Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Plenty of people wanted Tony Stark dead. That much was a given.

A man like Stark collected enemies the way others collected shiny trinkets. Not that it ever seemed to matter — he greeted the world with that perfect megawatt smile, flashing peace signs to the paparazzi and cracking jokes at the worst possible moments, as though he lived above the consequences of the commoners. Arrogant. Untouchable.

Untouchable was just a word — myth, not reality; everyone had their weak spots. And arrogance? That was Stark’s.

Case in point: his plane. Guarded by little more than cloaking tech, despite the priceless, volatile cargo inside. Typical, predictable behavior — banking on the assumption that sheer brilliance was enough to keep his toys out of reach of anyone who dared try.

The intruder moved. Slipping from shadow into the belly of the plane, footsteps easily muffled by the humming machinery of the aircraft. Some might call this whole job reckless — the concept, the execution, all of it — but ‘reckless’ was merely a descriptor for people who didn’t understand their own limits. This wasn’t his first job. It wouldn’t be his last. (Though it would certainly be one of the most satisfying.)

In pure technicalities, he was here to acquire the target — not eliminate Stark. But who was he to waste a golden opportunity? Even if the attempt failed, he’d still walk away with what he came for. Perhaps he’d even inspire a little fear. The smallest oversight, one unaccounted for factor, a minor deviation… and even the great Tony Stark could bleed.

As he got to work on the lock, he imagined Stark’s face when he realized he’d been outplayed; that look of dawning realization that his prized technology had been cracked open and exposed. For someone so accustomed to being two steps ahead, Stark would finally taste the sting of being left behind. Though, not for very long, hopefully — just enough to recognize the error of his ways, feel the acidic bite of losing — right before the bomb did its job. The very thought of it sent a ripple of electricity down his spine.

Now, now — he couldn’t get ahead of himself quite yet. No mistakes. Patience was a virtue — his virtue — and the sharpest weapon in his arsenal against a man like Stark.

A hiss broke the silence — the seal of the lock disengaging with a soft exhale, tearing him out of his pleasantly vengeful fantasies. The case opened, revealing a sleek, polished surface, and he could feel the corners of his mouth curling in an easy grin. Beautiful — and deadly, which made it all the more appealing in his eyes. Alien, no doubt about that; Stark had a habit of taking things that weren’t his to begin with.

Much as he might have enjoyed staying to watch the fireworks, he knew better than to linger. Carefully, he secured the explosive — in his eyes, the final and most important piece — beneath one of the storage compartments, out of sight. No need to harm others. Stark was the target. The others… the others were just collateral, if they were unlucky enough to stand too close. Unfortunate, but some sacrifices had to be made for the greater good.

He glanced back over his shoulder, making a final sweep to ensure everything was as it should be. A clean job. In and out.

Untouchable , he thought again — this time with more wry amusement than bitterness. Stark had been wrong about that.

~ ~ ~

[CNN LIVE — 6:42 PM EST]

BREAKING NEWS: Billionaire Tony Stark Target of an Assassination Attempt; Authorities Remain Tight-Lipped as Details Emerge.

“Tonight, we begin with a shocking story that has seized national attention. Billionaire inventor and former CEO of Stark Industries, Tony Stark, was the target of an apparent assassination attempt in what experts are calling a highly calculated attack. Sources indicate that an explosive device aboard his private plane — supposedly a routine trip, carrying Stark Industries tech from Avengers Tower to the upstate Compound — was rigged to detonate specifically in Mr. Stark’s presence, suggesting a level of sophistication that has security analysts and the public alike asking how such a breach was even possible.”

“So far, it seems that only Mr. Stark and his long-term bodyguard, Harold “Happy” Hogan, were caught in the vicinity of the blast. At this time, the condition of both remains unclear. The two were rushed to a secure medical facility, but authorities have yet to release any updates, fueling speculation about the severity of their injuries.”

“The questions, however, go far beyond Mr. Stark’s current condition. Many are wondering why he was involved with this flight to begin with. Historically, Mr. Stark does not handle the delivery or inspection of routine tech transports himself, leaving industry experts to believe that this particular shipment may have included highly classified or experimental technology. The presence of Mr. Stark has led some to speculate that this attack was more than just a personal vendetta — was this an attempt to steal dangerous tech hidden among the cargo? And, if they succeeded, what does this mean for the public at large?”

“Even more troubling is the manner in which the unknown assailant managed to breach Stark’s security systems. Stark Industries is known for its top-tier defense technology, thought by many to be virtually impenetrable. Was this a rare and costly vulnerability in Stark’s tech, a potential insider leak, or could it be a deliberate oversight? The failure to prevent this attack raises critical questions about how secure Stark — and his technology — truly are.”

“If the attacker managed to escape with any of Stark’s assets, it could pose a direct risk to public safety. Stark Industries has yet to confirm whether anything was taken, but law enforcement is investigating possible theft. What was in that cargo hold, and why was it so essential for Stark himself to be there?”

“Speculation is already rampant, with some suggesting that this may be tied to recent tensions within the tech industry, where Stark’s work in artificial intelligence and the cleanup of alien weaponry from the Battle of New York has been a matter of public and governmental scrutiny. If this attempt on his life is connected to his latest projects, what does this mean for the future of his work, his allies, and his competitors?”

“That is all the information we have for now, but as always, we’ll continue to monitor this story and keep you updated as more information becomes available.”

~ ~ ~

Pepper had always assumed that she would hear about Tony’s death through a phone call.

It wasn’t as though she was a stranger to this particular genre of calls, ones that started with ‘Tony’s been attacked’ and ended with her being ordered into some kind of protection until the risk had been assessed. She’d dealt with more than her fair share, even before Tony became Iron Man and long before she’d fallen in love with him. The familiarity of the situation did nothing to stop the same hollow pit from forming in her stomach, nor the sickening feeling of freefall; that split-second where she waited to hear if was replaced is. If anything, with each new call, each fresh attempt on Tony’s life, she wondered if this would finally be the time he didn’t manage to escape the fate he always seemed to outrun.

Tony and Happy have been attacked.

Closing her eyes, she took a long, measured breath, channeling the self-control she’d cultivated over the years of dealing with Tony to keep her voice from shaking, asking that dreaded question. “Are they… alive?”

Freefall.

“Yes,” Rhodey answered immediately, from the other end of the line, and she could hear the same perfectly balanced strain mirrored in his own voice. The impact of the words knocked the breath from her chest, the single syllable nearly blurring out the precious crumbs of information that followed. “But I don’t know how bad it is yet. I’m on my way to where they were taken — I’ll keep you posted.”

At that, Pepper swallowed, then nodded — more for her own benefit than the colonel’s. “I’ll get Morgan. We’ll be there as soon as we can.”

“I’m sending an escort for you both,” Rhodey said, his voice crackling faintly over the line. Pepper caught the distant beep of a car unlocking, the rustle of fabric, and the low thrum of an engine. “We still don’t have any solid intel on who orchestrated the attack or whether you two are still in immediate danger.”

“One of the team?” Pepper asked, already moving. Her hands worked on autopilot, stuffing a few of her and Morgan’s essentials into her purse, alongside a haphazard handful of Stark Industries documents awaiting signatures and processing. She didn’t bother pretending she’d get any work done at the hospital — old habits just died hard. She never left home without something from the office, just in case. (The lifestyle of a busy woman, she lamented.) The disarrayed nature of her choices was the only clue as to the gravity of the situation; she couldn’t even recall which papers she’d grabbed this time.

Rhodey’s reply pulled her from her thoughts.

“No, they’re all out on a mission,” he answered, the edge in his voice evident even through the tinny distortion of the speakerphone. “It’s all hands on deck — except for, well, you know. They’ve been notified, and they’ll rendezvous when they can.”

Pepper exhaled, slow and deliberate. The Avengers, out on a mission without Tony. It had been years since he’d stepped away from active duty, choosing to semi-retire Iron Man when Morgan was born. An attempt at appeasing her, at hanging up the lifestyle of perpetual danger — barring any “true world-ending events” (in his words).

Pepper was under no illusions that the decision had been entirely for her sake; after all, he hadn’t been able to give up Iron Man for her the first time around, nor any subsequent time after. No, it was Morgan who had caused the final change in heart. Tony, ever-desperate to avoid becoming his father, knew he couldn’t outrun Howard’s legacy if he ended up in a grave.

She hadn’t pushed him toward the decision, either. She had long since learned that pushing Tony Stark to do anything against his will was a futile endeavor — ineffective at best, catastrophic at worst. And she’d made her peace with being in love with a man who was reckless, sometimes, to the point of self-destruction. She trusted him to be a better father than Howard had been, but Tony hadn’t shared that confidence.

His own childhood had been overshadowed by the superhero world, long before he donned a suit himself. The relentless search for Steve Rogers and the demands of Stark Industries had consumed Howard’s attention, leaving Tony to grow up in the shadow of a father whose priorities never seemed to include him.

Tony had learned many things as a child, but the lesson that stuck the most — the one that hadn’t originated from any school or curriculum, but from within his own home — was that the work always came first. Pepper didn’t know all the details, but she was certain Howard had justified his choices (both the Captain America and Stark Industries related ones) as sacrifices for the greater good, for the advancement of mankind.

To Tony, being Iron Man had become an extension of that very same argument. Sacrificing himself for the greater good — even at the cost of his presence as a father — felt like history repeating itself. It was a comparison Tony couldn’t handle, and it had sealed his resignation the very second it had slipped into his mind. (Barring world-ending events, of course. He wouldn’t stand idly by if the world was at stake, because surviving only to die alongside the rest of humanity was no trade-off at all. That, though, was just plain parental love — after all, what parent wouldn’t give their own life in a last ditch attempt to make a world their child could live in?)

Pepper had been secretly (or perhaps not so secretly) relieved by the decision; even as she knew in her heart of hearts that Tony would not hesitate to be the hero again, if need be. It was who he was — she knew his semi-resignation was only delaying the inevitable. There would be a day when he would come to her with an apology in his eyes and unspoken on his lips, and she would have to look back at him and say “it’s okay,” because Tony Stark was a man who could not rest so long as there was something left to save. Even if he didn’t know it himself yet.

It rankled, then, that he hadn’t been injured on some stray mission as Iron Man; only as himself. In fact, in some cruel twist of fate, if he’d have been on the mission instead, he wouldn’t have been caught in the explosion, and would likely have come out relatively unscathed, comparatively speaking. 

Pepper didn’t allow herself to dwell on that thought any longer. 

“Military, then, I presume?” she asked, proud when her voice stayed level. Rhodey hummed an affirmative.

“They should be there in ten minutes or so. Hang tight.”

Pepper nodded to the air again, knowing Rhodey couldn’t see her but that he’d sense her agreement. There was a pause, and she drew another breath in, long and slow. Long and slow. She refused to panic.

“Rhodey?” she asked, and that was when the waver hit — the slightest wobble to her syllables, the downward pitch to her tone. She didn’t continue her question; she wasn’t even sure, entirely, what she meant to ask. But the good thing about being around Tony for well over a decade was that they both understood each other in some unspoken way. Rhodey understood. He always understood.

“I’ve got him, Pepper. I’ve got him.”

—

“Can a day go by where you don’t give me a heart attack?”

Tony snorted. “I just survived an assassination attempt, aren’t you supposed to be nice to me?”

Rhodey regarded him with a frosty look. “I would , except this is your default state and for the sake of my sanity and blood pressure, I’m done pretending like this is anything other than a Tuesday for you.”

Tony opened his mouth to retort, but the ache in his chest, head, and — frankly — every part of him, was too distracting. Instead, he settled for a sigh. “This one’s not even my fault.”

For once, he was telling the truth on that — he hadn’t gone out expecting trouble, or looking for it in his suit. A lot of good that did him, clearly.

Rhodey arched an eyebrow disbelievingly before crossing his arms. Between that and the defeated-sounding sigh, followed by the unobtrusive once-over, Tony knew that the token argument had passed.

“You look like crap,” he offered, and Tony knew it was his way of saying it’s good to see you . Tony mustered a grin in return — as reassuring as he could make it.

“Look who’s talking,” he shot back, voice hoarse. It’s good to see you too , went unspoken. “Seriously, don’t they have mirrors at boot camp?”

At the usual response, Rhodey’s shoulders seemed to slump and the last of the tension drained from him. “Yes, Tony, I have a mirror,” he sounded exhausted, but there was an irrefutable line of relief soaking through the words. "Pepper and Morgan are on their way, I should call and give them an update.”

Tony winced internally at the thought of his daughter seeing him like this. Though it was hardly the worst injury he’d faced in his life (it barely held a candle to anything that went down in Afghanistan), it was the most he’d been injured since retiring from Iron Man — and as such, Morgan wasn’t used to seeing him in such a state. 

Regardless, he supposed he couldn’t protect her from the reality he often faced, and it was better to break it to her with an incident where he was awake and aware enough to reassure her. Just in case there came a time when he couldn’t. It was a rather morbid thought, but Tony had gotten rather used to that as his reality by now. (Frankly, he wasn’t even sure it could truly count as ‘morbid’ when it was just realism, but that was semantics.)

Rhodey glanced down at his phone, leaning over and patting Tony on the shoulder before heading for the door. “Nevermind, it looks like they’re here already. Pepper’s giving me Morgan-watching duty, so you’re off the hook for a bit. She’ll be in to see you in a minute.”

Tony grimaced slightly. “So she can reprimand me without our five-year-old listening in, right? Come on, Rhodey,” he turned pleading eyes on his long-term best friend, “I don’t suppose you could help Morgan stage a rescue mission for me?”

Rhodey grinned, but there was no sympathy in it. “Not a chance. I take my Uncle Rhodey duties quite seriously. You’re on your own for this one.”

With one last pat on Tony’s shoulder (that seemed more for self-reassurance rather than anything else), Rhodey slipped out, and Tony took a deep breath, bracing himself. He tried to arrange himself in a way that made him look less injured — though he wasn’t quite sure it was a successful endeavor, and his aching body protested his efforts.

Less than a moment later, the door opened once more, and Pepper walked in — as beautiful and outwardly composed as always, despite the haggard look in her gaze and the way her hands were clenched tightly at her sides. 

Tony flashed her his most charming grin — the one that usually bought him forgiveness, or at least a five-second head start. Pepper, as always, remained maddeningly immune. Still, worth a shot.

“Honey, before you say anything, just know I explicitly didn’t schedule today’s explosion. Completely unsanctioned. I’m filing a complaint.”

Pepper raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. But she stepped closer anyway, fingers threading gently through his hair, the slant of her mouth belying some amusement. 

“Mm,” she murmured, tone warm despite herself. “And the part where you ended up on the six o’clock news?”

“Yeah, I saw,” he grumbled. “They couldn’t even use a decent photo. If I’m going to be nearly vaporized, the least they could do is run the GQ cover. Let me die photogenic.”

“Tony.”

“Okay, okay, it wasn’t even that big of an explosion,” he backtracked quickly. “'Vaporized' is dramatic. Artisanal detonation. Small-batch.”

“ Tony .” She gave him that look. He shut his mouth. Grinned innocently.

“Yes, dear,” he said, too sweetly. (He was actually glad Rhodey wasn’t in the room at the moment — he could already picture the shit-eating grin he'd get for how fast Pepper got him to roll over. Not that it would shock anyone, but Tony Stark had a reputation to uphold.)

At that, she sighed and shook her head, leaning down to press a gentle kiss to his forehead — a familiar motion that he found himself leaning into. Her hand found his, their fingers intertwining in a firm, comforting grip, and she brushed a thumb over his knuckles as she spoke.

“You scared us.” Her voice was quiet, and all the more painful for the fact that it was the basic truth.

“I know,” he replied softly, giving her hand a gentle squeeze. “I’m sorry, Pep. I should’ve been more careful. Just wasn’t expecting it. Didn’t follow through on all of Hap’s security protocols.” He let out a quiet grumble, the sound more weary than annoyed, even to his own ears. “He’s really going to be on my ass about them now.”

The doctors had already updated him on Happy’s condition when he woke — whiplash, a broken arm, and a handful of other injuries that would leave him stuck in bed for a while. Nothing life-threatening, thankfully. That knowledge dulled the guilt enough for Tony to complain, if only a little, about the state of their security.

Pepper pressed her lips together in a firm line, and he knew he’d hit a nerve; an age-old argument they’d had about his safety. But when she spoke, it was still in that quiet, exhausted tone. “You’re not invincible, Tony.”

“I know,” he murmured, back, giving a half-shrug. “I’m retired, remember? It’s just — it’s been so long, I forgot that Tony Stark can just as well be a target, too.” Her mouth turned down at the corners at that particular reminder, and he rushed to reassure her. “But I’ve got FRI on it already. Whoever tried it failed, and they won’t get a second chance.”

Pepper didn’t seem wholly convinced by his insistence, but she didn’t argue, leaning down to press another kiss against his mouth — her form of agreement. For now, at least. After a moment, he squeezed her hand again and looked down, shifting to try and take the pressure off his aching bones. 

“How’s Morgan holding up?”

Pepper smiled, some of the tension leaking out of her face. “She’s fine. I’m sure Rhodey’s spoiling her with juice and cartoons in the waiting room. She doesn’t know the details, but she’s been asking about you ever since we got the call.”

Tony’s lips quirked up. “You think I can spin my heroic survival into one of my bedtime stories?” Pepper seemed torn between looking amused and chastising at the comment, and he grinned in earnest. “What, too soon?”

She made a noncommittal sound in the back of her throat, shaking her head slightly. “A little,” she agreed.

Before Tony could come up with a suitably inappropriate response for the given situation, the door cracked open, and Rhodey poked his head back in. “Alright, I’ve got Morgan asking every two minutes when she can see her dad, so if you’re ready for the little miss’s royal inspection, I can bring her in.”

Tony perked up, pushing himself up on the bed as much as his bruised body allowed. He gave Rhodey his best shit-eating grin, remembering the man’s insistence about ‘no prison breaks.’ Evidently, he was just as unequipped to deal with the full force of Morgan’s pleading as Tony himself was.

“Absolutely,” he said, taking mercy on Rhodey’s sanity (for once). That was apparently all the confirmation he needed, before the door opened wider and a tiny brown-haired blur sped in.

“Daddy!” Morgan squealed, rushing to his bedside, and Tony managed a huff of a laugh as she threw her small arms around him in a gentle hug — considerate enough, even in her excitement, not to press too hard on his bandaged side.

“Hey, Morguna,” he murmured softly, smoothing a hand over her hair. “I missed you.”

She pulled back, her wide, worried eyes scanning his face and then his arms. He braced himself for a meltdown on her end, or at least a wobbly lip and tear-filled eyes, but found none. In fact, the expression on her face reminded him eerily of Pepper — the cute furrowed brow and downward twist to her lips, seeming concerned but more composed than a five year old probably should be. She was her mother’s child, then — she certainly did not take after him in that department. A wave of fondness swept through him at the thought, and he reached out a hand to brush strands of hair out of her face once more. (A useless endeavor, truly, because every time she moved — which was every second — they fell forward again. Tony found it was more for his benefit than her own; not that he would ever admit that.)

“Are you okay, Daddy?” Morgan asked, peering at him closely. “Uncle Rhodey said you got in a big boo-boo accident.”

Tony shot Rhodey a look, trying not to laugh at the imagined words coming out of his best friend’s mouth.

“Did he now?” he asked, watching as Rhodey stared pointedly at the far wall, face completely neutral. Tony couldn’t help the chuckle that escaped him as he looked back down at his daughter, her face still scrunched up.  “I’m okay, little miss. Just a little banged up, that’s all. You know me — I’ll be back to my old self in no time.”

Morgan looked him dead in the eyes, her serious expression a near-identical template of Pepper’s. (Yet again with his brain drawing these comparisons between the two. He was getting sappy in his old age.) 

“Promise?”

He held up his pinky with a solemn nod. “Pinky promise.”

Yeah. Sappy as hell.

She hooked her pinky around his and held it there for a second longer than usual, like it would irrevocably seal it in reality the longer they stayed linked. Satisfied, she let go, but not without a lingering, mildly suspicious look in his direction. (Ever the skeptic — another thing she got from her mother. Actually, upon further consideration, maybe that one was his fault.)

Tony caught Rhodey’s faint, amused snort in the background, and he glanced up to see his friend smirking. Feeling particularly vengeful, Tony silently mouthed back, ‘ Big boo-boo accident?’  

Rhodey’s face shifted into an exaggerated scowl, but it was the kind Tony knew came along with genuine affection; his posture was far too relaxed to indicate actual annoyance. Pepper — watching them both — rolled her eyes exasperatedly, while Morgan remained blissfully oblivious. The usual.

Pepper crouched to Morgan’s eye level, smoothing a hand over her shoulder. “Alright, sweetheart, it’s time to head home. Daddy needs to rest so he can get better faster.”

Morgan’s eyes flicked to Tony, reluctant to leave, but Tony gave her an encouraging nod. “Your mom’s right, Morguna. Go home, get some sleep, and tomorrow you can tell me all about what you and Uncle Rhodey got up to.”

Morgan sighed — but despite her young age, she was unnervingly perceptive to pragmatism, and seemed to find this plan reasonable enough for her tastes. She gave him one last hug, squeezing him tight with a force that such small arms should not be capable of producing, before pulling back and giving him her best attempt at a stern look. “You rest, too, Daddy.”

Tony held up his hands in mock surrender. “Yes, ma’am.”

Pepper gave him a fond look, her hand resting on his shoulder for a brief moment. “Get some actual rest, okay?” she murmured. “For once, don’t try to outsmart or escape the nurses.”

“Who, me?” Tony flashed his best innocent grin. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. I’m the ideal medical patient.”

Pepper didn’t even grace him with a response to that, and Rhodey’s loud snort told him exactly what they both thought about that statement. (Tony would be more offended if the sentiment weren’t such a true one.)

“See you tomorrow, honey,” she said instead, giving him a meaningful glance. “We’ll talk more then.” She leaned down to press a final kiss to his mouth, and when she pulled back, Tony sought out Rhodey’s gaze — a silent conversation passing between them. Tony felt indescribably relieved when his best friend nodded; a promise to keep watch over both Pepper and Morgan until both Tony and Happy were back on their feet. He couldn’t help but feel grateful that Rhodey had been unaffected by the blast, and that he was able to take leave from the military to be here; there were few people he trusted with his family in his absence, and Rhodey topped that short list. 

With one last nod, Rhodey followed Pepper and Morgan out, leaving Tony to the quiet of the hospital room. Now alone, he allowed a grimace to overtake his face — the natural state his facial muscles wanted to assume due to his pain, it seemed — and let his head fall back against the bed with a quiet thunk . Maybe he would actually get some rest, if only for a night. It seemed awfully appealing, after all.

Shoes scuffling in the doorway roused him from his half-asleep state, and he opened his eyes, squinting blearily at the dark blur in the doorway.

“Back again, Rhodes?” he croaked. “What about those uncle duties you claimed to take so seriously?”

“Not Rhodes,” an amused-sounding drawl came from the blurry figure — a voice that made Tony groan and contemplate turning over and suffocating himself with a pillow. “And I don’t believe you’ve ever graced me with uncle duties.”

“As if,” Tony grumbled. “What do you want, Fury?”

“Can’t an old man just visit an injured friend?” came the resulting response, and the figure moved closer, stepping into the dim light near Tony’s bed and giving him a clear view of the director. Tony snorted loudly.

“Is that what you call us now? Friends?” He asked, tone dry. Fury — the bastard — just shrugged, indifferent.

“What would you call us instead?” he asked, and Tony narrowed his eyes in response. Truth be told, he’d never truly understood where he fell with Fury — the man had agendas for his agendas, and he could be as ruthless as the worst of them. It was part of what made him such a good director.

