah," Peter said softly, taking a tissue and blowing his nose loudly. "Yeah, I'm okay."
"Good," Tony said, clapping his hands together and wrapping an arm securely around Peter's shoulders to steer him toward the kitchen. "Because I think Cap owes us all an apology in the form of actual, edible food. What do you say, Steve? You making pancakes, or do I have to fire you?"
"I'll make the pancakes," Steve said with a soft chuckle, stepping past them toward the stove, cast iron pan already in hand. "Extra chocolate chips for Peter."
"Deal," Peter smiled, wiping the last of his tears away as he sat down on the barstool, finally feeling the tight knot in his chest unwind.
The common room was quiet again, the lingering tension completely erased, not by a victory over a villain, but by a crying teenager who reminded two stubborn heroes what they were actually fighting to keep together.