But he’d been there for Tony. Been there for him in a way that even Howard hadn’t. Had helped save his life in some weird, twisted way back in the palladium poisoning days (even if that had been more for his own benefit). Had brought him a family, in the form of the Avengers. He’d cared , to some extent, in his own strange manner.

Tony remembered, even now, the conversation they had in the Barton’s farm, back in the days of Ultron (days he tried not to think about too much, to no avail). I’m just an old man who cares very much about you . The confession had shocked him, even then — Fury giving him more in that department than he’d ever gotten from Howard. Though he sure as hell wasn’t Fury’s son, and ‘friend’ seemed like a juvenile term. Brotherly wasn’t right, either; Tony was through-and-through an only child, and acted like it. In turn, Tony was nobody’s subordinate, and would never be. But Fury wasn’t a team member, either; not even to the Avengers, even if he was technically the catalyst.

So what were they?

Tony still had no fucking idea.

“An old man and a younger, better, man,” he answered instead, with a cocky smirk that was unable to cover up his weakness in the moment of silence. Fury just sighed and sat down in a chair next to the bed, and Tony snorted faintly. “C’mon, Nick, we both know you’re not just here out of friendly concern. What do you want from me that couldn’t wait until I was out of the hospital?”

Fury tilted his head, watching Tony with that unreadable expression of his. "You never did have much patience, did you?"

Tony snorted again, louder this time, and Fury’s face twisted slightly, as though realizing what an incredibly inane question that truly was.

“The person who targeted you,” Fury started — and boy did that get Tony’s attention — “is familiar to SHIELD. Or, at least, the tech that they used is similar to what we have encountered in the past, so we have potential leads on who it could be.”

“Names?” Tony asked, muscles coiled tight. Fury shook his head.

“No names yet, just a pattern we’ve been tracking. I have several agents who are playing major parts in tracking down the perpetrators. But they’re professionals; they don’t leave a trace.” Tony opened his mouth to say some snarky retort, but Fury talked over him. “I know you’ve already tried preliminary searches, and that your AI is on it. But you haven’t found anything, and that’s not a fluke. They’re good, and for some reason, they’ve decided now is the time they want to take you out.”

It did not escape Tony’s notice that Fury didn’t say ‘ why they want to take you out,’ but rather ‘why now they want to take you out,’ because they both knew that hundreds of people had a plethora of reasons for wanting him dead at any point in his life.

“I would bet money that they aren’t afraid to try again, either. Which is why I’m assigning you a bodyguard —”

Tony scoffed, then, though it came out as more of an incredulous laugh. “Woah, woah, there. A bodyguard ? For Iron Man ? What do you think I’ve been doing all these years? I don’t need —”

“You do,” Fury interrupted, voice leaving no room for suggestion. “Even if you weren’t retired.”

“Semi-retired,” Tony corrected with a half-hearted grumble. Fury kept talking as though he hadn’t heard the interjection. (Maybe he hadn’t — people did often lose acuity in their old age, after all.)

“This is serious, Stark. And not just for you — for your family and Hogan, too.”

Tony leaned back in his bed, rubbing his temples at the mention of Pepper and Morgan. It hadn’t precisely occurred to him, yet, that they could be direct targets in this, too, since he hadn’t been around them when the attack occurred. 

He was used to attempts on his own life, but the fact that Happy was caught in the blast meant, at the very least, that whoever set the bomb had no qualms about hurting those closest to him. Whether on purpose or as collateral, that wasn’t something Tony could risk.

He momentarily considered pointing out that he could just have the Avengers protect him, but truth be told he knew it wasn’t reasonable right off the bat. The world needed the Avengers on-call, not performing bodyguard duties, and Fury knew it. Not to mention Barton would never let him live it down if he spent even one minute as Tony’s bodyguard. And he didn’t think he could handle Rogers hanging around all the time .

“And who, exactly, are you sending?” He questioned, snappishly, instead of conceding that Fury had a point. “The lake house doesn’t exactly have room for a whole squad of SHIELD minions to bunk in. Much less a group of your unsubtle, gun-toting, no-sense-of-humor Men in Black.”

“Not a team,” Fury responded, voice steady. “Just one agent, and he’s of the subtle variety. You’ll thank me later.”

Tony’s gaze narrowed. “One? You think one person is enough to protect all of us? Seriously ? If I didn’t know better, Nick, I’d say you’d gone mad.”

Fury’s head turned, and his lips quirked into the faintest hint of a smile. “Oh, I think you’ll be surprised.”

—

The moment Peter received a phone call from Fury, he knew his day would suck. (And likely this whole week, too). After all, the last time Fury had called him in like this, it had been for cleanup duty after a botched op in the middle of Queens — one that had taken weeks to fix. Another day, another crisis that no one ever seemed to get ahead of, another personal failure to mark on his ever-growing list. Didn’t put him in the best of moods, to say the least.

Plus, the cafeteria had been out of pickles for his sandwich. Those days always sucked.

“You don’t look happy to be here, Parker,” Fury drawled.

“I’m not.” Peter’s tone was sharp, unapologetic. “Wasn’t aware that was part of the job description.”

Fury grinned a little at that — all pointed teeth and silent delight. He always did like when Peter got a little snippy with him; he was weird like that. "You're being assigned to a high-priority protection detail. Effective immediately."

Oh, goody. Peter had yet to discern whether he liked bodyguard detail or not; sometimes it was high-stakes, all action, and other times he was bored out of his mind. It all depended on the person he was guarding, and why. 

“Who?” he asked, hoping it wasn’t another stuffy politician. Please, for the love of Thor, let it be anyone but a stuffy politician—

“Tony Stark.”

Peter blinked.

Tony Stark. Iron Man. The one who flew around in a hot-rod-red and gold suit; an ostentatious personalized race car with rocket boosters. Or, at least — had , before his “retirement.” (Something that didn’t gain him any more favors in Peter’s book, either — being a hero wasn’t something one could just don at will and discard when it was no longer of use.)

He had never met the guy (well, not really , discounting the three-second encounter when he was nine), but he’d heard enough to know he didn’t want to. Stark represented everything Peter now hated about “heroes”: media appearances, PR stunts, badges of honor for large-scale events. 

Sure, he wasn’t stupid. He knew it was a good thing they had a line of defense against higher-scale threats. But it got under his skin that the Avengers were so readily praised for putting their lives at risk when police officers and firefighters and first responders ( like Ben, always like Ben ) put themselves at the same risk, every day, unenhanced and painfully human, just because it was the right thing to do. And sure, some of them got honored — a select few, who stood out, on a single notable occasion, pulled from the crowd. Not like the Avengers, who were praised for everything they fought in, whether it was high risk or not, whether they acted like it was a game or not. In truth, that was why Tony Stark got under his skin more than the others — Captain America, at the very least, seemed to respect his fellow soldiers, and accepted his awards with a humility that seemed beyond Stark’s capabilities.

And out of all of those options, he got assigned to Stark ?

(He takes it back. He’d rather have the stuffy politician.)

Peter scoffed, unable to stop the disdain from leaking into his tone. “You’ve got to be kidding me. I thought SHIELD was supposed to be giving me real missions, not babysitting a guy who’s already got more security than a military base.”

A few years ago, he’d have been jumping at the idea of meeting Tony Stark, even for just a moment. But that was before . Before Ben had died, and before Peter had figured out that nobody up in Stark Tower cared about the low-level crimes, like the shooting that had shattered his life and sent him to a third funeral in less than a decade. (Though, deep down, he suspected it wasn’t really them he was angry at —- rather, himself. After all, how could he begrudge them for not saving Ben or anyone else when he couldn’t do the same with his own powers? It was partly why he’d joined SHIELD; an attempt to differentiate, to do something. It hardly felt that way most of the time. Besides. Tony Stark was an easy person to hate.)

Fury merely arched his eyebrows, seemingly unruffled by Peter’s distaste. “Stark is rather resistant to security, actually,” he commented drily. “And evidently the systems he had in place were not enough to protect him the first time. Even if he upgrades them — which he will, and has started to already, no doubt — there’s no guarantees it’ll be successful.”

Sounds like a him problem , Peter thought bitterly. Plenty of people wanted Tony Stark dead. It was really only a matter of time before someone got lucky, whether Peter was there or not. Peter wouldn’t go so far as to say he wanted the man dead, really, but…

“Why me?” he ground out instead. “You’ve got whole teams for this kind of thing.” He was well aware he sounded somewhat mutinous, too close to his age of nineteen for comfort.

Fury sighed, leaning back in his chair. “Because I trust you to get the job done, Parker. SHIELD’s resources are stretched thin, and I need someone who can actually handle Stark effectively. If I assign a team to him, he’ll manage to evade them one way or another, and they won’t be coordinated enough to work together to adjust for all the improbabilities that working with Tony Stark inevitably brings. It’ll be a waste of manpower for something that will fail under stress — which is precisely when it’s most needed. You, on the other hand, I can trust to keep up. Both with Stark and with the threat.”

Peter clenched his jaw tightly, feeling a muscle jump and feather in his cheek. Fury sighed, leaning forward and meeting his eyes head-on. “ And because we have reason to believe the same people who attacked him are the ones you’ve been tracking down. You’re the most well-versed in their technology and their giveaways, in a way nobody else would be. At the very least, it’s another lead for you to explore.”

Peter felt his spine stiffen — the tension thick in the air with the implication of the true weight this held for him, even if it was never spoken aloud. But he hadn’t had a lead like this in ages; Fury was right, this was far too good of an opportunity to pass up, even if it meant dealing with Stark.

For Ben’s sake , he promised himself.

“Fine,” Peter finally muttered. “But don’t expect me to be friends with him.”

“It’s funny,” Fury said, moving to the doorway before stopping and turning his head slightly to view Peter out of the corner of his eye. “You sound just like him.”

Then he was gone, leaving Peter slack-jawed in an empty room.

—

The situation did not improve from there.

Tony Stark — among his innumerable character defects — was apparently a subpar medical patient. Peter had originally taken solace in the fact that he wouldn’t have to start guarding Stark until he was released from the hospital; which, for everyone else, should have been at least a few days, maybe more. In reality, it ended up being less than 36 hours.

Fury paged him regarding this unfortunate update just as Peter was shoveling the last few bites of soggy cereal into his mouth. With a resigned sigh, he got up, mourning the fact that he had just unknowingly enjoyed his last blissfully Tony-Stark-free breakfast for the foreseeable future. And it wasn’t even a particularly good breakfast — the shitty SHIELD cafeteria only had off-brand Weetabix this morning. Who willingly bought and ate Weetabix? Peter should have seen the signs. (Come to think of it, he wasn’t even sure how or why the SHIELD cafeteria even had the stuff, considering he was fairly certain it was a British company.)

He resisted the urge to drag his feet on the way to the room he’d been directed to — mostly because he knew that Fury would anticipate such a reaction, and he hated proving the man right under any circumstance. The problem was, he hated the idea of being around Tony Stark even more. Stuck between a rock and a hard place. Or, in this instance, a stubborn, arrogant asshole and another stubborn, arrogant asshole.

Ugh. Maybe he should have spent the morning drafting his resignation letter instead.

As he turned down the hallway, he could hear two heartbeats, accompanied by two voices — one significantly more agitated than the other.

“I’m not going to be kept waiting for whoever you’re paying to follow me around.”

Fury’s calm, drawling tone sounded off next. “I wouldn’t try and recommend pushing past me, Stark.”

“Or what? You’ll tase me and play Supernanny? That was more Coulson’s style than yours.”

That sounded like a story, and Peter was briefly jealous of the agent who had been allowed to tase Tony Stark. Or at the very least threaten it.

“No,” Fury deadpanned. “I have other methods, and while tasing you at any point in time is extremely appealing, I have no desire nor time to watch you. I have people for that.”

Peter grimaced involuntarily, well aware that he was the ‘people’ in question here.

As if he’d heard his thoughts, or somehow sensed his presence, Fury raised his voice. “Speaking of which, I know you’re out there, Parker.”

(Peter had long since given up trying to figure out how the fuck the man seemed to have eyes on the back of his head and in every single wall when he didn’t even have two normal eyes. The director had never divulged how he’d lost his eye, but Peter was secretly of the opinion that he’d sacrificed it to some alien demon to obtain supernatural sight abilities in every single other facet. His theory had yet to be proven or disproven — it was a work in progress.)

With a sigh, he pushed open the partially open door and came face-to-face with Fury (as expected) and Tony Stark.

Who, upon first impression… was a lot shorter than Peter expected. Huh.

“Stark, meet Peter Parker. Your new bodyguard.”

The billionaire turned, eyes sweeping over Peter’s form, and he carefully kept everything controlled; the perfect mask of neutrality in the face of scrutiny.

“Your bodyguard of choice is a kid ?” Stark asked, incredulously, and Peter resisted the urge to roll his eyes. ( Second impression: annoying. As predicted. ) It was an expected reaction, and a common one, too — but it got old real fast. Peter was perfectly capable of defending himself, but luckily, Fury took it upon himself to do so before he even had a chance to.

“Trust me, Stark, he’s the best we have. I would not be wasting Parker’s skill set on something as menial as bodyguarding if I didn’t believe there was a true threat.”

Stark narrowed his eyes at Peter, then, looking more interested, and Peter carefully kept his expression neutral. He half-hoped the billionaire’s ego would get in the way and force him to be reassigned by Fury onto something more interesting. Something told him that the man would have a way of attempting to get under Peter’s skin at every turn.

“Fine, what do you go by, kid? Peter? Pete?”

“I’m not a kid,” Peter said by way of response, fixing Stark with a flinty stare. The billionaire raised both hands in a gesture that was probably meant to be placating but only served to annoy him more.

“Sorry, kid, I give nicknames to everyone. Can’t help how they slip out. Everyone under the age of twenty-five falls in that age group for someone like me.”

Peter was tempted to give into the urge to glare at him, but he knew that the man was the type of person to derive fuel from others’ annoyance — doing so would almost certainly make the nickname stick. Instead, his face didn’t so much as twitch at the probing.

“Parker is fine.” Really, Peter would rather the man not refer to him at all , because it meant that his already short patience would be stretched to its limits, but he didn’t say as much.

The billionaire scoffed in exasperation. “Jeez, you’re worse than Romanoff was. She at least pretended to be personable.”

“Natalie Rushman was a persona tailored to be appealing to your personality at the time, Stark,” Fury cut in coolly. “Parker is here as a bodyguard, and nothing more.”

At that, Peter resisted the urge to tack on something like ‘or I could play Supernanny — I would love to have the opportunity to tase you.’ He was sure that Fury knew he’d overheard some of their argument (it wasn’t like they were being quiet, after all), but he didn’t like to reveal the extent of his enhancements to unfamiliar people unless absolutely necessary.

So he said nothing, even as Stark rolled his eyes. Hard. “You and Hogan are gonna get along real well,” he drawled. “He just loves it when people step on his toes in regards to security measures.”

Peter didn’t have to be looking at the man to hear the insufferable smirk in his tone. Fury sighed.

“ Hogan was the target of these attacks as well. He is ill-prepared to protect you, your daughter, and Ms. Potts in a manner that is consistent with the threat. Do you want your family protected or not?” Fury snapped, and Stark’s expression settled into something cool and controlled.

“Don’t ever insinuate that I would choose any differently,” he said, in a hard tone.

“Then act like it.” Fury ground out. Stark’s mouth twitched in a displeased line.

“Low blow, even for you, Nick,” the billionaire grumbled, and Fury's eye gleamed wickedly.

“We all know I can go lower,” he said, with an air of finality. “Now suck it up and get along with my agent, or maybe he’ll decide to sacrifice you. I’d hardly blame him.” Peter and Fury both knew he’d never fail a mission like that, no matter the circumstances, but Peter could see the way Stark twitched and shot him a look out of the corner of his eye. It was clear the man didn’t trust him — which was fine, because Peter didn’t trust him either.

Fury turned his eye to Peter, then, tossing him a cooler that he knew contained extra bags of his blood. “Your care package. Make sure it makes it to the infirmary; we don’t need another repeat incident without it.” 

Peter grunted out a vague sound of affirmation, eyeing Stark to gauge his reaction; some SHIELD agents acted skittish around mentions of his mutation, wary of any reminder that he had different medical needs than they did. Not that Stark knew precisely what was in the cooler, but wasn’t exactly difficult to figure out via context clues.

As it was, the billionaire made no outward signs of recognition at the gesture — merely sniffing before turning on his heel to stride out of the room. 

“You coming or not, kid?” he called over his shoulder, in a feigned tone of nonchalance. The quick movement forced Peter to chase after him, and he could see the man’s protection tactic from a mile away — a quick escape, then call him by the stupid diminutive nickname again to get under his skin. Peter grit his teeth and resisted the urge to groan or cuss the man out or strangle him with his bare hands. Or all three.

“One more thing, Stark,” Fury called out after them. The man in question slowed down ever-so-slightly — the only inclination that he was paying attention at all. “Parker is a bottomless pit; better stock up on rations.” 

Peter could hear the director’s smirk from a mile away, knowing that this particular jab was payback for Peter’s purposeful tardiness in getting here. Still, he mentally added Fury to his ever-growing shit list.

Less than a few minutes in, and he already hated this assignment.

—

“Any intel on who set the attack?” Peter asked into the crackling tension, keeping his tone perfectly cool and collected. It stung his pride to be the first to break the silent challenge he and Stark had established after leaving the medical wing and making their way all the way to Avengers Tower, but he knew that the sooner he could collect intel, the sooner they could take down who set the explosion, and the sooner he could get the hell out of this assignment.

Stark eyed him warily. “Some recordings, a few leftover tech pieces. Hardly anything identifiable, I’ve checked — you won’t be much help there,” he waved dismissively. Peter barely held in a scoff. Could the billionaire’s ego get any bigger?

“Try me,” he challenged, unable to keep the slight temperament out of his voice. He could handle being a bodyguard; he knew he was good at it, and had a unique skillset. But he was more than just an enhanced slab of muscle, and the one thing that rankled the most was when people assumed he was unintelligent just because of the ‘bodyguard’ label.

Stark’s eyebrows arched, disbelievingly, and Peter was certain he was about to laugh in his face or put up more of an argument. Really, it would line up with what he knew about the billionaire — a genius, sure, but too certain of his own intellect, positive that he could never get anything wrong.

“You can try,” he granted, something in his eyes glinting as he said it. If Peter didn’t know any better, he’d say that the man seemed almost delighted by the idea of a challenge. He carefully stored that particular mental assessment in his mind for later evaluation; it didn’t exactly align with everything he’d heard about Stark. Clearly he’d have to reevaluate and come to his own conclusion in time.

“But don’t be surprised if you can’t find anything more,” Stark tacked on. “I did look through it all personally, of course.”

Ah. There it was. Peter resisted the urge to roll his eyes again, electing not to grace the statement with a response. The last thing he needed was to build rapport with Tony Stark, and he sensed if he started firing back responses, things would only escalate.

Instead, he busied himself by watching the man’s movements — the clear way he was putting on a front, in an attempt to not seem injured at all. Peter thought it was rather obvious how much he was favoring his right side, and the vein throbbing in his temple and pulse jumping in his neck — along with the sweat collecting along his brow — all told the story of the physical exertion proving more difficult than Stark seemed to want to let on. Peter said nothing about the matter, though; he wasn’t the man’s medical practitioner, and he didn’t care to try and force him back into a hospital room.

“Take a picture, it’ll last longer,” Stark bit out, glancing back at him. “You’re not exactly being subtle in your scrutiny.”

“Wasn’t trying to be,” Peter commentend, nonplussed. It was true — he hardly cared to hide the fact that he was analyzing the man; it was his whole job to watch him, anyways, so why bother? Peter supposed now that they were talking about it, he may as well ask. “Who’d you bribe to get out of the medical wing early?”

“It’s not bribery if I bankroll them,” Stark’s tone was laced with infuriating smugness.

Peter narrowed his eyes in response. “No, then it’s just coercion.”

The man rolled his eyes. “Relax, kid. Can’t take a joke?”

“Is that what that was supposed to be?” Peter asked coolly.

“I didn’t bribe anyone,” Stark sighed, like that should have been obvious. At Peter’s scrutinizing look, he raised his hands. “Seriously, kid. Jeez, you really are more suspicious than Romanoff. Didn’t think that was actually possible.”

Peter watched for a second more, examining the man’s movements, his posture, the slope to his shoulders. He was slightly tense, but more in the way that indicated trying to hide an injury rather than lying. His heart rate wasn’t elevated higher than before, his respiration seemed normal, and he was still making consistent eye contact. Either he was a better liar than anyone Peter had previously encountered (which was highly unlikely), or he was telling the truth. Peter forced his own shoulders to relax a bit, then, narrowing his eyes in warning.

“Not a kid,” he ground out, in lieu of any other response. He refused to give the man the satisfaction of verbal acquiescence.

“Yeah, yeah,” came the dismissive response. “C’mon, then. Workshop’s this way.”

Peter took note of the route as they walked; while it was unlikely he’d ever have to retrace his steps alone, it was always best to be prepared.

When the lab doors slid open, Stark strolled in a half-step ahead of him, at ease in a way one can only be when on familiar territory. There was a certain smugness to his posture — as though expecting Peter to gawk at the sights. Peter had to admit — it was an impressive lab, practically any STEM kid’s wet dream. But he wasn’t a STEM kid, not anymore; he was a bodyguard, and the absolute last thing he intended to do was stroke the billionaire’s ego even further.

“Well?” Stark started, mouth twisted in an insufferably flashy grin. “You can say it. ‘Wow, this is the most incredible thing I’ve ever seen.’ I’ll even pretend to be surprised.”

Peter narrowed his eyes, then, debating for half a second how he wanted to go about responding. “It’s nice, I guess,” he allowed, watching as the man seemed to absorb the praise — even if minutely. “You build all this to make up for the lack of personality?”

The words had their intended result; even for someone as skilled in psychological manipulation as Stark surely was — given his time in the media — he was seemingly not immune to their tricks. Backhanded compliment, Peter thought mildly, watching the man’s body language. Such a simple, yet easy, way to assert dominance.

Stark recovered quickly — the moment of weakness was imperceptible to the untrained eye; but to Peter, it was evident in the curl of his lip, the flashing veneer of his teeth, and the too-sharp silhouette of his smile. “Careful, kid,” he warned. “You keep that up and I might start thinking you’re funny.”

No, you won’t, Peter corrected internally, seeing the deflection for what it was. 

“Guess we both have things to work on,” he responded, taking a step further into the room and ignoring the implications of his own statement. He didn’t want to have anything in common with Tony Stark. Back to business, then. “Where’s the surveillance footage?” He turned his head to the side, examining a machine to his left as Stark scuffled towards one of the tables.

“Over here. FRI, be a dear and pull it up.”

“You’re gonna want to fix the torque calibration on that joint, by the way,” Peter mused idly, gesturing at a metal exoskeleton on the bench. “Unless you want it snapping off mid-use.”

Stark’s head whipped over to him, eyes snapping between Peter and the project in question. In front of him, a screen flickered to life — the recordings, it would seem. Peter stepped forward, not waiting for a response.

“Lucky guess,” Stark murmured under his breath, gaze flicking in between him and the metal arm once more. Peter paid him no mind — he had no interest in defending himself in light of such inane opinions. Instead, he stepped even closer to the monitors, attention fully focused on them, now. He could feel Stark’s gaze boring into him, but he ignored it. Peter had learned long ago not to let himself be distracted by people who doubted him. 

He knew from experience that his enhancements gave him an edge when reviewing surveillance footage — his eyes could process minute shifts in-between frames that normal human eyes couldn’t pick up on. Hopefully it came in handy here, because the last thing he wanted to do as a first impression was not —

“Pause that frame,” Peter interrupted suddenly, jabbing a finger towards the screen, where he could see a blur in between shots.

Stark’s eyebrows shot up, but he obeyed (surprisingly), and the screen froze. “You actually see something in this mess?”

Peter ignored the jab, attention thoroughly fixed on the image, pointer finger tracing the outline he could now clearly see. “Look at the shadow. The silhouette doesn’t match the dimensions of the average person’s build from that distance to the light source. Whoever did this was wearing a suit of some kind.”

“Or they’re just horribly disfigured,” Stark muttered, somewhat grumpily, before squinting at the image. “Even if it is a suit, or tactical gear of some kind, there’s not enough detail to tell us who they are.”

“No,” Peter agreed with a vaguely annoyed grunt, “but the suit may be how they got in undetected, and the path of the footage tells us where they came from.” He flicked through the images himself, finding the angle of the attack and tracing backwards to the point of origin. “You have a blind spot here,” he tapped the screen with his index finger. “That’s where they stopped to put the bomb that got you.”

Stark shook his head. “But that still doesn’t explain how they knew about that blind spot. These cameras rotate randomly. Nobody would be able to predict the exact timing of that one — not long enough to guarantee that they’d be able to fasten a bomb there.”

“Somebody did,” Peter reminded him, tone flat, before he began pacing absently. “You have a system that can track everything, right? Facial recognition, time logs, surveillance access. But if someone hacked that —” 

“Impossible,” Stark interrupted, crossing his arms. “I built those firewalls. No one’s getting through.”

Peter shot him a frosty look. “You just said nobody for my last statement, too — yet here we are.” Before Stark could start arguing, he shook his head. “Besides, I didn’t necessarily mean getting through . Those cameras are on a rotation schedule so that they appear random, but they aren’t actually programmed to be random; they have to be optimized so that they revisit a certain area within a certain timeframe. That makes them predictable to some extent. Either someone could have known what the schedule was going to be, or they had access to tweak it themselves.”

Stark’s eyes narrowed. “It’s possible,” he admitted, grudgingly. “If they hacked the system, they could’ve timed it perfectly, or triggered the rotation pattern themselves. They wouldn’t need to sneak through the cameras if they knew when each one would rotate away.”

Peter gave a vague grunt of affirmation, rolling back through the footage again, flicking through each image. They’d found when it happened, and some clues as to who — but the footage wasn’t giving anything else to go off of. He rewound it once. Twice. Three times. Hoping that with each new pass, he’d be able to see some other clue, some new angle or frame he hadn’t seen the previous time.

He wasn’t particularly invested in them because they’d tried to take Stark down; no, that was of little consequence to him. But if Fury was right about these being connected to his long-standing mission… he needed every possible lead and person he could get ahold of.

By the fourth rewind — still with no further results — Stark was clearly getting antsy. (He was under no illusions that patience was not exactly the billionaire’s strong suit.) Peter could hear the man shifting beside him, and knew that the silence was about to prompt some sort of question or discussion that he would really rather not be engaged in,

“So, Parker,” Stark started, in a kind of drawling tone that told him that he was purposefully being annoying. Bingo. Sometimes Peter hated being right. “What was that little ‘care package’ Fury tossed you?” He raised his hands and twitched his index and middle fingers in a lazy impression of air quotes around the words. 

Peter shot him a look out of the corner of his eye, debating for half a moment whether he should bother lying or not. It seemed like a relatively innocent question, but nothing about Stark’s demeanor oozed innocence, nor would Peter have trusted it if it had.

“Extra samples of my blood and some medical things, why?” Peter asked slowly.

“Just curious,” Stark shrugged. “You know we have a state of the art medical center, right?”

Ah, so it was about his ego. Peter relaxed slightly at the revelation — ego, he could handle. Much better than nefariously collecting information about his enhancements and what he used to maintain them.

“I have unique blood that is not compatible with others,” he replied, before pausing and narrowing his eyes at the man. “That was bugging you, wasn't it? Not knowing what it was.”

He expected the billionaire to brush him off, not admit weakness in the form of emotion; in being unable to figure it out on his own accord. Instead, Stark just shrugged and flashed him a brilliant grin.

“Yup.”

Peter’s face twisted into a grimace, then — eyes flicking back towards the screen before letting out a frustrated sigh. He’d lost his spot on his rewind, and the silhouette he’d been meticulously tracking frame-by-frame disappeared into a hazy blur, blending with the rest of the shadows.

“Kid, you’re not getting anything else out of that tape. You’ve already proven you got more out of it than before. Give it a break.”

Peter glared at the intrusion and the diminutive moniker yet again, but begrudgingly, had to admit the man had a point. Anything more he may get out of the tape would only be later, once he came back with fresh eyes.

“The tech fragments?” he pressed. Stark waved a hand dismissively.

“It’s all being processed right now by my AI, you can look at it later. I don’t want to leave Pep and Morgan unguarded for too long.” His voice was carefully controlled and he seemed calm enough to the outside viewer, but Peter could spot the furrow to his brow and the anxious tick of his jaw. He was certain the two Stark women were far from ‘unguarded’ by any means, but Tony Stark was a deeply paranoid person and not likely to trust any protection that wasn’t his own presence.

Despite how annoying the man was, Peter felt a slight pang of sympathy at the clear concern he showed for his family. It wasn’t quite enough to warm his chilly opinion of the billionaire, but it was enough to get him to agree with a half-hearted shrug and no verbal protests.

“They’re here? At the Tower?” he asked, falling in line with the other man somewhat reluctantly as they started moving. It seemed unlikely that Stark would be so concerned if they were in the same building, but as far as Peter knew, the Tower was their (and the Avengers’) primary residence.

“Nope. Drop your socks and grab your crocs — we’re headed to the lakehouse.”

Chapter Text

Peter stared down into the face of five-year-old Morgan Stark. This was, officially, his first extended encounter with a child younger than ten — he felt like he should document this. For scientific purposes.

She beamed up at him with a wide, toothy smile — multiple baby teeth already missing and no adult teeth grown in yet to take their place.

It was oddly… endearing.

“What’s your name?” she asked, bouncing on the balls of her feet, and Peter blinked at her. He was all-too-aware of Stark watching him, and his instinct was to protect himself by acting standoffish, but… he didn’t want to make the little girl upset. A temper tantrum would not make any of their lives easier.

“Peter Parker,” he said at last, trying to soften his tone. He wasn’t entirely sure whether it was successful, but at the very least it didn’t sound snappish. The little girl beamed up at him even more, and he blinked rapidly, unsure of what he should do. Smile back? He hadn’t smiled nicely in… a long time. Probably not since his last bout of school pictures. Fury certainly didn’t expect him to, and his specialties as stealth and bodyguard never required him to smile, either. He would probably scare her rather than reassure her. Luckily, she didn’t seem to care about waiting for a response, because she spoke before he could decide.

“Petey!” Morgan declared, sounding awfully satisfied with herself, and Peter’s eye twitched a bit. He could see Stark trying to smother a laugh out of the corner of his eye.

“Yeah, uh,” he cleared his throat. “That’s fine.” Years of building up his dignity, only to be slashed in a second by a five-year-old.

Morgan nodded with all the gusto a young child could manage. “Petey,” she repeated, testing the word in her mouth. “I’m bringing out my toys so we can play.”

Then she darted off before he could so much as form a protest, leaving him and Stark to keep each other company.

“So, Petey ,” Stark drawled, and Peter shot him a withering glare, now that there was no five-year-old around to cater to.

“I suggest you don’t finish that sentence, or your bowels will become acquainted with the atmosphere via your esophageal tract.” His tone came out icy, and Stark held up his hands in mock surrender.

“Worth a shot.” He shrugged before he glanced in the direction Morgan had run off to. “She likes you.”

“She’s five,” Peter replied, not sure what else to say to that. Stark snorted. 

“Trust me, that’s never stopped her from sharing her opinions before. You should have seen the grudge she held against her preschool teacher.”

She’ll grow out of it . Peter wanted to say, because it was true. If she grew up around him, Morgan — and everyone else — would come to realize exactly what he was. But he wouldn’t be around to see that. He was here as a bodyguard, nothing more. In, out, stay alert, don’t get attached.

Luckily — or unluckily, he was yet to be decided — Morgan came barrelling back around the corner, a cluster of toys held in her arms. She deposited them haphazardly at his feet, with all the pride of a cat bringing a dead bird back home to its owner. Then she plucked one off the top of the pile and held it up for him to see, bright grin still firmly fixed in place. Peter seriously wondered whether her face was permanently stuck like that, or whether she had any other expressions.

Nevertheless, he had no choice but to take it, fingers delicate so that his enhanced strength wouldn’t snap it in two.

It was a fucking Iron Man figurine .

Peter tried not to let his face twitch with displeasure as the little girl triumphantly declared: “It’s Daddy!”

“Uh-huh,” Peter agreed, definitely not thinking about Stark, who stood nearby. “It’s… it’s Iron Man, yeah.”

“No, it’s Daddy ,” Morgan emphasized, jamming a tiny pointer finger at the figurine, as if that made all the difference. Peter made a sound of assent, hoping that would dissuade the little girl from saying it again. Morgan frowned, as if he wasn’t understanding her words, and Peter wished a fireball would barrel into the window and target just him, specifically. Nobody else around him. (Alright, maybe Stark too.)

“It’s Daddy .” The words sounded plaintive this time, and with dawning horror, Peter realized she was doing that weird thing that children did where they wanted you to repeat their words back to them.

No. No. He was not going to cater to the five-year-old, and play along with this game, and confirm her sentence by repeating “it’s Daddy” in front of the aforementioned man himself. He had dignity , for fuck’s sake, and he was already pushing it by allowing himself to be called Petey , of all things.

Morgan looked up at him, lip wobbling, tears gathered in her eyes. Well, it would seem that answered his prior question about what facial expressions she was capable of. Peter heaved a long, long, internal sigh.

Stark was never going to let him live this down.

“Yeah, it’s Daddy,” he grumbled under his breath, and just like that, Morgan’s face lit back up, like a switch flipped. Peter’s agreement — for whatever reason — was seemingly important to her, and she nodded grandly.

“Daddy!” she practically shrieked, before abandoning the figurine altogether and flinging herself at the real deal. (Great. So he’d humiliated himself for nothing.)

“ He –y, Morguna,” Stark caught her easily and swung her around, before settling her on his hip with a small grunt as he grinned down at her. Morgan made a delighted trilling sound, beaming up at her father. Peter found that he couldn’t look away, even as his stomach twisted harshly at the sight of what he didn’t have and couldn’t remember. He kept his expression carefully controlled.

“How do you like our new visitor?” Stark asked his daughter, and she straightened up in his arms.

“I like him!” she declared. “He has fluffy hair.”

Peter blinked. Children were… so strange.

Stark shot him an amused look that turned considering when he saw the way Peter was standing there, still loosely holding the stupid figurine because he didn’t want to draw more attention to himself by putting it down. Also, he didn’t know whether Morgan would throw a tantrum if she thought he was rejecting her gift or something. God, he was so out of his field here — this was not bodyguarding, or stealth. He was going to kill Fury for this assignment.

“Yeah?” Stark asked his daughter, eyes still trained on Peter, and he realized they hadn’t broken eye contact. “Y’know, I like him too,” he declared. Peter forced his face to remain ever-so-perfectly still. Whatever game the man was playing, he wasn’t falling for it. Even if said game was “humoring your five-year-old about a bodyguard you don’t actually like.”

Morgan, meanwhile, was happily oblivious to the silent exchange. She gave Peter an enthusiastic wave, then turned back to her father, patting his shoulder insistently. “Daddy, Daddy, he can play with us, right? He likes toys too!”

Peter quickly held up a hand. “Oh, I don’t —”

But Stark cut him off with a grin that was just a little too wide, and far too delightfully devious to be plastered across the face of any self-respecting middle-aged man. (Then again, ‘self-respecting’ was an umbrella term under which Tony Stark had never — and would never, at this rate — fall under.)

“Oh, I think he’d love to.” He raised an eyebrow at Peter, his expression daring him to refuse. “Right, kid?”

Peter’s eye twitched at the nickname, but he kept his mouth clamped shut, weighing his options. He didn’t want to upset Morgan, and the look on Stark’s face was almost… challenging. Well, fine. If that’s how they were going to play things. No use in making enemies with the five-year-old on his first day; Peter didn’t know much about children, but he was fairly certain that was a surefire way to make his entire time here even more miserable than it had to be. He gave a short, resigned nod.

“Sure. I’m great with… toys,” he lied, lamely.

Morgan cheered, practically bouncing out Stark’s arms. He adjusted his grip with a near-inaudible grunt as one of her knees jammed into his ribcage. Peter felt a little more vindicated at that. “Yes! Okay, let’s go play, Daddy! Peter, come on!”

Oh, joy . Apparently she meant she wanted to play with both him and Stark. Right now.

She squirmed until her father set her down, before bolting back toward a small pile of toys near the sofa. Peter followed a bit reluctantly, feeling more like a prisoner walking towards the gallows than anything else. He was fairly certain he’d have absolutely nothing left of his dignity left after the next thirty minutes transpired. Just as he reached the toys, Morgan shoved a small, plastic spaceship into his hands.

“This one’s the Quinjet,” she informed him with an authority that only a five-year-old could pull off, looking up at him with an expectant smile.

Peter nodded solemnly, holding the spaceship with what he hoped looked like enthusiasm and not concern (after all, he didn’t want to accidentally crush it with his super-strength if he thought of something particularly unpleasant). “Good choice. The Quinjet is definitely… ahem, a… classic?”

Peter caught the sound of Stark’s snort of amusement, the sound poorly muffled by his hand, and he shot him a frosty glare over Morgan’s head in retaliation. The billionaire only grinned back, looking utterly unrepentant.

Morgan’s eyes sparkled as she handed her dad another toy — a very green and suspiciously Hulk-like figure. "Daddy, you’re Hulk. He’s big and strong, just like you."

Stark took the toy — still grinning, mind you — before giving it an exaggerated flex. “Big and strong, huh? Well, if you say so, little miss.” He turned to Peter, holding up the Hulk with a mock-serious look, waving it in the air. “Guess I’m the big guy today. You wanna concede now, Parker?”

Peter resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “Oh, not a chance,” he muttered as he adjusted his grip on his own toy. Like hell he was going to lose to Stark, of all people.

Morgan clasped her hands together, gaze darting between them, clearly trying to decide what scenario to cook up. “The Quinjet —” she pointed a small finger in Peter’s direction — “should go get Hulk,” she gestured to her father in turn. Bizarrely, Peter was reminded of a very tiny, very bossy miniaturized movie director.

Taking a deep breath, Peter sacrificed the last shreds of his dignity and made a low swooshing noise, swooping the Quinjet through the air toward Stark’s Hulk figure. 

Much to Peter’s surprise, Stark played along, moving the Hulk just out of reach as he let out an exaggerated growl, which made Morgan giggle so hard she nearly toppled over. 

“Hulk is unstoppable,” Stark rumbled, throwing his voice a bit deeper — which, in Peter’s opinion, was a truly horrendous impression of the big guy, from what he’d seen on TV. At the very least, though, it seemed to have the intended effect of making Morgan laugh harder.

Peter had to admit, as ridiculous as this was, he found himself getting swept up in the energy. He made the Quinjet dart back, narrowly “escaping” Hulk’s grasp as Morgan cheered him on. For a moment, he forgot where he was, and almost relaxed . He didn’t realize he had actually smiled a bit, mouth turned up in the corner and brow relaxed, until Stark gave him a sidelong look, something utterly foreign in his expression.

“Not bad, kid.” Stark still held the Hulk figure aloft, though his voice had lost the sharp edge Peter had originally been the recipient of. Surely, that was only due to his daughter’s presence, though.

Peter shrugged and glanced away, feeling unusually self-conscious under Stark’s gaze. “Part of the job,” he grumbled lowly, clearing his throat in a vain attempt to sound casual.

Stark looked at him for a moment longer, a kind of pensiveness in his expression that made Peter’s stomach twist, before he finally set the Hulk down and turned to Morgan. “Alright, Morguna. Agent Parker’s got a lot of important sh — stuff to do, so let’s give him a break, yeah?”

Peter really had no idea what said ‘important stuff’ was, but found he was somewhat grateful for the interruption regardless. It was also the first time the man had referred to him by his actual moniker, in an almost respectful manner. In fact, if he didn’t know any better, he’d have thought it was from how he played along with Morgan — except that didn’t make sense, because playing games should have given Stark even less of a reason to respect him, and even more fodder for his ‘kid’ nickname.

Morgan pouted but didn’t protest. She turned to Peter, eyes wide and bright. “You’ll come back and play again, right?”

Peter hesitated, caught off guard by her earnestness. 

Stark snorted. “You gotta give him an incentive, little miss. Remember what I taught you about bribery?”

Morgan nodded sagely, before her head whipped back around to face Peter. “I’ll give you a juice pop if you play again,” she offered. Peter just about snorted. Did Tony Stark seriously just encourage his daughter to bribe him? To his face?

“Uh… sure,” he managed after a moment, offering her his best smile. “I’ll be around.” That statement was the pure, basic truth; so why did it feel like he was opening himself up and offering some vulnerability by not turning her down? Surely any other agent would have had to indulge the five-year-old, too. Peter was fairly certain that was part of some societal rulebook or something — “don’t upset the children.” Maybe it was just the presence of Stark that threw him off so much; the man had unnervingly perceptive eyes, and despite his dislike for the guy, Peter was under no illusions regarding his intellect or quick wit.

“Should’ve negotiated for two, kid. Missed the prime window of negotiation. Your deal’s locked in now.” He shook his head at Morgan in mock disappointment, gesturing in Peter’s direction. “See what I told you? The lost art of bribery.”

This was, officially, the weirdest start to a mission that he’d ever experienced. Even topping that one time he fell in a sewer.

“One is fine,” he responded, for lack of anything better to say.

Stark shrugged. “Suit yourself.” He waved in Morgan’s direction. “Now shoo, little miss, or I’ll start selling your toys.”

Morgan seemed completely nonplussed by this particular threat, leading him to believe it was an empty one. In lieu of a response, she beamed and gave Peter a quick, enthusiastic hug around the knees — the likes of which nearly knocked him backward. He awkwardly patted her head, completely out of his element, before he gently detached himself, clearing his throat and straightening up.

“I’m going to check out the perimeter, scope it out and make sure it’s clear.” It was true that such a task was part of his job description; even though Stark had an AI for protection, it was Peter’s job to know the perimeter just as well, and to acquaint himself with the property. Yet, still, it felt more like an escape than anything — even though he faced no protests from the man himself, just a short nod of acquiescence.

He felt Stark’s eyes on him the whole way out.

—

Ms. Potts, at least, was far less insufferable than her husband. Nothing about her persona suggested that she was someone to be pitied, but Peter couldn’t help a pang of sympathy at the thought of living with the likes of Tony Stark. (Though, perhaps, if he was as gentle around her as he was around Morgan, maybe he wasn’t as insufferable as he seemed.)

Peter had returned to the house after his patrol of the perimeter — he’d stretched it out for as long as he possibly could have, but he had to return after some time so as not to arouse suspicion. When he’d returned, FRIDAY informed him that Stark was upstairs, putting Morgan down for a nap.

Usually, when left with nothing to occupy himself on a mission, Peter would disassemble and clean his weapons to kill the time. Especially if he were assigned to guard someone, he usually got the double benefit of appearing intimidating to whoever was watching, in addition to newly cleaned weapons. However, he wasn’t really sure what the proper thing to do in this instance was — laying out all of his weapons on the table, within view of Morgan’s scattered toys, left a bitter taste in his mouth. Even if the five-year-old herself was upstairs, presumably halfway to sleep, it felt almost like a desecration of the homeliness of the space — as if he were bringing in his own traumas and problems to taint her innocence.

So, instead, he perched awkwardly on one of the chairs, glancing around the room and wondering if he could get away with disassembling and reassembling one of Morgan’s toys instead — if only so he could do something with his hands. He’d have thought Stark would have been back downstairs long ago; surely it didn’t take that long to put a child to sleep.

Focusing, he allowed his senses to wander. He listened to the rustle of the trees outside, the drip of the faucet in the upstairs bathroom, and the low thrum of electricity that ran through the walls of the house. He wasn’t used to so little background noise — no sound of cars, or the constant chatter of people’s voices, nor their footsteps as they walked through every floor in a building. He usually had to work so hard to tune out the sound of everyones’ heartbeats that the lack of them, all at once, left a strange rushing sound in his ears. Or maybe that was the wind outside. Hard to tell.

Tilting his head, he sought out the two heartbeats he knew should be here — both located in the upstairs bedroom. Morgan’s — strong and rhythmic, its usual fast pace (a byproduct of her youth) seemingly slowed by sleep. And Stark’s — slower, more staccato, erratic but no less strong, despite the constant duress it seemed to be under. Just like the man himself. 

In fact, Peter often found that peoples’ heart rates matched their persons eerily well — in some kind of innate sense that he couldn’t really explain, not to someone who couldn’t hear for themselves. Everyone’s heart beat and rhythm was as unique to them as a fingerprint, and as identifiable to Peter as their outward appearances were. (Even more so, in some cases — outward appearances could be drastically changed, after all, but not the sound of their heart. Which could be poetic, if Peter were the type to subscribe to such ideas.)

He was torn out of his thoughts by the sound of an engine — almost uncomfortably loud, given the way his senses were stretched at the moment, despite the fact that he could tell that the car it originated from was still miles down the road. He perked up, eyes opening and head turning towards the door, body immediately going on alert. He doubted it was a real threat — assassins hardly ever drove up the driveway to the front door, after all — but even a visitor would at least give him an excuse to do something other than just sit here.

He didn’t realize how intently he was staring at the door until footsteps sounded on the stairs behind him and a voice rang out.

“Didn’t know Fury assigned an attack dog instead of a bodyguard,” came the amused-sounding tone. Peter turned to see Stark propped against the doorframe, posture relaxed and clothes rumpled. “You look like you’re about to jump someone who walks through that door,” he continued, nodding his head towards the spot Peter had been staring at.

“That is part of the point,” Peter grumbled. Still, he forced his muscles to relax. “But I heard an engine. You expecting someone?”

Stark snorted faintly. “That would be Pepper, kid.” Peter narrowed his eyes in response, but relaxed a bit more at the confirmation. “Though for the record, the mailman doesn’t bite.”

“ You get mail?”

“Flyers. Junk mail. Just because I’ve gone fully digital doesn’t mean the rest of the country has caught up.” The man sniffed. “The HOA has a strange obsession with community newsletters and seasonal notices. Like we all need a paper reminder of their lawn trimming schedules,” he added with a grumble.

Against his will, Peter let out an amused snort. It was a strange feeling — disarming, almost — to hear the same complaints coming out of the billionaire’s mouth that he would have heard from Ben or May a lifetime ago. It was certainly part of the mundane — the normal — that he’d never thought to be associated with Tony Stark. Then again, he’d never really pegged the guy to be a lakehouse in the country sort of man either — nor one who would willingly have a child, and be content in the lifestyle of a married man. Yet here they were.

In the subsequent stretch of quiet, Stark gave him a sidelong glance, seemingly considering the next words out of his mouth (another rarity that Peter would not have once expected out of him). “You don’t always have to be on high alert here, you know. This place is one of the safest on the planet — something even Pep was on board with.” He waved a hand to the ceiling. “And if something does go wrong, FRIDAY’s got a whole arsenal locked and loaded. You can afford to sit down without a perimeter check, I promise.”

Peter cleared his throat and glanced towards the doorway once more, stalling for time. He weighed his options — some sort of token response like ‘it’s my job’ would be perfectly acceptable to say, and would put an end to the weird sort of energy that permeated the air. Yet those weren’t the words he found himself saying.

“Old habits die hard, I guess,” he commented, and knew it was more truthful than anything else he could have said in response. There was another beat of silence — a kind of tension that told Peter that Stark had picked up on the truthfulness to his statement — before the other man spoke again.

“Kid, you look like you’ve never had a new habit in your life,” Stark’s tone was dry and amused. Peter snorted once more — and just like that, the strange tension dissipated. “But you’re allowed to relax here, this isn’t a battleground.” 

Before Peter could react to that statement, the billionaire pushed off the doorframe. “And anyways —” the sound of a slammed car door interrupted his speech, and Peter blinked, head whipping around towards the door once more. “— looks like Pep is here. If you want to keep up the whole attack-dog energy, be my guest, but fair warning: that woman can out-intimidate anyone. One of her many charms. I wouldn’t even bother trying.”

Peter watched as Stark made his way towards the door in preparation of his wife’s return, idly making note of his gait and movements. If he listened closely, Peter could hear the click of heels on the porch outside, accompanied by a greeting by FRIDAY, just as the door swung open.

“Tony?” came a woman’s voice — firm, yet with a sort of gentle lilt to it that threw Peter for a loop. It was achingly similar to the way May used to call his name when she returned home from her shift; a little bit weary, but warm all the same.

“Pep!” Stark greeted. “How was the drive?” His own tone was gentle as well. 

It was strange — not the same soft voice he used with Morgan, but a different kind altogether. It was completely separate from the way he’d always spoken on TV, or how he’d spoken around Fury — there was no doubt that he actually cared to hear what Pepper would say in response, and her general well-being. It was the tone of voice Ben had used with May, and one Peter could never have quite believed the billionaire were capable of, if he hadn’t heard it with his own ears. 

It wasn’t like he didn’t know Stark was married — it had been all over the news for ages. And Pepper Potts did not strike him as a gold digger, nor someone who would tolerate any misbehavior attributed to a playboy. And yet, it was hard to believe that the two could have a marriage that could be in any way comparable to the love that Peter had seen between Ben and May. After all, it was possible to have a decent marriage without having a wonderful one; Peter had always kind of just assumed it was more like the former for the Starks, rather than anything else. But it was clear, even from this preliminary interaction, that his assumption was in no way the case for the two of them. And Peter… found he had no idea what to do with this information.

Before he could dwell further on the matter, Stark moved back, and Pepper Potts stepped into his line of eyesight, past the threshold of the doorway. He immediately found himself straightening in his chair as he instinctively gauged her expression and posture. She was just as he’d seen in all the tabloids — sharp, put-together, with a kind of authority that even Stark allowed himself to defer to. (Or perhaps defer was not the right word; acknowledge was better-suited. The man hardly ever acknowledged authority in any regard, so when he did, it was a notable experience — as close to deferring as he may ever get.)

“It was fine,” she replied, though she wasn’t looking at Stark now; her eyes had settled firmly on Peter, brows raised intently. “And… you must be the bodyguard?”

Peter straightened even more, shoulders drawn back as far as they could go. He gave her a polite nod and kept his face neutral. “Yes, ma’am. Peter Parker.” 

He reached out to shake her hand, keeping his grip firm but not too tight. His aim wasn’t to intimidate, here; just impress, if he could. Make a good impression, at the very least — he cared more about her opinion than Stark’s, after all.

Pepper took his hand, gaze unwavering as she looked him over. Peter held his ground, feeling the way she seemed to measure him up in one glance — similar to the manner in which he’d examined her only a few seconds prior. After a moment, her eyes flicked back to Stark, brow furrowed.

“Tony,” she said, her voice suddenly laden with something a bit more like reproach, “he’s so young. What were you thinking, hiring a kid?”

Stark raised his hands in mock surrender, though he looked thoroughly unbothered by her disapproval — likely because it was a common occurrence for him. “Whoa, hang on a second, Pep. I didn’t hire him; Fury sent him.” He grinned and leaned a little closer towards her, lowering his voice to a mock-whisper. “Besides, I wouldn’t recommend saying ‘kid’ to his face. It makes him bristle.”

Peter shot him a glare — well aware that the man intended for him to overhear, even if he didn’t know about Peter’s enhanced hearing. Pepper gave Stark a reproachful look, and for some reason, her scolding him on Peter’s behalf made his ears warm more than the jab itself had. He forced his expression to stay neutral; he’d heard comments like this plenty of times since joining SHIELD, and he still wasn’t sure what irritated him more — the assumption that he couldn’t handle his job because of his age, or how amused people seemed to be by it. Either way, he was used to being judged for it, and aside from Fury, he wasn’t accustomed to anyone defending him — which made Pepper’s silent rebuke somehow more embarrassing than the comment itself. He could defend himself, thank you very much.

“SHIELD assigned me to handle security for you and your family,” Peter spoke up, keeping his voice cool and professional. “Director Fury doesn’t take assignments lightly. With all due respect, ma’am, I assure you I’ve been trained for situations like this, and I’m well-equipped to handle any threats.” 

He forced himself not to specify — Fury had insisted during training that his habit of rambling during explanations made him sound his age, and made him sound less experienced than he actually was. The less he said, the more intimidating he appeared — so he forced himself to bite his tongue and fall silent. Pepper considered him carefully, eyes sweeping over his coiled form — until a voice broke through their unintentional standoff.

“So why does she get to be ‘ma’am,’ but I don’t get ‘sir’?” Stark asked, sounding more akin to a petulant toddler than a man of his age. Both Peter and Pepper turned unimpressed looks on him in sync, and he raised his hands defensively in response.

“The moment you behave like a ‘sir,’ I’m sure he’d be happy to oblige,” Pepper replied, in a sweet tone that did not belie the sharpness of her smile. Peter doubted he would ever do such a thing, but he had no desire to argue with Pepper Potts, so he merely shrugged in acquiescence.

Stark let out a huff, but it seemed more performative than truly offended. Interesting. “Anyway, before this becomes a whole thing —” he gestured vaguely at Peter. “Kid’s more than capable. Fury vouched for him — not that that means anything to me , of course, but it probably means something to you. Plus, he passed the test of my toughest critic.”

“Your toughest critic?” Peter echoed; the words slipped out before he could stop himself. He was too taken aback by Stark defending him — even after the ‘sir’ comment — to hold his tongue.

Stark grinned, and looked rather pleased with himself. “Yup. The one upstairs with the self-attempted pigtails and an impressive collection of pink tutus.”

“You let her do the pigtails again?” Pepper interjected, incredulous tone matched by the look she shot her husband.

“She wouldn’t go down for her nap without them.” Stark shrugged. “I only allowed seventeen hair ties this time. Relax.”

(Pepper didn’t look relaxed. If anything, she looked thoroughly exasperated. Something told Peter this was a rather common occurrence.)

“Is that why you took so long upstairs?” Peter blurted before he could stop himself, almost immediately regretting how intrusive it sounded — if only because it made him sound actually invested in the man’s activities past his job description. (Which he was not.) To his surprise, Stark didn’t seem to mind.

“Last time she tried, she insisted on sixty different hair ties,” Stark explained. “Apparently, it wasn’t ‘colorful enough’ without.”

“And then she napped with them in, and it took hours to detangle,” Pepper added dryly as she dropped her purse on the nearby end table and stepped out of her stilettos.

Stark shrugged again and stepped forward to place his hands on her shoulders, rubbing circles at the base of her neck in a sort of mini-massage. “She did say she had no regrets. Clearly that was forewarning of another attempt.” 

“Which you allowed,” Pepper pointed out, disapprovingly, although the effect was somewhat undercut by the clear relief in her voice as Stark continued to work on her tense shoulders. Peter watched in fascination at the unabashed show of comfortable, regular affection.

“Hey, I compromised at seventeen this time. That’s, what — a 70% decrease?”

“71%,” Peter corrected instinctively, then froze as both Stark and Pepper turned to stare at him. Evidently they had half-forgotten of his presence. He kind of regretted reminding them, and resisted the urge to fidget under their sudden attention.

“FRIDAY?” Stark asked, tilting his head toward the ceiling, though his eyes remained fixed on Peter.

“Sixty to seventeen is indeed a 71.67% decrease, Boss,” the AI confirmed smoothly. 

Peter knew perfectly well that someone of Stark’s intellect could have done the calculations in his head just as easily. The fact that he’d deferred to FRIDAY was likely for Pepper’s benefit — or, perhaps, just for the dramatic effect.

“Huh.” Stark peered at Peter with keen interest. “FRIDAY, remind me to hack Parker’s file later. I want to see his IQ test results.”

“ Tony ,” Pepper hissed, shooting a sidelong glare at him.

Peter blinked — not at all surprised by the request, but surprised that Stark had allowed him to know of it. It was common knowledge that Tony Stark could get any information he wanted at any time, and could leave no trace of it. Everyone at SHIELD worked under the basic assumption that everything in their file could be — and was — known to Stark (much to Fury’s perpetual consternation). 

The fact that the man had openly announced his intentions to Peter felt oddly… respectful, in its own backhanded way. For Stark, it was as close as he might ever come to asking permission. It was something that Peter could not help but feel the slightest bit touched by — despite the fact that, in normal societal conventions, such a comment would be considered rather rude. One of the many idiosyncrasies of Tony Stark, it seemed.

Before anyone could say something in response to that comment, Peter heard the unmistakable sound of a stomach growling. For one brief, mortifying second, he thought it was his own — before realizing that it was Pepper’s, instead. A faint blush touched her cheekbones as she realized the same thing, and she gave Peter a smile that could perhaps come across as sheepish, were it anyone else.

“Excuse me,” she apologized (though why, he had no idea — he was in their house, after all), “I didn’t have a chance to eat lunch with all my meetings today. It would seem it’s catching up with me.”

Stark stepped forward and pecked her on the cheek in another small show of easy, comfortable affection that had Peter glancing away from them and towards the stairway. It wasn’t even PDA, really — in fact, Peter would probably be more comfortable if it were. The aspect that grated at him was that every movement reminded him of Ben and May, and their actions towards each other — nothing outwardly overly affectionate, but a certain kind of familiarity that only arose with years of care for each other.

“Go get changed and put your feet up, Pep, I’ll get started on dinner. The little miss will be hungry when she wakes up, too.”

“Mm, as long as it’s not an omelette,” Pepper responded, and something in her tone told Peter that he wasn’t privy to some sort of long-running inside joke between the two of them.

“Nah, I’m thinking pasta.” Stark waved a hand towards Peter. “It’s quick, and we can make more than enough to sustain the little miss and Parker over there.”

Peter’s brows furrowed. “Me?” he echoed. The man shot him a bemused look.

“What, you thought we weren’t going to feed you?” he snorted. “C’mon, kid, even I’m not going to make you just stand there and watch while we all have dinner. Especially not after that comment from Fury — what, you’re a bottomless pit?”

Peter’s mouth twisted down in displeasure, reminded of why he’d been afraid it had been his stomach growling a few moments ago. He hated it primarily because it was one of the few bodily functions that he could not stop or control, no matter how much he was in control of every single other aspect. He could tell his body how to control facial expressions, emotions, his bladder, yawning — nearly everything except stomach growling. And that, in and of itself, was a weakness.

“My enhancements affect my metabolism,” he explained, a little stiffly. “And no, I hadn’t — it’s my job to be a guard, which is not contingent on you feeding me.” After all, in most of the other jobs he’d been given — especially when guarding the stuffy politicians — none of them had even considered feeding him. They’d seen him as some sort of nameless, faceless background character; one without needs or opinions. In their defense, that was the exact persona he was going for — but they never even considered whether he would need a meal break, much less actually offered to buy or cook him food. The idea was rather foreign.

Pepper’s voice broke through the quiet, soft and undeterringly gentle. “It may not be part of the job, but you are more than welcome to eat with us, Peter.” Her tone was firm in its insistence and left no room for argument.

Peter opened his mouth to argue anyways — it wasn’t his place to sit down with the Stark family, at their table, and have dinner with them, like some sort of sickeningly domestic picture he was no longer a part of. One he hadn’t been a part of, since his parents and Ben had died. It made him feel vaguely ill, that if someone were to look through the window, all they would see was the facade of the classic all-American family; mother, father, boy and a girl. Peter wasn’t a part of that, and not even the tiniest part of him could afford to hope for it, because it wasn’t the truth. He had his chance with a family. His parents may have died by chance, but Ben was gone by his own fault, and he had left May of his own volition. Even if just to protect her, it was all the same in the end.

But one look at Pepper’s face told him there really was no room for argument, so he shut his mouth and nodded silently instead. (Something told him she evoked that reaction quite often.)

“Plus, I think Morgan would throw a fit if she didn’t get to sit next to you and show you her favorite bowl and spoon,” Stark commented, tone light. With that, the tension broke again, and Pepper allowed a soft, amused snort, kissing the man on the cheek before heading towards the stairway.

“I’m going to change and then check in on her, don’t burn down the house while I’m gone. I don’t need an insurance nightmare on top of all the other legal paperwork.”

Stark scoffed. “Oh please, give me some credit. If I were to ever do an insurance scam it would be much more creative than that.”

How reassuring , Peter thought wryly to himself. Ironically, he was fairly certain the man was telling the truth.

“I never said anything about a scam, honey,” Pepper responded, tone sugary-sweet. “I meant in terms of general incompetence. You do have a propensity for turning simple tasks into multi-million-dollar cleanup efforts.”

Peter quite enjoyed the way Stark’s jaw dropped at that, and subsequently decided that Pepper Potts was one of his new favorite people.

As Pepper disappeared up the stairs — not waiting for a response — Peter shifted on his feet, not quite sure where to put himself. Partially because he hadn’t yet decided whether he wanted to maximally annoy Stark or stay out of his way, and partially because he just wasn’t used to this particular set of circumstances.

The man in question proceeded to rummage through the kitchen, pulling out pots and a box of pasta with a surprising amount of familiarity. He didn’t ask Peter for help — probably just as well, since he didn’t even know where anything was, and cooking was not exactly his forte (unsurprising, given how May was in the kitchen).

“You actually know how to cook?” Peter asked, the curiosity slipping out before he could stop it — although the tone came out sounding more accusatory than anything.

Stark raised an eyebrow but kept working, dumping the pasta into a boiling pot of water. “You say that like it’s a crime. I am perfectly capable of making pasta and other dishes that do not involve a screwdriver or a blueprint.” He sounded more amused than offended, and Peter wasn’t sure whether to be annoyed or relieved by that fact. He settled on vacillating between both. “Though I suppose your skepticism isn’t unfounded; I didn’t know how to, for most of my life. Tried to make Pep an omelette and it took me two hours to get something semi-edible.” He paused and narrowed his eyes in consideration as he plucked a wooden spoon from the drawer next to him. “Though she never did eat that. Eh, probably for the better.”

Peter didn’t know what to say to that, so he shifted on his feet, boots creaking on the hardwood floor. He wondered whether it would be too obvious of an escape to check the perimeter again — he suspected yes, but he didn’t exactly want to stand here and stare at Stark as he boiled the pasta, either.

The man in question glanced over, eyes flicking over his form. Peter figured he’d probably send him into the living room or the porch to wait — after all, he doubted Stark wanted Peter to stare at him just as little as Peter wanted to be staring at him.

“Dishes are in the cabinet to the left, silverware in the bottom drawer. Y’know, if you feel like being useful,” Stark said instead — tilting his head down to gesture to each cabinet with his chin. 

Peter blinked before he moved slowly towards the aforementioned drawers, biding time. From the way it had been spoken, he could tell it wasn’t an actual order. Rather, it was a suggestion and an offering in one — something to do with his hands, a task to complete in order to not feel out of place. It was only disguised as an order so that both of them could keep up the facade they had going, even as the scenarios increasingly encroached on murky, unfamiliar territory.

In fact, Peter was beginning to notice that Stark was rather good at noticing when he felt out of place and saying what was needed in the moment — perceptive in a way that Peter had never truly thought he would be. Not necessarily because he wasn’t capable of it — because people with high IQs often were capable of noticing such things — but more so that he wouldn’t care enough to act on it; certainly not in favor of a complete stranger. And certainly not when that complete stranger was Peter himself.

Peter carefully extracted the dishes and silverware from their places in the cabinets, laying them out on the table in their designated positions. It felt like some kind of eerie ghost reality; an alternate universe — he’d never eaten at a table that was set for four people, unless Ben and May had a visitor over. Though, he supposed it was the same scenario, just reversed so that he was the visitor, in another family’s home. Yet partaking in the setup that was usually reserved on behalf of the family members themselves. All in all, it was giving him some severe cognitive dissonance.

He found himself arranging the silverware slowly on the table, loath to finish his task and be left without another one — watching the progress of the pasta out of the corner of his eye in order to match up his movements.

“So, kid, are you more of a red sauce or white sauce kind of guy?” Stark asked as he drained the pasta water out of the pot. Peter blinked out of his reverie, momentarily startled that he’d been addressed in the first place, before he recovered and gave half a shrug.

“No preference,” he replied, out of habit. Even little things, tiny things that he enjoyed, were dangerous to reveal. Give too many things away and it could all be used to build up a bigger picture — to predict his movements, see who he was as a person, what he valued, what could be used to break him.

Stark gave a huff in response. “Man, you really are like Romanoff. Took me ages to find out that she liked peanut butter and jelly sandwiches,” he muttered. “Would have thought it was a national secret or something.”

Peter didn’t comment, because the truth of the matter was that preferences were as special to hold onto as a national secret might be. Especially for someone who had to hide or mask their identity at every turn, or slip into another’s skin on command — hanging onto little bits of themselves was every bit as crucial. Really, it told him more about Stark ’s character, that he had been entrusted with such information.

“Romanoff?” he echoed. He knew who the man was referring to, of course — Natasha Romanoff, the Black Widow. He knew the stories of her, and had read her file, and he knew that she and Stark had some kind of association — even before the Avengers. But hearing words come from Stark himself would tell him far more about the nature of their relationship than a file or second-hand source could ever give him. Not to mention, the best way to glean such information was to give a vague question in the form of a prompt, and then stay quiet and let the other man do all the talking.

“Yep, Natasha Romanoff. The Black Widow. Aunt Nat to little miss up there,” he gestured up the stairway towards Morgan’s room. “She hated me too at first, y’know. Though she had a hell of a lot of a reason for it back then, I have to say. And regrettably for her, she actually had to pretend to like me.” He snorted, stirring the pasta and shooting Peter a sidelong glance. “But I think I’ve grown on her. She and I have saved each other’s asses more than a couple of times, too, so that always helps.” He paused and pointed the spoon at Peter. “Don’t tell Pep I cursed in front of you, she’ll lecture me.”

Peter didn’t respond verbally to that; instead, he pressed his mouth together in a line and hummed noncommittally. Under the verbal avalanche of mostly meaningless chatter, he heard the core message — that Romanoff trusted him, both in and out of the field. She trusted him to have her back in the same way that she trusted him with her favorite type of sandwich. The idea of being that close to someone on the job — to anyone, really — was a concept Peter had lost somewhere along the way. The people he’d cared about most had been taken from him, or he’d pushed away, and everyone else… well, they were temporary. They had to be.

Peter thought of Morgan and the game she’d dragged him and Stark into — and the way the man had stared at him afterwards, contemplative. The way he’d defended Peter when Pepper questioned him and his capabilities — despite his original reservations when Fury introduced them. How he’d invited Peter to their family dinner, and how he’d given him a task to do so that he wasn’t standing around awkwardly. How it seemed that Natasha Romanoff — the notoriously dangerous Black Widow and skilled super-spy — had trusted him enough to know her food preferences; and how Stark had, in turn, asked Peter what his were.

Peter supposed sharing this one thing wouldn’t reveal too much about him, and it may go a long way in making Stark trust him; which could certainly be helpful for future endeavors. Even if he didn’t particularly like the man, he knew implicitly which people he shouldn’t make enemies of — and this was one of them.

“Red,” he said, after a long moment. Stark glanced up at him, eyebrows raised. “I like red sauce,” he clarified.

Stark gave him a pleased smirk, something just shy of a triumphant grin. “Ah, see? Lucky for you, the little miss shares your opinion, so you won’t have to duke it out with her.” He dumped the drained pasta back into the pot and stirred in the red sauce with a flourish, as if he’d just cracked some sort of code. Peter felt a momentary flicker of regret at having said anything, but he pushed it down. It was one tiny detail. One harmless fact. It wasn’t like admitting his pasta sauce preference would lead to the guy knowing his deepest, darkest secrets.

He could control the rest.

~ ~ ~

There were fresh flowers on the gravestones this morning.

May closed her eyes and exhaled slowly — one long push of breath out of her nose. 

They were from Peter, undoubtedly. She wasn’t sure whether he knew that she kept track of him this way — every time he was back in the city after one of his missions, he stopped by to visit his parents’ and Ben’s graves, and she knew he’d made it back alive. Perhaps the flowers were his quiet way of telling her that, or maybe he was oblivious to the ritual altogether. She guessed it was the former — she had never doubted Peter’s awareness or brilliance, and she trusted that, even if he didn’t confide in her as openly as he once had, he still understood how much she wanted to know that he was safe.

But knowing, really knowing Peter was alright? She couldn’t quite call herself confident in that — not anymore.

She’d been out of her depth, ever since Nick Fury showed up on her doorstep years prior and informed her that her nephew had gotten involved in things much bigger than himself — offering Peter a job in the process. (Though it had been made quite clear that if he didn’t take the job, other ramifications would follow. She, quite frankly, would always hold a grudge against the director for threatening her nephew in that manner, even if it never carried through).

May hadn’t entirely understood the extent of the situation — neither Fury nor Peter would elaborate on what , exactly, had gone down — but the way Peter had seemed to go completely still, as if reliving an unpleasant haunting memory, was enough to tell her that something had gone terribly wrong. 

She may not have understood, but she still would have fought for her nephew, in any way she could. In fact, she’d been wholly prepared to — mentally calculating how much of her paycheck could go into procuring a lawyer (and not a cheap one) — but it had been Peter himself who had objected to that, before Fury even had a chance to. She’d watched as he’d stood there, suddenly so certain and resolved — the set of his jaw and the line of his brow so similar to Ben’s that she’d almost crumbled at the realization. The sting of his loss was still so fresh, even now.

Part of May wondered — quite often, in fact — if she was a terrible parent, for letting her child go into a job like that, just because he asked; begged, even. Children at that age didn’t often know what was the right option, after all, and it was a parent’s job to keep their children safe, to shield them from all the dangers the world held.

Yet… May knew her Peter, down to his bones. She knew he was deeply unhappy, that something had been eating away at him ever since Ben’s death — something she wasn’t privy to, despite her best efforts to get him to open up. It was evident in the way he moved, the hunch to his shoulders, the empty space that he seemed to leave behind when he would dissociate from reality.

But she had seen something — a spark of interest, the slightest glint of hope — when Fury had mentioned that job. A way to help people, to give Peter a purpose — however unconventional. It had been a spark she hadn’t seen since the night Ben died, and been wholly helpless to reignite herself. And the truth was, despite the strong front she put on, May was terrified. She was terrified and desperate, watching Peter slowly slip away from himself, from her, from his friends — anything that used to anchor him — and helpless to do a single thing against it. 

So, she’d given her blessing. Allowed Peter — her Peter, the child she loved with every fiber of her being — to go, in the hopes that Fury could offer him something she had been unable to give him. 

Yet in her darkest, most vulnerable moments, she wished she could go back. Back to a time when she didn’t know the paralyzing fear of almost losing him, before she understood the feeling of constantly teetering on that razor-thin edge. In giving her blessing, she’d saved him — she knew that. But she’d also let go of a piece of him, a part of him that would never again be hers to claim. 

There were, of course, conditions. She insisted Fury keep her updated on Peter’s status, and Peter had to get his GED if he chose not to return to school. They were small things — paltry safeguards in the sheer magnitude of everything she was letting him face alone — but it was all she could do. It was so far from the future she, Ben, and his parents had once dreamed of for him. And yet, she knew Peter needed this, and that if she held on too tightly — if she kept him with her, as every instinct in her screamed to do — he would only pull away more. He’d grow more distant, and she’d lose him completely.

It was a kind of love that required loosening her grip — a lesson she’d never expected to learn, and certainly never with Peter. But this, she supposed, was what Peter needed: something she could never provide on her own, except in the very event of letting him go, so that he could find someone who could .

She ran her hand gently along Ben’s gravestone, then Peter’s parents', her fingers brushing the cool, engraved marble as if the contact could still give her just as much comfort as touching them while they were alive.

“I hope I made the right choice,” she murmured aloud. It wasn’t the first time she’d spoken, nor would it be the last; she’d long since gotten over the feeling that it was strange to talk to people who could no longer respond. Her hand drifted back to Ben’s stone, tracing the grooves that spelled out his name. “You’d have known what to do,” she said softly. “You always did.”

But even as she spoke the words, she wasn’t sure if they were entirely true. Would Ben have tried to hold Peter back, insisting on a safer, simpler life? Or would he have seen the same spark she had, the same determination in Peter that reminded her so painfully of the man she had loved? Peter’s actions only served to remind her of her late husband’s — though she knew it was different, placing yourself in that position versus allowing your child to be.

She exhaled sharply, blinking away tears. There wasn’t any point in thinking about what Ben would have done; after all, she was the one still here, the only one who had a say. Peter’s parents and Ben may have chosen differently, or they may not have. She couldn’t afford to listen to the voices of the dead, not if she wanted to avoid Peter joining their ranks.

Yet, the flowers meant that Peter was still alive, still here — and back in New York. Something Fury had not yet deigned to inform her of. And one thing was for certain: May did not appreciate people with agendas — Nick Fury included.

~ ~ ~

"Fury."

The voice on the other end of the line was as familiar as it was unmistakable — few people dared to use that tone on him. He didn’t even need to look at the caller ID to know who it was; he’d known before the first syllable was finished.

May Parker.

Fury leaned back in his chair, sighing through his nose as he set down the file he’d been scanning. May — as usual — didn’t wait for him to get his bearings before she continued.

"I know my nephew is back in the city. Our agreement was that I would be informed when he got back.”

“Parker is preoccupied at the moment.” He pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and pointer finger as though it would ward off the incoming headache. A futile endeavor, really. Much like every argument against May Parker. “He went straight from one mission to the next, there was no time to inform you.”

“Bullshit.”

Fury’s jaw tightened. He didn’t need to be dragged into this conversation, but the woman had a way of making things his problem whether he liked it or not.

For all that May Parker was a pain in his ass (a trait that seemed to be a Parker family special, if you asked him), Fury found that he held a grudging respect for her. It was rare that he met someone who was so unafraid and unimpressed with him from the get-go. A civilian with more gumption than half the people he kept in his employ — which, frankly, left a lot to be desired about the hiring process. At the moment, though, his irritation far outweighed any well-meaning favor he felt towards her.

He still had yet to figure out how she managed to get updates on Parker’s return to the city so quickly — it wasn’t as if his location were broadcasted, after all. In fact, the only person Fury could think of who would have gotten her the information so quickly was Parker himself. That didn’t work for the sole reason that if Parker were in contact with his aunt, she wouldn’t need to call to needle Fury in the first place.

(Hill had once asked him why he cared so much, and he’d snapped back that he ran a secret intelligence agency, and that if a civilian , of all people, could track the movements of one of his best agents, then he had a security issue. In reality, it was more so because it was unknown to him, and he hated not knowing. Hill had merely smirked in response to his outburst, and he knew that she knew it too.)

He glanced at his watch, then back to the phone in his hand. This was the third time she had called in the past week. The third time she’d caught him off guard, too; a fact he was impressed by and resented all at once. Mostly because she wasn’t someone he could deflect with half-answers, and Parker’s decisions — messy and complicated as they were — weren’t something Fury could cleanly explain. Nor, frankly, did he have any desire to. He was no telephone boy, goddamnit.

“Listen, Ms. Parker,” he began, tone carefully measured, “I don’t know what you want me to tell you. The kid’s got his own schedule, and I’m not in the business of running his personal life.”

“But you do run his professional life,” May shot back, not missing a beat. Fury resisted the urge to sigh. Barely , he grumbled internally.

“He’s handling himself,” he said instead, leaning forward as he rested his elbows on the desk. “He’s good at what he does. One of the best we’ve got.”

“That’s not what I’m asking,” her voice was sharp and tinny through the line. “You and I both know the only reason I let him go with SHIELD in the first place was because I thought it would help him. I was out of options and I knew he needed something different, and that someone was you. But the one main thing I asked for was simply knowing when he’s back in the city, alive. I don’t pretend to act like I can get through to him — not like I once did — but I know him well enough still to know that he’s cutting himself off. And you know it too.”

Fury exhaled slowly at that and weighed his words before responding. She wasn’t wrong. Parker was cutting himself off — from her, from his friends, from the parts of his life that weren’t directly tied to his work. Had been, progressively, for years. But what could Fury say? That the kid was running himself ragged trying to outrun his own guilt? That he’d spent the last few years tying himself to SHIELD because he thought it was the only way to make up for something he couldn’t undo? That Fury had let it happen — even encouraged it — because the kid was a damn good agent, with potential on par with Romanoff?

He could see it clear as day: the longer Parker kept running, the closer he edged toward burnout. Fury wasn’t blind, after all, despite his lack of a second functional eye. A colder director might have accepted the calculus: use him until he burned out — because with the teenager’s sheer willpower, that could take years. But Fury — against his better judgment — had grown vaguely fond of the kid. (Damn him and that pesky soft spot.)

Parker was exceptional, no doubt about it. But Fury had seen too many like him push too hard, too fast, and fall apart when they reached their limit. Few ever came back from that edge. Romanoff had been the rare exception — broken, rebuilt stronger. Fury sometimes thought Parker might be cut from the same unyielding material, but it wasn’t a gamble he was eager to take.

“He’s got his reasons,” he said finally, though the words felt as hollow as they sounded.

There was a long moment of silence — so long that he almost believed she’d hung up on him, before a slight rustle sounded on the other end and she spoke again.

“You know, when he first started pulling away, I thought it was just a phase, or grief. That he’d come around when he was ready. I didn’t realize until it was too late that he was…” Words seemed to fail her, then. “He’s been lost for a long time, and I keep hoping someone will help him find his way back.”

Fury’s grip on the phone tightened, and the stress vein in his temple started throbbing. (At this point, it was almost attuned to the sound of May’s voice. Parker was a trigger word by now.) He didn’t like being the recipient of people’s earnest hopes — especially not when it came to Parker. The kid was a hell of an agent, sure, but he wasn’t exactly Fury’s responsibility in the way May seemed to think. He wasn’t anyone’s responsibility anymore. He’d made damn sure of that.

“Ms. Parker,” he started, voice firm. “I can keep him alive. I can make sure he’s in one piece when he gets back. But fixing whatever’s going on in his head? That is not in my wheelhouse.”

Hell, even promising to get Parker back in one piece was biting off far more than he could chew.

“That’s not good enough.” May’s voice had regained its edge. “You’ve got more influence over him than anyone else right now, whether you want to admit it or not. If you’re not even going to try to help him, then what are you doing?”

The question made Fury’s jaw clench and his eye twitch. He was nobody’s damn therapist — least of all a nineteen-year-old kid’s. There was a reason he left psych evaluations to the professionals — or, hell, even Romanoff. His job was to run a global organization capable of defending the planet against threats, not to psychoanalyze his agents; especially ones with superpowers and dual hero and guilt complexes to boot.

Unfortunately, May Parker had an unsettling knack for cutting through defenses — not unlike Romanoff herself. There was something about her that made you agree with her, to a certain extent. But Fury hadn’t built his reputation by being easily swayed, and he sure as hell wasn’t about to start taking orders now.

“I’m not his parent, Ms. Parker,” he responded, his own voice sharper now. “I didn’t raise him, and I’m not about to coddle him. He’s a grown man now — if he’s got problems, it’s up to him to deal with them. He can get a referral to a SHIELD psychiatrist.”

“You’re not his parent,” May shot back, and the unwavering cold anger in her voice surprised him. “ I’m his parent, and I always will be. But he’s nineteen , and you sure as hell stepped in to be something, that day you showed up in our apartment. Boss, mentor — call it whatever you want, but Peter will listen to you in a way he won’t for me. And if you’re going to sit there and pretend you don’t care, you’re more blind than I thought.”

Fury leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling for a moment as if it might provide some divine intervention. It didn’t. Instead, he was left with the bitter truth that Parker’s aunt, stubborn as she was, had a point. Parker didn’t let many people get close anymore — but when Fury spoke, the kid listened. Well, most of the time. Whether he liked it or not, he did have influence over the boy. (And, he supposed, it would be no use to have a mentally unstable agent.)

Eye drifting to one of the files on his desk, he noted the progress report Parker had submitted regarding his bodyguard assignment. Normally, he skimmed those — agents didn’t have the time nor inclination to report anything Fury hadn’t already deduced. But long before May had called him, he’d already — perhaps subconsciously — come to a similar conclusion regarding Parker and his… instability. The subsequent plan had only been aided by the coincidental timing of the explosion targeting Stark.

After all, his choice of protection detail wasn’t just about keeping the billionaire safe; he’d known that when he’d assigned Parker to the job — not that he’d told the kid as much. Stark didn’t need a bodyguard in the traditional sense — he needed someone sharp enough to anticipate him, stubborn enough to push back, and smart enough to adapt on the fly. Parker fit the bill perfectly.

But for all Parker’s competence, the kid was a tightrope walker, balancing too much on his own. He was exceptional — had to be, to survive what he had. But Fury knew the danger of exceptional people who operated in isolation.

Stark was the opposite. For all his genius, Stark had never truly been alone. Even at his worst, he’d had people to ground him, whether he admitted it or not. Parker had no such luxury, and Fury had suspected that might be part of the problem.

Idly, he flipped open the file to the ‘notes’ section.

Notes: Stark isn’t what I expected. He’s sharp, which I anticipated, but his unpredictability makes it harder to assess potential threats. Potts has been cooperative. Morgan is… Morgan. She’s smart for her age and doesn’t take no for an answer. (I’m not sure why Stark insists that’s a good thing.)

Pressing his lips together in a firm line, Fury resisted the urge to sigh.

“I’ll handle it,” he said, at last.

“I’ll hold you to that,” May responded, and he had no doubts about the truthfulness of that statement — not bothering to respond before the line disconnected with a click .

Fury had absolutely no desire to hang any sort of plan on Stark — but something about Parker’s progress report, and the recorded interactions with five-year-old Morgan Stark… it held more emotion than Fury had seen from the kid since joining SHIELD.

At that thought, he snapped Parker’s file shut, setting it aside with a decisive thud. Perhaps this arrangement would help them both. Or maybe it would blow up in his face.

He’d find out soon enough.

Chapter Text

It turned out Peter had been worried about the wrong things. Or rather, he’d misjudged which problem deserved the most attention. Dealing with Tony Stark was still a challenge, to be clear — just not the one he should’ve been most concerned about. That title had been usurped by Stark’s daughter.

From the very start of the mission, Peter had known what persona to adopt: cold, detached, laconic — speaking just enough to convey what was needed, and nothing more. Had the circumstances been different, he might have relied on a different guise — one characterized by snark or deadpan sarcasm — but Stark was the kind of man who’d see that as an invitation; a challenge to push his boundaries. Peter had no intention to let him anywhere near his limits, so he kept his mouth tightly controlled and refused to let the reins slacken.

Unfortunately, his strength in the face of that particular endeavor was already starting to falter — the presence of Morgan Stark threw a toddler-sized wrench into his previously well-conceived plans. While Peter had absolutely no qualms about being an asshole towards Stark, he was not so far gone into the territory of moral ambiguity as to ignore the instinctive panic that rose in his throat every time Morgan’s big brown doe eyes filled with tears. He’d do anything to stop them, which meant engaging more than he wanted to, as well as catering to the whims of whatever she most desired at the moment. (And he supposed that it was too much to ask that any child of Tony Stark could possibly be the type of child who usually enjoyed quiet rather than incessant talking.)

In Peter’s defense, he was ninety-three percent certain that even Nick Fury would crumble under the pressure of a crying five-year-old. And if Fury of all people couldn’t keep up his icy persona, Peter figured he was at least a little justified. The root of the problem was more with Stark himself (and that part, Peter had expected). He was always nearby, trailing after Morgan like a shadow. Peter understood why, of course — he was still practically a stranger, and being part of SHIELD didn’t exactly earn him brownie points with Stark, given the man’s sentiment towards Fury. But it was still rather… inconvenient, every time he had to soften under Morgan’s pleas — when he tried to smile, or spoke to her with an awkward, halting warmth, unfamiliar on his tongue. It was embarrassing and disgustingly vulnerable to have to peel back his protective persona, made all the worse by Stark’s eyes on him.

What bothered him most, though, was the way Stark looked at him when it happened. Not with the expected smirk or teasing gaze; rather, he donned a shrewd, pensive expression — like that very first day, with the toys, or before dinner. Peter hated that look. It had a quiet intensity; that of an architect’s, or an engineer’s — surveying a city or a project and seeing what could be rebuilt from the ruins. He looked at Peter like that — but Peter didn’t need to be rebuilt, and certainly not by Tony Stark. Not to mention, it made it much harder to knock him firmly into the ‘asshole’ category and keep him there. It threw him off. Peter hated it.

At least one good thing had come out of this whole clusterfuck: access to Stark’s labs.

It wasn’t necessarily the equipment itself, though that was definitely part of it. For all his reservations, Peter had to admit the man knew how to build a damn good lab. The lakehouse version of the main facility, while downsized from the one Peter had seen on the first day, still had shelves lined with tech he’d only read about, or seen in some of SHIELD’s classified files that he’d pilfered solely to annoy Fury. Some of it was familiar — Chitauri alien alloys and basic composite components and elements that he’d seen even in Midtown’s science classrooms. But other pieces were completely new — blueprints and prototypes that Stark hadn’t yet developed fully, but had clearly tinkered with. Peter hadn’t had time to appreciate the other lab in its entirety, but he’d been accurate in his assessment that it was a science nerd’s wet dream.

He had his own lab back at SHIELD — a paltry one, comparatively, but a lab nonetheless. In his minimal free time, he dumpster dove, and pieced together old components or created altogether new devices before he sold them to the highest bidder.

Most of his paychecks he sent back to May, considering that he didn’t have much use for the money himself, since agents at SHIELD received a small pension for food and room and board. However, one of the few graces he allowed himself was the occasional donation to his own makeshift lab — located in one of Fury’s office rooms. The director had put up a protest at the usage, though Peter knew the man well enough to know that it was a token protest at best, more to save face than anything else. With a shake of his head, he pushed the thoughts of his aunt and job away, and turned his attention back to the lab itself.

Peter was more than a little surprised that Stark had allowed him down here by himself — even if only for a few moments, while he handled Morgan. After all, he needed less than a minute or two to steal vital company secrets or inventions, or something along those lines. Not that he was particularly interested in such a thing, but it did make him wonder whether Stark was using this as some kind of test. He probably was, though Peter thought it was a fairly shoddy attempt at one, considering if he were to try to steal company secrets, he certainly wouldn’t go about it right now, when he was most expected to.

Peter’s eyes snagged on one of the workshop tables and the materials strewn atop it, before he dragged his attention back to the present and reminded himself why he and Stark had intended on coming down here in the first place. Right . The alien tech. FRIDAY had apparently finished processing the fragments, so it was Peter’s turn to take a crack at them.

He crouched down and squinted at a piece of the detonator’s wiring, tilting the device to the side and back. He didn’t look up when he heard the lab doors slide open, but he knew it was Stark from the pattern of his gait and the accompanying heartbeat.

“Looks like black market-grade Vanadium-alloy.” Peter chose to speak aloud rather than acknowledge the man directly. “It’s too lightweight to be standard, though, and if I’m not wrong, it’s augmented with an anti-signal coating, which makes it hard to trace electronically.” He picked up one of the smaller fragments, tracing his fingers over the twisted edges. “It’s some kind of hybrid, too — definitely custom work. Someone’s been at this for a while — years, at least — and they know what they’re doing. They’re mixing alien tech with human components to make it easier to operate undetected.”

When he looked up to gauge Stark’s reaction, the man was peering at him, eyes narrowed. “You’ve seen this kind of thing before?”

Peter gave a shrug in response. “In my SHIELD assignments, yeah. Smugglers usually try to blend alien tech with human-made parts. Makes it far harder to track and more adaptable, but it also means they’re not usually working with a full understanding of what they’ve got. They’re reverse-engineering just enough to make it dangerous.”

It was a half-truth; he’d seen similar work in other places, too — but he didn’t need to be thinking of that right now.

“Black market, hm?” Stark asked, tone deceptively mild. Peter arched a single eyebrow.

“I hope that doesn’t come as a surprise,” he responded easily, turning his attention back to the device in his hands. 

“Not particularly,” the man admitted, and Peter was once again thrown off-guard by the honesty. “But you don’t strike me as the type.”

At that, Peter’s eyebrow raised even further. “Dare I ask what you mean by that?”

Stark shrugged. “Don’t take it the wrong way, kid, I don’t mean your personality. I’m sure you’d fit right in with that poker face of yours. I was talking about your age. To have experience, you’d have to be in the business for, what — a few years, at least? To build trust and rapport. Most smugglers don’t tend to do alien weapons deals with fifteen year olds, as far as I’m aware. Would’ve made you stick out, no?”

Peter’s hands stilled, momentarily, on the device. Sometimes he forgot that the man was a certified genius, and that his brain drew connections faster than most. It wouldn’t even take too much effort to piece together that theory from what little information Peter had given. Yet still, the statement ran far too close to accuracy for his liking, and threw off his default cover story for how he’d gotten involved in SHIELD and the alien weapons sector in the first place. Most people never cared to dig, so being questioned on the matter was a novelty.

He was saved — in the metaphorical sense — from having to respond to that when FRIDAY’s voice broke the silence.

“Boss, someone’s coming up the driveway.”

Peter instinctively stiffened, about to slide off the chair and head out to the front deck himself, but Stark gestured for him to stop.

“Familiar, FRI?” he asked.

“Affirmative. I believe it is Ms. Romanoff.”

At that, Stark tilted his head. “An unannounced visit, hm?” he mused. “Stand down, kid, I’ve got it handled.”

Peter pressed his lips together in a firm line but didn’t argue — mostly because, truth be told, he wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to deal with Natasha Romanoff today. He knew she could rival him when it came to reading people, and he had no desire to keep his mask up at full strength. Even being around Stark full-time had proven difficult in that regard, after all.

“Alright,” he agreed slowly. “I’ll be out back, so I have a line of sight.”

Stark rolled his eyes, clearly thinking the premise was ridiculous, but surprisingly, he didn’t argue either — perhaps recognizing that it was Peter’s entire job to watch him.

“Take Morgan with you too, then,” he replied, already moving towards the doors of the lab. “Otherwise she’ll be all over Nat if she sees her out the window, and with an unannounced visit she might not have time to deal with an overly excitable five-year-old.”

Peter didn’t even have time to protest the decision before the man was gone, though his face twisted into a grimace at the thought. He liked Morgan — she was endearing in a strange way — but he was still far out of his depth with her. He had no idea how to manage her on his own, nor how to keep her entertained while Stark and Romanoff were meeting.

Sighing, he made his way to the door before he moved into the living room, where the aforementioned child was thoroughly defacing a poor, unsuspecting coloring book.

“Hey, Morgan,” he started, tone a little stilted. She glanced up at him, brown eyes curious. “Do you wanna go outside? You’ve been coloring in here for a while.” He held his breath and prayed that she’d say yes; if she didn’t, it wasn’t like he had authority over her, and he certainly wasn’t going to manhandle her out of the house. Luckily, he seemed to still be new enough to capture her attention and curiosity without much effort, because her face lit up. 

“Okay!” she chirped, abandoning all of her coloring materials with the ease of someone who had never been particularly attached to them in the first place. “What are we doing?”

Shit . Peter just barely managed to refrain from swearing aloud. In all his concerns about actually getting her to agree, he hadn’t really considered what could possibly be interesting enough to hold a five-year-old’s attention for more than three consecutive minutes.

“Well,” Peter started, only hesitating for the briefest of moments as a half-formed idea popped into his mind. “Has anyone ever taught you how to skip rocks?”

~ ~ ~

When Natasha pulled up to the driveway of the lake house that afternoon, she found Tony already outside, waiting for her.

“Nat,” he greeted, once she’d climbed out of the car — seeming surprised but not displeased to see her. She allowed a small flicker of a smile to cross her face in greeting — faint, but genuine, and she knew he could see it.

It was an unspoken rule that she rarely intruded at the lake house. Tony had assured her she was always welcome, but she was loath to bring herself — and, by extension, anything Avengers-related — into the home he and Pepper had built for themselves. She knew he was partially grateful for it — he had semi-retired, after all, to keep the Iron Man business as far removed from his daughter’s life as possible. But Natasha could admit, even to herself, that she was even more stringent on the matter than Tony himself was. Morgan was young, and still perfectly innocent — not at all tarnished, like Natasha herself had been at her age. At the very least, it was good to see the five-year-old grow up with the childhood that she herself was never afforded.

Irrespective of her normal rule, today was an exception.

“You’ve got that look,” Tony commented. “I take it you’re not here for a social visit?”

Natasha didn’t respond for a moment, glancing around at the surroundings instead. The scent of fresh pine wafted through the open windows, mingling with the faint aroma of whatever Pepper had in the kitchen. Even after all of this time — and even though she wasn’t putting particular effort into masking her emotions at the moment — she wasn’t quite used to the way the billionaire could read her so easily; almost as easily as she could read him. 

She supposed it was a natural progression, given that they’d known and worked together for nearly a decade — but it was a sort of relationship that she had only ever found before in Clint. Not quite as close as that, of course — Clint had seen her at her worst, when she was still an agent of the Red Room, and saw something redeemable in her even then, while Tony hadn’t known her till long after — but close enough to hold a candle to it.

“I heard a rumor,” she responded diplomatically, by way of explanation. Tony flashed a wide grin.

“Now, now, Agent Romanoff, you know what they say about rumors. Better to get the first-hand experience.” He winked, and she shot him a distinctly unamused glance. 

“We both know you’ve outgrown those days, Tony,” she responded wryly. It went unspoken that he was never truly like that in the first place, anyways; it was all a facade that she’d been lucky enough to see wash away as the years progressed.

He made a sort of noncommittal sound of agreement in the back of his throat, before he nodded towards the porch that led out to the lake. “You’re here about Parker, then.”

It was Natasha’s turn to make a vague sound of assent. “Parker, hm?”

Tony shot her a sidelong glance. “Don’t tell me you and your super-secret spy powers didn’t already know that.”

She resisted the urge to sigh. “I’m familiar with the name, but only in rumors. He’s practically invisible. No background from what I could find, and Fury’s got even me locked out.” She pressed her lips together, and internally debated whether she should say her next words, though she knew Tony would have already anticipated them irregardless. “He’s young?”

“He is,” Tony confirmed, and his voice was quiet, knowing what the comment would mean to her.

At that, her mouth tilted down in the corners. Young could mean many things, relative to both of their ages, now — but she knew the confirmation meant that Parker was younger than both of them would have liked, especially if he had years of experience already under his belt.

“Care to elaborate?” she asked, tone measured.

“Nineteen,” he responded, almost reluctantly, the edges of his mouth and eyes tightening in tandem.

Natasha knew her expression barely changed, but she couldn’t help but close her eyes for a brief moment as memories played behind her eyelids. She’d been in the game since she was a child, and she knew better than anyone that youth didn’t equate to innocence, especially in this line of work. But it was one thing to live that life herself, and another to know that the cycle hadn’t stopped with her — someone else, too young, following the same path. There was only one reason that someone so young had found themselves in SHIELD’s ranks, especially as a seasoned agent, and that was because he was trying to make up for something.

The sound of a throat clearing softly brought her attention back to the present. “Figured he could use a break, actually,” Tony commented, nodding his head towards the lake. “FRI mentioned he’s teaching Morgan how to skip stones on the water.”

Natasha glanced over to where his head was tilted, spotting two figures by the water — one standing at full four-foot-tall height, and the other crouched next to her near the shore. She knew that Tony had distracted her purposefully — bringing her attention to the here and now rather than her own past.

She gave him a quick, silent nod of gratitude and acknowledgement before she turned her gaze to take in the full scene. By the shore, Morgan now kneeled by the crouched figure — Parker, she assumed, though she couldn’t quite make out his face.

Morgan’s delighted giggles were audible even at a distance, mingling with the soft sound of water lapping at the banks. Parker was showing her how to hold the stone, demonstrating the flick of the wrist that would make it skip across the water. Morgan nodded vigorously along to whatever the older kid said, fingers curled firmly around the stone in her hands. After a moment, she threw her arm (and most of her body) forward, and the stone made three solid skips before it sank. The sound of an undeniably triumphant squeal filled the air, and Natasha watched as Parker grasped the back of the five-year-old’s shirt — seemingly on instinct — to stop her from toppling face-first into the water with the momentum.

Tony snorted at the sight, and Natasha couldn’t help but allow a smile of her own in turn. In unspoken agreement, they started walking together towards the two figures, down the well-worn dirt pathway. As they approached, they could hear the sound of Parker’s words to Morgan.

“— you got three skips that time. You see that spot out there? Right where the light hits? That’s where you want it to land. Just flick your wrist like this —” He let his own stone fly, and it skipped a perfect seven times before sinking. Morgan looked appropriately delighted by this feat, and tugged on his pant leg in the universal child gesture for ‘do it again.’ Parker leaned down, seemingly about to comply with the demand, when he spotted Natasha’s and Tony’s approach and straightened up to full height instead.

His expression shifted almost immediately, right before her eyes — professional and guarded, any trace of the previous tiny, soft smile gone. Natasha took in the way he held himself: relaxed, but with a kind of coiled tension beneath — the stance of someone who knew how to disappear into the background, if need be.

His demeanor, too, changed in an instant — subtly distancing himself from Morgan and moving half a step back. He was young, Natasha could see that now, in the way his cheeks still held a bit of roundness — but there was something about the way he looked back at her — neutral, watchful — that reminded her of seasoned agents, the kind who’d had years in the field and could mask anything behind a calm expression. Not anything like the other nineteen-year-olds she’d known on the rare occasions SHIELD recruited that young — those whose confidence still cracked under pressure, who stared at her with wide eyes and squeaky voices. (Hell, even grown men acted that way around her, more often than not. The wonders of showing a little cleavage — she hardly even had to control her accompanying facial expressions, because nobody ever looked there.)

Tony gave Parker a nod, and Morgan, oblivious to the shift in mood, grinned up at Natasha and offered her a smooth, flat stone from her stash. 

“Auntie Nat, look! I skipped it three times!” she announced — with all the same gusto that Clint’s kids displayed when they proudly offered their drawings to her. Natasha smiled back and crouched down to be level with her.

“Three skips?” she echoed, whistling in an impressed manner. “You’ve got me beat on that front.” Not technically a lie — she’d never actually attempted to skip stones, and though she was quite certain she could catch the hang of it quickly, the look on Morgan’s face was worth the statement.

“Teaching my daughter how to terrorize marine life, I see,” Tony commented, and Natasha elbowed him in the shin. He scowled down at her but didn’t bother to step out of her reach.

Morgan huffed at that, indignance written all over her expression. Natasha had seen the same on Tony, countless times before. 

“Fish can’t get scared , Daddy,” she said, in a ‘duh’ tone. Tony’s eyebrows arched high up on his forehead.

“Oh yeah, little miss?” he asked, crouching to her level as well. “And what makes you the leading expert on fish psychology?”

“They can’t even blink!” Morgan declared, planting her hands on her hips.

“No blinking equals no fear? Bold hypothesis,” Tony mused, poking her nose. “But I gotta say, your methodology could use some work. That doesn’t sound like proper scientific reasoning to me.”

Natasha coughed, trying to hide her amusement at the idea that Tony of all people could possibly care about following the rules of the scientific process.

Morgan didn’t seem to be deterred by her father’s disagreement. Rather, she lifted her chin defiantly. “It’s not marine life terrorizing ,” she emphasized. “Its marine life en–rich–ment.” Her voice halted slightly on the syllables, as though she were unfamiliar with them, but the meaning of the word was relatively clear. 

At that, Tony scrunched his nose. “Well aren’t you just a little PR genius.” He gathered Morgan up in his arms and swooped upright as she gave a yelp of delight. “Definitely got that from your mom. I’m totally stealing that line the next time someone accuses me of terrorizing anything.”

“I doubt it’ll have the same effect,” Natasha said, tone wry. Tony ignored her (as per usual) and spun Morgan around before he took a few steps back towards the house.

“Stark Expo: Enriching marine life since 2021,” he announced, voice projected over Morgan’s laughter. “I can already see the vision now, Romanoff. You’ll see.” He turned back to them, then, walking backwards further up the pathway to the house. “You staying for lunch? The little miss demanded pizza.”

Natasha considered it for a moment, watching Parker out of the corner of her eye and weighing her options. She’d already come to her conclusion by the time Morgan popped her head up over her father’s shoulder and stared at her with wide eyes.

“ Please , Auntie Nat?” she begged. “I want to show you my drawings!”

“Alright,” she agreed, before she stepped towards the girl and ruffled her hair. “So long as there are no olives.”

Tony scoffed. “Who do you take me for, Agent Romanoff?”

She did not grace him with a response.

—

Natasha Romanoff was a lot less subtle than Peter had expected. Although, in all fairness, nobody else that she’d ever observed had a built-in danger sense to inform them whenever she so much as glanced in their direction. Either way, Peter was pretty sure she thought she was being far more subtle about it than she was. Whatever the reason may be.

Her gaze wasn’t threatening — it wasn’t even particularly hostile, like he’d intruded somewhere he wasn’t welcome, or like he was acting as some kind of competition. It was simply… assessing, much like Stark’s gaze had been. Like she was trying to determine exactly how he’d landed in her sphere of operations, and whether she needed to worry about him and his level of competence. Peter got it; he would’ve done the same in her place (or, well, he would have done the same, if May or his former friends had been in the same situation with a relative stranger). Still, the scrutiny didn’t exactly make the pizza in his hands much more appetizing.

His eyes drifted to Morgan, who was loudly recounting her many varied recent triumphs to Natasha, who gave appropriate nods and murmurs of encouragement between bites. Tony was simultaneously eating, scrolling through his StarkPad, and making occasional interjections like, “Didn’t I tell you she was a prodigy?” or, “That’s my girl.” It was jarring, how he seemed to act like some kind of regular proud suburban dad. Peter had long since learned not to be deceived by outward appearances, but it still felt strange hearing turns of phrase that Ben or his own father might have said to him as a kid, coming out of Tony Stark’s mouth.

Regardless.

Peter, on the other hand, kept his head down, picking at the toppings on his slice and pretending not to notice every time Natasha’s eyes flicked his way. Part of him wanted to call her out — ask her to just say whatever she was thinking instead of staring — but he didn’t want to risk upsetting Morgan with his snippy mood. And honestly, he wasn’t in the mood to field whatever questions the spy was inevitably forming. He was in a lose-lose scenario here, truthfully.

“What, you on a carb strike or something, Parker?” Tony asked, peering at him over his StarkPad. “Pizza is just a slightly different form of pasta with red sauce, which you were fine with.”

Peter nearly wrinkled his nose at the comparison. “Those two are not the same.”

Stark shrugged. “Carb with tomato sauce. Sounds the same to me.” He waved a finger at Peter. “And you’re dodging the question.” 

“I’m eating,” he rebutted, instead of commenting on the near heretical nature of the man’s statement. Pasta with red sauce was not the same as pizza, thank you very much. But no point arguing with the man — it was like arguing with a brick wall. Frankly, he’d probably have more success with the wall.

Stark snorted. “You’re ‘eating’ with more reluctance than Hap around a salad.”

“Uncle Happy says it’s rabbit food,” Morgan interjected.

Natasha shrugged. “He’s not wrong.”

“Maybe Petey doesn’t like the toppings,” Morgan suggested, tone thoughtful — as though Peter weren’t sitting right there and perfectly able to contribute to the conversation himself. “Daddy, you always get weird toppings. He probably doesn’t like the mushrooms. Or the anchovies.”

“There are no anchovies!” Tony sounded genuinely offended. “What kind of monster do you think I am?”

Morgan squinted at him as if she wasn’t entirely sure, plucking a dark brown topping off of her own slice that was maybe a mushroom. Peter glanced down at the aforementioned pizza slice — which, now that he looked at it, did have a variety of toppings he couldn’t quite identify at first glance, but he was fairly certain anchovies were not included in the mix.

(Of course, he would be more certain if he knew what anchovies looked like. But that was a different matter.)

“So, Peter,” Romanoff started, now that the attention of the conversation had been turned to him. Peter wasn’t fooled by the casual tone — all gentle femininity with a low rasp that did not align with the accompanying low thrum of his danger sense. “How’d Fury get ahold of you?”

“Doesn’t that violate employee confidentiality?” he responded. “Didn’t realize Fury’s hiring process was public knowledge.”

He kept his tone neutral as he finally took a bite of the pizza, chewing slowly, buying himself a moment to think. The toppings were decent — Stark hadn’t committed pizza sacrilege after all — but Peter barely tasted them. He’d eaten worse in the SHIELD cafeteria, anyways.

Natasha raised a brow, the faintest bit of amusement tugging at the corner of her mouth. Which, from her, was practically as good as a smile. She seemed disproportionately delighted — probably just happy that someone had the guts to stand up to her for once. “It’s not. But you’re an interesting choice, considering you’re young, not ex-military, and definitely not officially SHIELD-trained. You don’t exactly fit Fury’s usual profile.”

Peter shrugged, offering no confirmation or denial. He could tell the vague, open-ended prompt was her way of fishing for insight into his background — probably assuming he was some illegal scientific experiment gone wrong or a product of a rogue organization. She was wrong on both counts. He wasn’t the result of illegal science (not purposeful, at least), and despite her guess, he had been trained by SHIELD. It seemed Fury really had kept his file out of her hands.

“Maybe he’s trying new things,” he replied, meeting her gaze evenly. “Diversity hires these days, y’know?”

Tony let out a quiet snort from behind his StarkPad, and Morgan giggled, though Peter suspected the billionaire was not oblivious to the undercurrent of the conversation.

Natasha didn’t smile, now. Instead, she tilted her head. “Fury doesn’t just pick people up off the street. You’ve got history somewhere.”

Peter shot a sly glance in Tony’s direction. “I don’t know, he picked Stark up off the street.” He ignored the affronted sound the man made. “I’m good at what I do. He noticed. That’s all there is to it.”

(That was definitely not all there was to it.)

“And what would it be that you ‘do’?” she replied, tone equally as deceptively smooth.

“Bodyguard.” He took another bite of his pizza, hoping the terse reply would be enough to throw her off. She seemed to examine him for a moment, waiting for him to spill more, and he forced himself to hold his tongue. Don’t succumb to the urge to fill the silence, Parker , his inner Fury reminded him. Keep control of the narrative.

Tony clicked his tongue when it became clear that both of them were waiting for the other to speak. “Alright, Nat, lay off the kid,” he said. “It’s lunchtime, not an interrogation.”

“Not interrogating,” Natasha corrected, but she leaned back in her chair in an outward show of relenting. “Just curious.”

Peter got the distinct feeling that for her, the two terms were fairly interchangeable.

“Why would it be that you’re here, then?” Peter asked, before he could think better of it. He was used to flipping the script on people, switching their attention from him back to them. It was just that the ‘people’ in question were not usually the Black Widow. He resisted the violent urge to cringe, right as the words left his mouth.

Natasha, for her part, seemed unfazed. “Wanted to see who Fury thought could keep up with Tony. The last person he dared assign that task to was me.” She smirked, then — a small twist of her lips. “Plus, I wanted to see some of the alien tech for myself. Examining it isn’t my wheelhouse, but I still like to be able to identify it, if I run into it in the field.”

“And here I thought you were here to visit me,” Tony interjected wryly. “I’m hurt.”

“I’m sure you are,” Natasha shot back breezily.

“Emotionally devastated,” Tony confirmed, leaning over to try to steal a slice of pizza from her plate — despite the fact that he still had one on his own. “Not sure our relationship will ever recover.”

She swatted his hand away. “You’ll survive,” she deadpanned. “You’re like a cockroach. Very hard to kill.” Ignoring the billionaire’s affronted squawk, her gaze turned back to Peter, scrutinizing every breath and twitch. “And you’ll keep your new hire alive too, I hope.”

Peter narrowed his eyes. He could afford to keep himself alive just fine, thank you very much. He refrained from saying as much, because she knew that was exactly the kind of response she was looking for in order to turn the conversation back to him. Not an interrogation, my ass , he grumbled internally.

Luckily, Tony Stark was the kind of man to fill the silence in the absence of any other chatter.

“Not just ‘alive’,” he gestured in Peter’s direction with his own pizza slice. “Thriving. Flourishing. Like a seed. Growing into a plant.”

Natasha arched an eyebrow. “That was one of your weaker analogies.” She glanced over to Peter again. “I say give you a month and you’ll regret every life choice that led to you working for him.”

“Pretty sure I’m already there,” Peter grumbled under his breath. It wasn’t even really a lie; he’d dreaded the job ever since Fury told him about it. Frankly, if anything, his hatred for the job had waned over time. Not that he planned to inform Stark about that fact.

Morgan giggled at his response, and Peter realized he’d accidentally said it loud enough for her to hear it. “Daddy, he’s funny. We should keep him.”

Tony snorted. “He’s not a stray dog, Maguna. Besides, he’s under contract. Couldn’t get rid of him even if I wanted to.”

Peter tried to hold back his surprise at the statement; not only was it an outright lie (in that Stark could pretty much get rid of anyone if he so desired), but that the man seemed to not mind his presence. Or enjoyed it, if there was any truth in that statement. He didn’t react outwardly; instead, he took another bite of his pizza and felt Natasha’s gaze on him once more. She didn’t press him further, though he had no doubt she’d file away every word he’d said for later analysis. That was fine. Let her dig. Fury’s files were sealed tight, and anything she found would only corroborate the story Fury (and, by extension, Peter) wanted out there.

“Anyways,” Tony continued, clapping his hands together. “Since you came for the alien tech instead of the pleasure of my company, let’s head to the lab.” 

Morgan hopped out of her chair and made a beeline for Tony, grabbing his hand. “Can I come too? Pleeeeease?”

Tony got up and brushed crumbs off his fingers. He put his hands on Morgan’s shoulders before he crouched down to her level. Peter held back a wince as he heard the man’s kneecaps crack. 

“Not this time, Maguna. Alien tech is big, scary, and probably violates a dozen child safety regulations.” His gaze flicked over to Peter, and he arched an eyebrow. “Which is probably a point against Parker over there. But , you, little miss, have a very important mission.”

At that, Morgan perked up, and Tony shot both Natasha and Peter a glance out of the corner of his eye, before he leaned forward and whispered something in the little girl’s ear, feigning top-secret information. Peter did his best to tune out what was being said and pretended to be oblivious — just as Natasha seemed to do across the table. After a few seconds, Morgan made an excited squealing noise and rushed off down the hallway, and Tony straightened up, looking rather smug.

“That should keep her occupied for a good while,” he proclaimed, making a move in the direction of the workshop. Natasha followed, not waiting for Peter to catch up.

“What did you tell her?”

Tony clicked his tongue. “Nuh-uh, Agent Romanoff. Top-secret information. I’ve been holding that one in my back pocket for ages now. It would ruin the surprise. Do you know just how many excuses I’ve had to come up with to keep her out of the lab?”

“She is your child,” Natasha pointed out. Tony waved that off as though it were an unimportant detail, before he led them down into the lab.

“Behold,” he said dramatically, “the spoils of my near-death experience. Or, as I like to call it, Exhibit A in my ongoing feud with the universe.”

Peter frowned at the small display of scattered parts on the workbench. More pieces had been laid out in the time since he’d first visited the workshop, but the parts barely took up the space of the table — surely there was more than just this. In all of his experiences over the years, Peter knew just how much damage those weapons could dole out. Surely an explosion that had hospitalized Stark and Hogan produced more wreckage than this.

“What about the rest of the tech?” he asked, before he could stop himself. “From the plane? Is this all of it?”

Tony turned toward him, eyebrows raised. “Most of it’s at the compound. I cherry-picked the weirdest pieces for further dissection. Why, Parker? Thinking of stealing trade secrets?”

“No,” Peter muttered, too distracted to fully be bothered by the quip. “I just... some of it looks familiar.”

He moved towards the workbench, fingers flipping through the scrap metal. Some pieces were still mostly intact, and he discarded those quickly — anything that had caused the explosion would be mostly scrap, if not incinerated completely by the proximity. Anything that was minimally damaged would have been too far from the blast to be relevant or useful. He’d probably have to ask to look at all of it to find the most useful pieces.

“Do you know which parts were from the bomb?” he asked aloud. Tony shifted behind him, moving closer to the workbench.

“Some of it was recovered,” he pointed to a few pieces of scrap metal towards the top of the table. “Most of it was indistinguishable, though.”

Peter leaned over and picked up the most intact piece of metal — a small L-shaped rod that looked vaguely familiar.

“Probably triggered the detonator once the sensor signalled,” he explained, before he waved the piece over his shoulder in Tony’s direction. He leaned over to pluck another piece of scrap metal off the table, one that was clearly designed to hold some sort of power source. He slid the rod into the gap in the metal, and turned on his heel to display the pieces to the other two occupants of the room.

“By detonator, you mean a power core,” Tony filled in, as he nodded towards the divot in the center of the metal. Peter nodded, then shrugged, turning around with the intention of placing both pieces of metal back on the workbench. As he did, though, his fingers slid over something even more familiar.

Just below the seam, running along the length of the trigger, was a stamp. Peter froze, brushing the letters, but he didn’t need to flip the device over to know what the transcription would be.

V & C.

His vision tunneled and peripheral sound faded as his brain picked a direction and sprinted for it — backward.

This was not the time, place, or company to have a flashback in, but Peter’s brain didn’t seem to get the memo — too preoccupied with the last time he’d felt those letters, that engraving, slick with the blood of the man who had killed his uncle.

The air had reeked of burnt rubber and alleyway rot. He’d found the guy in a side street off 10th, crouched low, going through his next score. The same weapon sat next to him, its trigger engraved just like the one Peter held now, the same one that had blown a hole through Ben’s chest.

Peter hadn’t meant to confront him then. He told himself he was just gathering proof, that he’d turn the guy in.

But when the man looked up —

It was his face. The one that had turned toward him in the flickering streetlamp glow, half a second after the shot rang out. The same angular cheekbones, too sunken and sharp for a man his age; same hollowed eyes — dark, impassive, almost bored. There was a scar above his brow that Peter hadn’t noticed that day, but everything else was burned into his memory: the way his lip had curled in annoyance when Ben tried to talk him down, the twitch in his jaw when he raised the weapon, the flash of teeth right before the blast.

In the dim light of the alley, with oil and trash seeping into his ratty sneakers and his fists clenched too tight to feel his fingers, he could barely breathe past it. Before he’d known it, he’d stepped right into the mouth of the alleyway.

“You killed my uncle.” Peter’s voice was unfamiliar to his own ears — raspy and hoarse and tenuous with a rage that seemed to boil his blood until all of the iron in it was molten lava; ready to pour out and incinerate its intended target. He’d never felt an anger like that before, so unfathomably deep and endless that it lent energy to each one of his coiled muscles, rippling and straining and ready to snap.

Part of him — a small, raw part — had still hoped. Hoped the guy would blink and maybe say “Your uncle wasn’t supposed to die.” Or “It was an accident.” Something. Anything to give shape to the nightmare Peter had relived every day since, even if it wouldn’t do a thing to bring Ben back to him and May.

Instead, the man snorted — actually snorted — and then laughed, a shallow, wheezing laugh.

“ Him ?” he muttered scornfully, like Ben’s death was some forgettable footnote in a long list of casualties. “Pig like him shouldn't have tried to play hero off the clock. If he’d just kept walking, he’d still be breathing.”

When he looked back on the memory, now, Peter didn’t remember lunging. Didn’t remember slamming the guy down, fist after fist, the scream in his own throat never making it out. All he could remember hearing was the laughter, echoing in his skull, and then the sharp crack of bone under his knuckles.

The man had tried to crawl away.

One arm dragged uselessly under him, bent at an angle Peter’s mind refused to interpret. His mouth hung open like he meant to say something — maybe to plead, maybe to taunt again, Peter would never know — but no sound came. Only wet, wheezing breaths and the squelch of blood pooling beneath his ribs.

Peter had frozen, chest heaving, knuckles dripping red. It wasn't just the man’s blood; his own skin had split from the force of the blows, torn open down to raw flesh, his fingers numb from the impact.

But then he looked back down at the man’s face. Those same eyes, glazed now but still open. Peter had seen those eyes, hooded and distrustful as Ben had tried to talk him down. Hands raised, voice calm, trying to keep things from spiraling.

What am I doing?

The breath hitched in his throat, and suddenly the world roared back in around him — trash clattered from a kicked can down the street, a baby cried from a window overhead, and the sharp reek of spilled oil and copper caught in the back of his throat.

The man slumped over unnaturally. Blood pooled beneath his head.

Peter took a step back. And another. As if stepping back physically could allow him to step back in time, minutes before, when he was nothing more than a grieving kid and not a —

A murderer.

The sound of footsteps made him snap around, whirling so hard he almost slipped on the slick pavement. He didn’t know who the newcomer was, how long he’d been standing there, how much he’d seen — all he knew was that he was fourteen, covered in someone’s blood, and the sole cause of it.

“Call — call — an ambulance,” he choked out. “He needs an ambulance, please —”

“Too late for that, kid,” came the response.

“No, no,” Peter chanted, and scrambled for the body on the ground to prove otherwise. His fingers slipped through blood on his neck, searching for a pulse — even though he knew in his gut that the stranger was right, and that it was far too late.

There was no pulse, no more rattling breaths — only the sound of metal meeting stone. The gun the man had held clattered out of his coat and onto the pavement. All sounds of life past that, past Peter himself and the stranger in the alleyway opening, were silent.

Peter turned, the weapon now gripped in his hand — his last connection to Ben, through his murderer. His vision swam. His breathing jagged.

The stranger stood at the edge of the alley, just beyond the reach of the flickering light. This was it, then. Peter, standing above a body, weapon in his bloody hands. There was not a lawyer in the world that could argue his innocence here.

He was going to prison.

The man stepped closer, into the light. Older than Ben was — had been — bald, with an eyepatch and a long black coat. His expression was unreadable, and the severe lines of his face shaped into a scowl. He seemed completely unfazed by the scene, or by Peter himself. He wasn’t freaking out, as most probably would — in fact, he was calmer than Peter himself. He didn’t call for help, didn’t scream. Peter’s throat locked up. Was he police? A detective? A judge? Some federal something-or-other?

Peter opened his mouth, knowing he couldn’t absolve himself of his own guilt but still feeling the need to say something, some explanation, some reason , while he still had the ability to. 

“I didn’t — I just — he laughed — he laughed about it, like it didn’t even matter, and I saw him and I knew he would do it again to someone else —” He was spiraling, rambling incoherently, tumbling toward some cliff edge he couldn’t see and couldn’t stop. So much for trying to explain himself. “I didn’t want to — I just — he wasn’t supposed to die —”

The man crouched a few feet away, but didn’t reach out. Just waited until Peter quieted into a shivering silence, hugging his own arms tight.

“Well, he’s dead.” It was a statement, callous and indifferent. Not an accusation, but it made Peter shake all the more. “Granted, he also had a rap sheet longer than my left leg. Warrants in three states. Armed robbery. Assault. Trafficking. Double-crossed three different criminal groups. He was as good as dead anyway.”

Peter’s head jerked up. Huh?

The man continued, voice cool. “But the courts won’t see it that way. Not with you standing over him like this.”

Peter’s blood ran hot, then cold. He couldn’t tell where the guy was going with this, couldn’t figure out his angle — trying to reassure him, in some strange way, after calling him a murderer. Not that it was inaccurate , but…

“If,” the man added, “they find out.”

Peter blinked. “ What — ?”

The man stood back up. “The name’s Nick Fury. I’m not a cop. Not here to cuff you. Unless you make me.”

There went the weird double-meanings again. 

“What do you mean ‘if they find out’ — I don’t — what are you saying?” Peter started, almost confused enough to be torn completely from his panic.

Fury glanced down at the body, then back up towards Peter. “I’ve got agents trained for years who couldn’t do what you just did in under a minute.” Which was really a non-answer. Peter stared at him like he’d grown a second eye, because he was clearly missing one under that eyepatch of his.

“What are you talking about? I’m not —” he started again, uselessly, a cold feeling blooming in the pit of his stomach.

“You’re enhanced,” Fury cut in, bluntly. The ice spread to Peter’s limbs.

“How do you know that?” he croaked, not even really trying to deny it. Something told him this man wouldn’t appreciate beating around the bush. 

Fury arched an eyebrow. “You’re thirteen. Maybe fourteen. You just took out a 200-pound six-foot man with far more ease than should be possible, even given a grief or anger-fueled haze. Any autopsy will show that much.”

Peter’s mouth opened, but no sound or words of defense came out. He’d hardly thought of that, of course, but even before that he had no real defense. Much less now.

Fury took a step forward, not unkindly, but not gently either. “Let me tell you how this goes. If word of this gets out, they’re not gonna see a kid who lost his temper. They’re gonna see a weapon. A threat. They’ll lock you up. Study you. Maybe put you down, just in case.”

Peter flinched, hard.

“Or,” Fury said, voice quiet now, “you walk away with me. Tonight. No charges. No questions. You disappear, and I make sure no one ever finds this scene — because I’ll have people here scrubbing it down in ten minutes. You go home, sleep in your own bed. You get one chance.”

Peter looked down at the blood on his hands. It had cooled, tacky, on his palms. “I don’t understand. Why would you do that?”

Fury’s eye narrowed. “Because people with your kind of ability don’t come around often. And when they do, I like to make sure they’re on my side before anyone else gets a chance to twist them.”

Peter’s chest rose and fell too fast. He may be young, but he wasn’t stupid. He knew the implicit deal here. “You want me to work for you.”

“I want to make sure you don’t waste what you’ve got.”

Peter hesitated. His fingers clenched and unclenched. If he didn’t look at his hands, he could almost pretend that the tackiness was nothing more than Elmer’s glue, a byproduct of a craft project gone wrong.

“I don’t want to hurt anyone.” Again , went implied.

“Good.” Fury stepped back. “Then don’t. But understand something — people like you? You don’t get to live a normal life. That was off the table the moment that guy shot your uncle and you went looking for him instead of hiding under the bed.”

Peter looked up at him, not at all sure whether the man had been there from the start of the confrontation, or if he somehow knew Peter's identity without asking.

“Last chance,” Fury said. “You come with me now, I clean this up. You go home. You keep your record. Your aunt never knows. But you don’t talk about what happened here. To anyone.”

Peter’s jaw clenched.

He nodded.

Fury turned. “Good. You’ve got five minutes to calm down. Then we walk.”

“Parker.”

With a jolt, Peter dragged himself back into the present — unwilling to dwell on the flashback, lest he have a breakdown in the middle of Stark’s lab. (That, he decided, would be a nightmare.)

When his eyes came back into focus, he registered both Stark and Romanoff staring at him.

So Fury was right. This attack was tied back to the bastards Peter had been tracking down.

“It’s personal for you,” Romanoff mused, and her eyes swept over him thoughtfully, saying exactly what he’d already been thinking.

Of course it was personal. But that didn’t mean it was anyone else’s business. Certainly not theirs.

The man he’d killed, his name lost in a classified file somewhere, hadn’t been just some petty thief or even just his uncle’s murderer. Fury had confirmed that much the day it happened, but Peter had only learned the extent much later. Ties to alien weapons trade, deep enough that SHIELD wanted him erased more than they wanted him punished. To them, he’d done them a favor.

Classified or not, Peter still remembered his face. 

SHIELD had scrubbed the scene. Fury had made the call. And Peter had learned, right then, exactly what it meant to be useful.

Not forgiven. Not redeemed. Just useful.

It didn’t make it better, didn’t make it okay, but Peter had learned very early on that usefulness bought silence. Fury hadn’t swept it under the rug for Peter’s sake. He’d done it because the man was a liability, and Peter was something rarer: an asset.

He could almost hear Fury’s voice again, rough and calm and cold as stone: You don’t get to live a normal life. That had proven more true than almost anything else in the years since. Normal had died on the pavement with Ben.

He’d gone home after it happened, just as Fury promised he could. Shell-shocked. Hollow. His hoodie still damp with rain and blood — though May hadn’t known that at the time. She just knew something was wrong, knew it the second he walked through the door like a shadow pretending to be a boy. 

She’d tried. God, she’d tried. She’d pulled him from school. Called in colleagues at the hospital, like maybe a doctor could treat whatever had hollowed him out. Sat with him at the kitchen table while he stared blankly at the wall. Asked him, over and over, what he needed. What hurt. He couldn’t tell her — wouldn’t. Not because he didn’t want to, but because what lived behind his teeth wasn’t meant to be said out loud, and every time he thought he might try, Fury’s warning echoed in his ears.

She wanted answers, but she wouldn’t ask the real questions, not anything that mattered. Not what did you do . Not who did you do it to . Just safe ones: are you hungry, are you tired, are you okay . Like any of those answers would’ve helped. Like they were relevant. 

He said he was fine, of course he did. And she pretended to believe him, because the truth was a door he wouldn't allow her to open. But she wasn’t stupid. She kept him home like that would fix it, like a week on the couch with cartoons and canned soup would undo whatever he'd turned into. Like if she hovered close enough, long enough, she'd catch the pieces that had fallen off him and glue them back in place.

Then Fury showed back up. 

She didn’t let him in. Not at first, not until Peter said it was okay, in a flat, croaking voice, the first full non-prompted sentence he’d spoken in days. That he knew the man. That it was about something important. That he wasn't dangerous. That was the first lie, the first real one. And she heard it, too — he saw it in her face. But she stepped aside anyway, because whatever her instincts screamed, it was the first time he'd spoken in days, first time he'd moved from the couch and stopped staring blankly at the wall. 

Peter really couldn’t remember much of what Fury said to get her to agree, nor what deal they’d come to, despite the fact that it should have been an impossibility to get her permission. He knew, anyway, that it was less about what Fury said to convince her and more about what Peter didn’t say in disagreement. He didn’t argue, didn’t flinch, didn’t even look surprised. But he knew he needed this. Even just a week back home had shown him that he couldn’t do this, couldn’t walk around pretending to be normal, couldn’t go to school as though nothing had changed. He needed something to do , something to convince himself that he could still help rather than hurt.

May had always been good at reading the silences. Enough that when Fury eventually turned to her and said, “we can help him more than you can, Ms. Parker,” she didn’t argue. 

It was the second time she’d lost him in less than a month.

Vaguely, Peter understood that he had committed the ultimate atrocity — worse than the killing itself. He hadn’t just robbed May of Ben. By his own actions, he’d robbed her of himself. Left her with two people to grieve, rather than one.

So, SHIELD had trained him, under the table, off the books. No badge, no codename. Just a new directive; a new world to walk in. Not up in the sky like the Avengers, not even on rooftops or in the streets like vigilantes. Peter operated in the gaps; quiet, efficient, and most important of all, invisible.

Useful. That was the deal.

Usefulness didn’t leave a lot of room for doubt. Or guilt. Or grief. So he followed the mission. Kept his head down. Listened when Fury said not you, not them, not yet about the Avengers. Not that he much wanted to be involved with them, anyways, as the years passed and his anger festered into something resentful and bubbling, fed by his own self-loathing. Kept clear of their business until the day their business walked into his territory and set off a bomb on Tony Stark’s plane.

Alien tech. That was the other thing that got under his skin, that made his job feel personal, even when it shouldn’t have. He blamed it, for what it had taken from him, for what it kept taking. For giving people the means. For flooding the streets with things they didn’t understand. For turning a hundred petty criminals into threats no normal person could stop; walking, living bombs. The man who killed Ben had been one of those. Just someone with a record and a bad attitude, until he got his hands on a black market Chitauri rifle, and trigger-happy became a physical manifestation of the words, rather than just a descriptor of a personality trait.

So no — he didn’t have mercy for the ones trafficking it. He didn’t hold back. But he never crossed that line again.

Let Romanoff call it personal if she wanted. Let them wonder. He wasn’t here for confessions, he was here to do his job, and he needed to remember as such.

So he looked Stark dead in the eye and spoke, voice flat: “Doesn’t change anything. I’ll keep you alive.”

“Reassuring,” Stark drawled, despite clearly believing anything but. To his credit, though, he remained surprisingly tactful about the matter, picking up on the fact that Peter had no interest in discussing this — or, perhaps, he just didn’t want to risk veering into emotionally traumatic territory. Setting one’s enhanced bodyguard off on a flashback probably isn’t recommended protocol.

Romanoff, on the other hand, had no such qualms. She watched him through lidded eyes and clearly tried to pick apart his secrets. Peter had no interest in that matter. Instead, he went back to rummaging through the rest of the scraps on the table.

“I’ll need to see the rest of the scrap from the explosion. These are too well-crafted, like the things I saw before. Someone’s got a workshop, not a junk pile. Like I suspected before, they’ve had years of practice modifying these things, and that means wherever they’re doing this is likely their central base of operations.”

Stark stepped closer, curiosity clearly piqued. “Workshop where?”

“If I knew that,” Peter said flatly, “we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”“

Stark huffed something that sounded like ‘smartass’ under his breath; Peter paid him no mind. Romanoff stepped up and peered at the table. 

“So we’re looking for someone smart enough to repurpose alien tech, skilled enough not to leave a trail, and confident enough to come after Tony.”

“Yeah,” Peter said wryly, brushing a fingertip over a melted fragment, already mentally cataloging its materials and weld points. “That only narrows it down to about half the lunatics on SHIELD’s watchlist.” He tossed the scrap back onto a bench. “I’ll work on it. I have a starting point, from what I’ve seen before.” He grimaced. If this really was the people he’d been hunting down for years, the weapons dealers who’d led to Ben’s death, then this mission was going to be a lot longer than he’d originally hoped for.

Something must have shown on his face, even through his carefully constructed mask, because Stark snorted. “Might want to actually unpack and start decorating the guest room then, kid. You’ll be here for a while.”

That, more than anything else, sounded like a prison sentence, exactly like the one he deserved.

~ ~ ~

“Fury.” May Parker stormed into his office and slapped her palms flat on his desk. Fury suppressed a sigh. Goddamnit, Hill . He knew damn well that the woman didn’t put up much of a fight against May — not that she would have needed to. Parker’s aunt was a hell of a force of a woman. And a pain in his ass. It had only been a week or two since she bothered him last, after all.

“Ms. Parker.” He propped his elbows on his desk and folded his fingers together. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

As if he didn’t know exactly what — and who — she was here for.

Judging by the glare she sent in his direction, she’d had the same thought.

“Peter,” she stated bluntly. “I want to talk to him.”

“He’s not in the city right now,” he returned — which, for once, was the actual truth. Stark and his family were out at the lake house, not in the Tower.

May narrowed her eyes at him. “That’s bulls —”

“It’s the truth,” Fury cut her off. “Believe me, or don’t. But he’s currently out of city bounds.”

May’s eyes seemed to search his face, debating whether to trust his words or not. He’d never been entirely sure what her deduction process entailed, but she was eerily good at calling people out — poker face or not. Evidently, she decided to accept his words this time around.

“What do you have him doing?” she asked next, with no further preamble. Something he could appreciate about her was that; no beating around the bush with that woman.

Fury grunted, and considered how much info he should reveal. It was an inevitability that Parker would be photographed with Stark at some point — the paparazzi followed the billionaire around at all times like some sort of new-age plague. Not to mention, he still didn’t know how the woman got her information about Parker’s whereabouts. Either way, she was bound to come back and cause more trouble for him if — or more like, when — she figured out that her nephew had a job stationed in the city this time, and that Fury hadn’t informed her.

He sighed and pinched his brow between his index and thumb.

“I assigned him to the Stark case,” he said at last. “Short-term protection and consultation detail. That’s all.”

May blinked. “ Tony Stark? ” she repeated, incredulously.

“The one and only,” Fury responded, irritable, because even thinking about Stark led him into headache territory.

“What does he need —” May’s face shifted from confusion to realization. “So that bomb was an assassination attempt.”

“That’s classified information, Ms. Parker.” Fury distracted himself by rearranging the case files that had shifted into disarray. The distraction didn’t allow him to miss the way her face shifted into a scowl.

“Let me be clear,” May spoke, voice colder now. “I let Peter stay in SHIELD’s orbit because he wanted to. I let you train him because he wouldn’t stop pushing for it. But that was under the condition that I got to know when things escalated. You promised me that. My priorities are to my nephew, not to whatever game plan you have going on.”

“And my priorities are to my organization and the safety of the nation, not the goings-on of a single agent,” Fury retorted coolly. He didn't flinch in the face of her anger; it was hardly the worst he’d faced down. “This isn’t an escalation.”

“Tony Stark was almost assassinated,” she shot back. “And you’ve got my nephew guarding him from a killer using rumored alien tech. That sure as hell sounds like escalation to me.”

A heavy pause settled in the room. Fury tapped a slow rhythm against the desktop. He could lie. Or he could pivot.

He chose the former.

“He volunteered.”

May’s mouth parted slightly.

“He’s the most experienced on the matter, anyways. He would have been involved in all the reports for his own side of things. Easier to just experience it all first hand rather than go through all the paperwork and file debriefings,” Fury finished coolly. There was a chance this would blow up in his face, if Parker ever told his aunt that he explicitly hadn’t volunteered, but he doubted such a discussion would ever come up between them. Besides, with Parker now legally of-age, the pressure to keep his aunt in his good graces had decreased in priority.

May didn’t respond immediately. Her gaze scanned him for a long moment; searching, measuring, full of the kind of quiet fury of a parent — something that made Fury briefly nostalgic for more straightforward enemies. Eventually, she gave a curt nod.

“I’m going to hold you to that,” she said.

Fury raised a brow. “To what, exactly?”

“That he volunteered. That he’s safe.” She turned toward the door, pausing only once to glance back over her shoulder. “And don’t think waving around the Stark name is going to keep me away from my nephew.”

She left before he could even give a wry response, and the door swung shut behind her with far more restraint than he’d expected, given her anger. Fury sighed and leaned back in his chair, running a hand over his scalp.

Trouble often came in threes, but when it came to the Parkers, it only needed a matching set.

The kid was good, that much was true. But May Parker wasn’t wrong, either. One day, he was going to pay the price for how early he let that boy become a soldier. What he had bet on was that the amount earned in return far outweighed the cost.

Knuckles rapped on his doorframe. 

“I take it the meeting went well?”

Fury snorted — a humorless thing, and didn’t turn around to face the newcomer. “Hill, I’m firing you if you let her storm in like that again.”

“Agent Parker wouldn’t allow that,” Hill responded breezily — far too breezily for someone whose position was being threatened. Fury’s scowl deepened.

“ Agent Parker is my subordinate, in case you’d forgotten,” he responded icily. “Neither of the Parkers run this place. I do.”

“Yes, sir,” Hill responded — though judging by the slight lilt in her tone, she was fighting back a laugh. Fury swiveled in his chair to glare at her with his working eye. She straightened when their gazes met, and made a rather impressive effort at keeping a straight face — which only served to make his scowl deepen. Why did the most competent of his agents also have to be the most impossibly difficult? “Shall I prepare for another impromptu meeting request?”

Fury snorted once more, this time with the faintest of humor laced in — the one positive thing to come out of this infuriating encounter.

“Oh, no. She’s Stark’s problem now.”

Chapter Text

Peter had never been much of a runner. Physically speaking, at least. Mentally and emotionally was a whole different matter. It seemed that the spider bite had not only cured his asthma and allowed him to run faster than any Olympian, but had increased his proclivity for running from just about every problem imaginable.

Anyways.

Natasha had left the lake house the night prior after dinner, and Morgan had gone to bed early, as five-year-olds were seemingly apt to do. Peter had no idea whether Tony or Pepper were awake, and he wasn’t exactly sure he wanted to converse with either of them even if they were. 

At some point, he’d drifted off into his own restless sleep. He couldn’t remember much once he’d awoken, but he knew he’d been running in his dreams. Which some SHIELD shrink would probably say showed the physical manifestation of his emotional state, or some other psychological mumbo-jumbo.

Sighing, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood, resigning himself to the fact that he wouldn’t get any more sleep tonight, despite his best efforts. He glanced towards the clock on the bedside table of the guest room he occupied — 4:37 AM. He’d managed a few hours of sleep; it would have to be good enough.

Shuffling towards the door, he kept his footsteps light out of habit, wary of making even the slightest noise as he slipped out into the living room. He’d only really been at the lake house for a handful of days now, but he was starting to get truly restless with nothing to do. It wasn’t as though Fury consistently sent him on missions — he didn’t go on all too many, actually — but he could usually kill time in between them with training. For all the amenities the lake house provided, he doubted there was a training room included — at least not equipped with the materials he’d need for it to be effective for his purposes.

So that left him with… pretty much nothing to occupy himself. Years ago, in another life, he may have had hobbies to keep himself busy — hell, maybe even homework to do — but he found that none of his old hobbies held much appeal anymore. Sitting and reading a book or watching a show did nothing to help ease the pent-up energy coiled in his muscles. He needed some form of physical exertion, or he would lose his mind. But nobody to spar with, no punching bags, no training room… all that remained was the limitations of his own body. And he didn’t really feel like doing endless pushups in a corner of his room. No — he needed to be outside. So running it was. He could almost laugh at the irony.

“FRIDAY?” Peter questioned in a low voice — ever-wary of waking anyone up at such an early hour — glancing up at the ceiling reflexively. He still wasn’t used to having an AI track his every movement; it put him on edge, despite the fact that she was overall friendly and posed no real threat to him. What was perhaps the most unnerving was the lack of accompanying physical body. Of course, Peter intellectually recognized what an AI was and what it entailed, but it seemed his Spidey-sense was far more primal and did not understand such complexities.

“Yes, Agent Parker?” the AI responded warmly, matching his volume. Peter hesitated for half a moment.

“Could you keep watch if I go for a run around the lake? I won’t be long.”

"Of course," FRIDAY responded. "I'll alert you if anything requires your attention. Enjoy your run."

"Thanks," Peter murmured. He glanced down at himself, before deciding that the t-shirt and sweatpants that he currently wore seemed good enough for his purposes. Glancing at his feet, next, he realized that he really didn’t have any suitable kind of running shoe — the only shoes he’d brought were the combat boots that came with his SHIELD uniform. Boots might have been the wrong term; they were more flexible and thinner than a typical combat boot would be, and they allowed him to run just fine in the field — as well as climb things when necessary. But they hardly provided much more cushioning than his bare feet did (by design, since the soles needed to be as thin as possible in order to effectively stick to things). He’d be better off just running in his socks, frankly. Besides, he’d be running on a trail anyways.

With a shrug to himself, he stepped outside, feeling the cool wooden planks of the porch underneath his socked feet. The early morning air was crisp — a kind of chill that nipped at his skin, making him shiver involuntarily, but that promised warmth as the sun rose. His enhanced eyesight caught the faint waves of mist hovering over the surface of the lake, undisturbed in the still air.

Slipping off the front porch, Peter stepped onto the gravel of the driveway. The tiny sharp spikes bit into the soles of his feet, and he relished in the sensation. He pressed each foot firmly into the ground with each step until he reached the edge of the lake, where the gravel tapered out and gave way to soft, damp earth.

To the right, a small, narrow trail wound its way through the trees; Peter started towards it, speeding up to a slight jog as his legs warmed up. He’d run before in training, although that was usually a precursor to other physical activity, not for the sake of it — just a way to get his muscles loosened up, and never to the point of exhaustion.

Apart from the level of physical exertion, it wasn’t at all like his training. There was no objective, no opponent, no strategy to refine, no Fury barking orders in his ear. But it gave him something to do. Gave his body purpose, however fleeting.

A low branch swept toward him and he ducked easily, barely breaking stride. His muscles moved on instinct now, the forest path already remembered by the time he reached ten or so laps, measured in heartbeats rather than steps. A part of him itched for more — an obstacle, a challenge, anything, really — but he tamped it down. This wasn’t a mission, and no one was hunting him. He was free to run without purpose and without meaning, only for the sake of feeling his blood pump through his veins and sweat run rivulets down his neck and back.

Soon, he sped up to an all-out sprint, and the trees blurred by so quickly that it was only due to memory and instinct that prevented him from tripping or running headfirst into a tree. Suddenly, he was glad for the solitude the lake house provided, giving him the freedom to go at his full speed; something he had never been able to truly test within the bounds of the city, where there was always someone watching. He had no idea and no measure of just how fast he was going — only a vague instinct that it must be at least as fast as cars on the highway, with the rate at which the foliage swept by in his periphery.

After what felt like an eternity, fatigue began to creep in. His enhanced endurance kept him going longer than any normal person could hope for — a fact he was grateful for most of the time, though it made it much harder to feel the effects of exercise when he actually wanted to — but even he had his limits. His legs grew heavier with each step, their turnover clunky, and his lungs dragged in air in shorter, more desperate gulps. His vision blurred at the edges, and sweat stung his eyes, mixed with involuntary tears from the wind and sheer effort. His shoulders and neck ached from pumping his arms to maintain speed, and the tips of his fingers went numb and tingly — blood rerouted from his extremities to more critical bodily functions. His abdominal muscles spasmed with the effort of keeping him upright, and he could feel the edge approaching; nausea rose, and his stomach knotted with cramps. Still, he forced himself to sprint the last leg of the loop, pushing, pushing, pushing —

He passed the tree that marked the arbitrary point of completion, and it was like the strings that held him up had been suddenly and ruthlessly cut. His momentum faltered, and he stumbled awkwardly before he collapsed at the base of the tree — legs sprawled out and back pressed uncomfortably against the protruding roots. He couldn’t bring himself to care — or to move — as he gulped down air in frantic, ragged gasps.

Groaning, he tilted his head back against the bark and stared up at the now-blue sky, watching the lazy drift of clouds across the expanse. The chirping of birds filled the air, distant and calming — though he could hardly hear them beyond the sharp contrast of his own raspy breathing. 

Everything hurt, he was nauseous, completely drenched in sweat, he still couldn’t feel his fingers, and he was pretty sure all of his internal organs had lost control of themselves in some form of open revolt.

He’d never felt more alive.

A breathless, giddy laugh bubbled up from his chest, free to fall into the empty air. His head swam in a way that felt like his skull had been filled with helium, brain floating just behind his eyes. 

Endorphins , he thought, blearily. Nature’s greatest creation.

His breathing had evened out now — still too fast, still too shallow, but at least he could take in a full breath without the fear of blacking out. He shifted slightly and made a weak attempt to sit up, groaning when the movement sent a chorus of protests through his muscles. They ached in a way that was painfully gratifying — one dull, coherent symphony. Blood rushed to his head, making his vision swim momentarily.

"Ow," he muttered to no one in particular, as he pressed his palms into the earth and clambered to his feet. His shirt clung to his back and arms, damp and gritty with sweat and dirt, and he grimaced at the sensation. Gross. He definitely needed a shower.

Despite the increasingly unpleasant stickiness settling into his skin, he harbored no real regrets, still feeling the rush of endorphins and the unfamiliarity of the soreness lacing each muscle. It was so rare that he felt true soreness — given the amount of exertion he’d need, paired with his body’s enhanced healing. A benefit, for sure, especially given his job of choice — but sometimes he missed the feeling; the physical reminder of his accomplishments. It radiated outwards, a pleasant kind of warmth, diffusing through his skin and bone — like being wrapped in a heated weighted blanket. It reminded him that he was still capable of feeling something akin to normal .

He flexed his fingers experimentally, feeling the delay in their response; the stiffness still lingered as his body begrudgingly restored circulation to them. The soreness would be gone within a few hours, certainly, but he’d relish in it while it lasted. 

Groaning, he hauled himself to his feet and took a few steps closer to the lake, crouching by the water’s edge. The mist had broken apart now, curling away like smoke. Peter touched a finger to the cool surface of the lake and watched the corresponding ripple disturb the perfect stillness. Straightening once again, he padded along the water’s edge back towards the lake house, not caring that his already-filthy socks were being soaked by the water as it lapped at the shoreline. It felt pleasant, actually — a cool touch to his overheating skin.

He slowed as he reached the break in the tree line again that marked the driveway, the house just barely visible through the thinning woods. The sun hadn’t quite risen yet, but the sky had grown lighter — brushed in the faintest streaks of grey-blue.

As he trudged back up the driveway and towards the front porch, he nearly stumbled and froze in his tracks as he spotted a lone figure at the top of the stairs, cradling a coffee mug. Stark.

Peter felt a strange sort of guilt wash over him, like he’d been caught doing something he wasn’t meant to. Technically, nobody had confined him to the house, and he wasn’t gone for long at all — not to mention if there had been an issue, he could have made it back in a minute or two max. Yet it still felt wrong, to have left without informing anyone other than FRIDAY, leaving them unguarded when the entire purpose of his presence was to guard them. A minute or two of time could be lethal; Peter had learned that lesson with Ben.

Irrespective of his feelings on the matter, Peter straightened his spine stubbornly and met Stark’s gaze head-on as he stepped onto the porch — silently challenging the man to say something, to confine him to the house or set new, restrictive rules. Instead, the man considered him for a long moment before he raised an eyebrow.

“You can run fast.” His tone came out mild and non-accusatorial. Peter felt thrown off by the lack of anger, more so than the comment itself.

“You were watching me?” he asked, unable to stop the surprise as it leaked into his tone, despite his best efforts. He must have been really out of it — or really in it, he supposed — to have missed Stark’s eyes on him. Usually his Spidey-sense alerted him of any strange person whose gaze so much as brushed past him; it was strange he hadn’t felt anything at all.

Stark snorted faintly. “FRIDAY alerted me the second you left,” he responded, before he raised a hand — palm flattened in the universal ‘stop’ gesture. “And before you get all prickly about that, it’s a common security procedure for whenever the door is opened. Like a doorbell cam.”

Peter wanted to feel insulted at the insinuation that he’d be so quick to jump to conclusions, except that he had already assumed as much the moment he saw Stark on the porch. The man being right only served to make him more annoyed on that front, and he let out a small huff. 

“So you decided to come out here and watch me? To lecture me afterwards, instead of just telling me to stay inside originally?” he asked, tone flat.

Stark shot him a curious look, then, and it seemed tinged with something more thoughtful. “Who said I was lecturing you, kid? You’re not confined to the house. Go on as many runs as you want.”

Peter was so surprised by the response that he didn’t even rail immediately against being referred to as ‘kid’ — nor did he return an immediate rebuttal. (That was twice now, in one conversation, that Stark had acted in a manner that Peter hadn’t anticipated; he wasn’t sure he appreciated those statistics.) Instead, he blinked once. Then twice.

“I couldn’t sleep,” he admitted, and was shocked by the words coming from his own mouth. He hadn’t meant to make the admission, even if Stark himself had no idea the true context or meaning behind the declaration. 

Peter had developed the habit of apologizing via explanation — after all, in his line of work, knowledge was power, and power was leverage. Mere words of apology did nobody any good; Fury had made that much clear. But admissions — explanations. Those were useful. This was him saying, in no fewer words: ‘I’m sorry for abandoning my post and leaving your family unguarded without directly telling you.’

The billionaire tilted his head, and Peter had the momentary, unnerving perception that he had picked up on exactly what Peter had meant — which was all in all not something he particularly wanted to consider, because it would mean that he had far more in common with Tony Stark than he would ever admit. But the man didn’t say anything further on the matter; instead, he gave a half shrug in acquiescence.

“Been there,” he agreed easily, before he wrinkled his nose. “Though the morning runs have always been Rogers’ thing. I leave the disgusting sappy health stuff to him and do lab work instead.” He raised his coffee mug, then, in a poorly executed salute. “With copious amounts of caffeine.”

Peter tamped down the instinctive urge to parrot back May’s lecture regarding the effects of caffeine on the human heart, because he decidedly did not care about the man’s caffeine intake and he most certainly was not going to mother him.

The thought of May made a lump grow in his throat, and he forcibly pushed it down, giving a noncommittal half-grunt half-hum of agreement instead. For a few moments, they fell into a surprisingly comfortable state of silence — Peter was so unused to the lack of constant buzzing from his Spidey-sense that he didn’t realize how much he’d relaxed until Stark spoke again; it nearly caused him to jump out of his skin in surprise. (That marked three times, now — he seriously had to get back on his game.)

“So how fast can you run?” the billionaire questioned, eyes fixed on the tapering tree line where it met the lake. “You made an impressive number of laps earlier.”

Peter paused and considered the question, giving a half shrug. He may as well answer truthfully; there wasn’t much reason to lie here. “I don’t really know,” he admitted. “I haven’t had much ability to test it.”

After all, it wasn’t as though he could run at superhuman speeds out in the city — if he could even find a clear area to do it in the first place — and the SHIELD helicarrier did not actually have as much free space as one would believe.

Stark made an interested-sounding hum in the back of his throat. “Hey, FRI, you got an estimate on that?”

“Judging from the camera at the perimeter, Agent Parker ran for about an hour and fifteen minutes. In that time, he managed to complete fifty-five laps, putting his average pace somewhere around 60 mph, although his top speed was likely hindered by the nature of the path.”

Stark eyed him incredulously. “Jeez, kid, you probably wore a brand-new path there.” He crinkled his nose. “I don’t even think I’ve been around the lake fifty-five times.”

Peter shrugged. “The trail was already mostly flat,” he defended himself, despite the fact that it was hardly an accusation. A beat of silence fell over them, broken only by the trill of a single songbird.

“So you don’t know the extent of your speed.” Stark eyed him in his periphery. “I assume the same goes for all of your enhancements, then?” 

It was Peter’s turn to shoot him a suspicious side eye at that, but the billionaire didn’t seem to be acting particularly shifty or deceptive; it was pure scientific curiosity that drove his line of questioning. Peter was still fairly certain he did not want to be anywhere near the combination that ‘Tony Stark’ and ‘scientific experiments’ entailed, but he supposed a few questions wouldn’t hurt.

“No, not really,” he admitted. “Not past what tests Fury has run.” What he didn’t say was that Fury’s ‘tests’ were less of the scientific-poking-in-a-lab type, and more like being-shot-at-and-seeing-how-fast-he-can-dodge type.

Stark let out another noncommittal sound, brow furrowed thoughtfully as he turned his gaze to fully face Peter. “How are you enhanced, anyways? On a scale of Wanda Maximoff to Bruce Banner?”

Peter arched an eyebrow; the oblique question made it a little unclear whether the man was referring to the actual nature of their powers, or the differing methods in which they’d obtained them — via experimentation, in Maximoff’s case, or by accident, in Banner’s. The more he considered it, Stark had likely meant the latter question, though Peter didn’t exactly have a clear answer for him, given that his own experience was somewhere in between the two.

“I was bitten by a radioactive spider,” he replied at last.

“Radioactive, huh?” Tony shifted his coffee mug to one hand, and before Peter had registered his intentions, reached over and poked his bicep. (Because clearly, all great scientific inquiry involved exploratory poking.)

“What, exactly, did you hope to accomplish with that?” Peter questioned, aiming for a disdainfully frosty tone in hopes of discouraging any further attempts. Unfortunately, Stark had switched into full scientific curiosity mode — in which societal norms became the barest of suggestions and personal space became a foreign concept. Though, in complete fairness, that wasn’t too far off the mark of the man’s usual state.

“Wait, does that mean you have spider-traits?” Tony asked, completely ignoring his question, eyebrows arched so high that they were practically halfway up his forehead. 

It occurred to Peter, then, that Fury may not have specified what his actual enhancements were — in fact, he likely hadn’t. The director was not a man who freely offered information, especially on one of his most useful assets. As such, Stark would likely only know the barest nature of his enhancements — super strength, super speed (as he just demonstrated), perhaps super healing, if he put the pieces together regarding Peter’s brief mention of medical needs when they’d met. He hadn’t yet needed a reason to display any of his wall-crawling capabilities or other spider-adjacent traits, meaning Stark would have absolutely no reason to know of them.

Peter let out a faint snort. “You could say that,” he responded, and even to his own ears, his tone had all the amusement of someone who found this conversation wildly ironic and, in turn, incredibly entertaining.

It was the billionaire’s turn to fix him with a look that bordered on suspicion. “Don’t tell me you sprout webs.”

The imagery that that evoked was altogether unpleasant. Peter wrinkled his nose in disgust. “No,” he responded archly. “Why was that your first conclusion?”

“Well, given that you don’t look like you have eight legs or six eyes, there are only so many spider-kid traits you could have assumed.”

“Don’t call me that,” Peter snapped — though it came out as more of a grumble; the original violent bite of annoyance at the nickname had faded into a low thrum of irritation at the familiar argument.

Tony rolled his eyes a bit. “Right, right, ‘not a kid.’ Fine, then. Spider-guy. Spider-ling?”

Peter grunted out an annoyed huff. Privately, he thought that Spider- Man had a certain ring to it, but shook that thought off just as quickly as reality sunk in.

“None of the above,” he said, gruffly. “I’m an agent, not an Avenger. I don’t need a moniker.” 

He was no superhero — not by any stretch of the imagination. He was an asset, a SHIELD agent, with too much blood on his hands to be idolized the way superheroes were. Even if he no longer personally subscribed to those ideals, it was impossible to ignore the hundreds of thousands of people — adults and kids alike — who looked up to the Avengers and saw them as heroes. Peter had been one of them, once. He tried to picture himself on the other side — among their ranks, a figure children might look up to — only to let them down as harshly as he had been. No. He couldn’t afford that.

Besides, it wasn’t as though he’d done anything worth idolization. Far from it, in fact.

There was another long, drawn-out moment of silence, and it occurred to Peter that perhaps his immediate rebuttal had provided Stark a little too much insight on his mental state. His mannerisms and tone had been controlled, as usual, of course — but the billionaire had proven himself to be a startlingly perceptive man (a fact Peter did not appreciate).

After a few minutes, Stark spoke up again. “So you never mentioned what your so-called spider traits were,” he commented, a practiced levity to his tone. Peter was no fool; it was easy to see the deflection tactic for what it was, but for once, he found himself grateful for the distraction, and he readily accepted the change in topic.

For a moment he hesitated, wary of just how much he should reveal to someone like Stark. Belatedly, he realized he was chewing absent-mindedly on his lip, and the muscle in his jaw twitched as he forced himself to stop, internally berating himself for the slip in his countenance. Stark didn’t seem to be particularly bothered by the outward show of nervousness — small as it was — so Peter forced himself to inhale and exhale slowly.

“Super strength,” he started, fingers twitching by his side as he ticked the traits off, one by one. “Enhanced speed, metabolism, senses — run of the mill superpowers.” He paused, debating how to continue. All of those Stark already knew about — or at least heavily suspected — and none of them could be boiled down to ‘spider traits.’ 

Peter knew well enough that the man would recognize he had withheld information if he stopped there; he needed some kind of unique detail that would feign trust in the man, and would make it seem like he had opened up more than he had. There were two distinct spider-y traits he could name: his sticky fingers and his sixth sense. Of the two, the sticky fingers would be harder to hide in any scenario, and gave less leeway than his Spidey-sense did. The precognition offered him a much bigger advantage, if kept secret, and was also a harder power to guess as opposed to wall-crawling. After all, he hadn’t even known that spiders had a danger sense before being bitten by one. He had , however, known that they crawled walls.

“Sticky fingers,” he said, tone a bit abrupt when he realized he’d been silent for a beat too long. Wetting his lips with his tongue, he cleared his throat and elaborated. “That’s part of the whole spider-traits schtick. I can crawl on walls.” He lifted a hand and wiggled his fingers in demonstration, tone as casual as possible.

Stark’s eyebrows shot up. “Sticky fingers?” he echoed, interest piquing in a way that made Peter almost instantly regret mentioning it. “Like what, suction cups? Electrostatic adhesion? Some kind of nanofiber thing?” He leaned in closer, the scientific curiosity from before returning. 

Peter’s brows furrowed as his mind ran through the rapid-fire hypotheses. Despite his better judgement, his own scientific brain kicked into gear at the thought of actually being able to discuss his enhancements on a molecular level with someone who would understand and be interested. (Fury met neither of those criteria.)

“It’s, uh, induced dipoles, actually.” Peter rubbed the back of his neck. “Like — y’know, Van der Waals forces? You know how geckos stick to walls? Same basic principle. My body can manipulate intermolecular forces at a microscopic level to create adhesion between my skin and surfaces.” 

He glanced at Tony, expecting him, perhaps, to look skeptical or even disgusted, but the billionaire’s expression had shifted into something far more dangerous — downright intrigued. The expression, foreign as it was, spurred Peter’s basic instincts — his training flew out the window in favor of rambling, just how he used to.

“It’s a combination of dispersion forces and polar interactions. My body — or, well, specifically my hands and feet — can generate an electric field that temporarily polarizes the molecules in whatever I’m touching. That creates an attraction between my skin and the surface, which lets me stick.”

Tony’s eyebrows arched higher. “I do know how induced dipoles work, Parker.” He sounded amused, and the tips of Peter’s ears burned slightly, though he refused to show it. Right. Of course he would. Tony Stark here.

“Well —” he cleared his throat. “Then, yeah,” he noted lamely. “Normally, the surface roughness would affect my adhesion — and, well, it still does — but I can mitigate that by adjusting how much contact my skin makes at a molecular level. Since I can control the weak attractive forces between molecules, I can stick without needing any sort of glue or secretions or —” He cut himself off when he realized he was rambling and needlessly overexplaining, and cleared his throat once more. “Yeah. Sticky fingers.”

Tony blinked, and then a slow grin spread across his face. “That,” he said, pointing a finger at Peter, “is equal parts fascinating and terrifying.” He leaned against the porch railing and took another sip of his coffee, before he gave Peter an appraising look. “So, how much weight can those sticky fingers hold? Just casual wall-crawling or full-on suspension bridge?”

Peter grimaced. “Never tried to hold up anything on the magnitude of a suspension bridge,” he admitted, “but the stickiness hasn’t failed me before. I’m… not actually sure which would fail first, my stickiness or my muscles,” he mused. 

It would likely be his stickiness, considering the relative strength of Van der Waals forces. If he just tried to hold something up with his palm placed flat against it, relying solely on his adhesion, the stickiness would likely fail first, and he’d have to resort to gripping it instead to utilize his disproportionate muscular strength.

Tony hummed thoughtfully, clearly cataloging the information. “And how do you detach?” he asked, eyes narrowed in curiosity.

Peter shrugged. “I just stop applying force. It’s not a constant thing — my body controls it naturally. I can ‘turn it off’ whenever I want, like flexing a muscle but for my nervous system. Took some practice though.” 

Many torn sheets and sacrificial doorknobs later, he thought wryly.

Tony whistled low under his breath. “So you could stick to… hm… a glass building in the middle of a rainstorm?” 

He asked it with the idle curiosity of a man shaking a cage to see what the rat would do, and Peter suddenly had a whole new appreciation for test subjects. He’d never spared much thought about lab rats before, but he was starting to understand their plight now.

Peter glowered half-heartedly. “Yes, but I’d rather not, thanks.”

Tony grinned again, then shrugged. “I’m just saying, if you ever get tired of SHIELD, you could make a killer career in skyscraper window-washing.”

Against his will, Peter barked out a surprised laugh, startled by the genuineness of it. Tony seemed surprised, too, eyes widening fractionally — before a decidedly smug look overtook his expression. Peter couldn’t even find it in him to be truly annoyed by the fact.

“Don’t,” he warned perfunctorily, any true heat absent from his tone.

“Don’t what?” came the even-more-smug response. Peter sighed and shook his head.

“The windows wouldn’t even need washing if it were in the middle of a rainstorm,” he pointed out.

Tony wagged a finger at him. “Ah, but rainwater isn’t exactly the best cleaning agent. Too much pollution. You’d still need to get up there with some Windex and elbow grease.” 

Peter let out a vague grunt of agreement, because the man had a point — the rain itself was hardly strong enough to wipe away all the grime and mineral deposits without significant water pressure. Maybe in a hurricane…

“You ever test your sticking power on different materials? Glass, concrete, metal?” Tony continued, interrupting his train of thought.

“Eh, yeah,” he responded. “Concrete’s the easiest, lots of microtexture to grab onto. Glass is trickier — has to do with the uniform surface, I think. Metal’s somewhere in between, depends on the finish.” He tapped his fingers against his forearm absently, feeling the pads of his fingers stick momentarily before he pulled them away. “Painted surfaces can be annoying, though. Too many layers, and the top coat can sometimes peel off if I put too much force.”

“Teflon?” the man prodded next, and Peter shot him a side eye.

“You mean the most non-stick surface there is?” he asked, dryly. Tony merely arched an eyebrow, expectant, and Peter sighed. “No,” he admitted in a grumble. “I mean, sort of, yes — my hands have enough surface area to hold up something small, like a pan, but I wouldn’t be able to hold up my own weight while crawling on teflon.”

“Hm,” Tony gave a noncommittal hum. “We should run some tests, see what your limits are and if we can adjust them.”

We . Peter furrowed his brow at the choice of pronoun usage. It was unlikely he would be on this mission long enough for such distinctions to matter — he certainly knew enough about his powers to manage them well enough to protect the Starks. What reason was there — other than scientific curiosity — to want to know more about his powers?

“I take it SHIELD didn’t run many tests?”

It took a beat of silence to realize that Tony had asked something, and that Peter was expected to answer it. He blinked and rewound the conversation back in his head before answering.

“Uh — no,” he cleared his throat. “They’re more big on the training to get in and out than… optimizing my wall-crawling. If it does the job, it’s good enough for them.”

Tony scoffed. “Typical spies. No appreciation for good R&D. Look, kid —”

Peter shot him a warning look.

Tony ignored it. “— look at it like optimizing your strengths. Or minimizing your weaknesses. Whichever floats your boat.”

Whichever floats your boat. God, Stark was weird sometimes. Peter pressed his lips together, considering it. In truth, he didn’t particularly like the sound of ‘optimizing’ himself — it made him sound too akin to some kind of scientific experiment, a comparison which he could say he held no particular fondness towards. It reminded him just a bit too much of how the other SHIELD agents looked at him like an experiment, like someone who was different from them; something distinctly non-human. Which, well, he was. But despite his best efforts, the sting of such categorization had never faded; he’d just gotten better at hiding the effects.

Minimizing his weaknesses, though… that wasn’t a terrible concept. Not the worst suggestion Stark had made thus far, at the very least. In truth, he wasn’t actually sure that there was a way to refine his senses or his powers, except perhaps through training, but he supposed it was worth a try.

Before he had the opportunity to reply, Tony’s gaze swept over him once more, landing on his feet, and his brow furrowed.

“Did you — did you run in socks? ”

Peter frowned and glanced down at himself. “Yeah? What about it?”

“You’re gonna ruin your arches running like that. I’ll get you real shoes.”

Peter blinked. “I’m fine —”

“Not for now,” Tony dismissed. “For next time. If you’re gonna be running around barefoot in the woods at five in the morning and all.”

“I didn’t want to wake anyone up,” Peter reminded him in a grumble. “It’s too quiet here.” 

As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he regretted them. They made sense in the context of the conversation, of course, but they felt far too much of a confession of something — something he was certain that Stark would waste no time picking up on.

To his surprise, Tony’s lips quirked in a half smile. “Yeah. I hate it.”

Peter glanced over at him, blinking.

Tony gave a shrug of his own. “Don’t tell Pepper,” he joked, with a weak huff of a laugh. “I mean, I thought I’d like it. Retirement, peace and quiet, lake life — very Betty Crocker, rural nature version. But it’s weird, not having something trying to kill me every other day.”

There was a pause. Then, without thinking, Peter said, “You miss it?”

To an outsider, it would have sounded like the stupidest thing he could ask. Nobody would miss people trying to kill them, after all. Except… that wasn’t quite right, and he thought he understood Tony a little more now.

Tony didn’t answer right away. Then he said, very quietly, “Not the near-death part. But maybe… the clarity. When everything’s falling to shit and you’re facing the news of your immediate impending doom, it’s easy to know what matters.”

Yeah. That much Peter could understand.

Tony shifted beside him. “You know the worst part, actually?” he said abruptly. “The birds.”

That.... was not what he was expecting. “The birds?”

“They wake me up at 5 AM. Like clockwork. Chirping little assholes. Every morning.”

A snort escaped before Peter could stop it.

Tony glanced sideways towards him. “You laugh, but one of them built a nest in the grill. Little bugger refuses to pay rent. Morgan got all teary-eyed when I tried to move it. I didn’t need two free-loaders screaming at me, so I left it.”

Peter’s mouth twitched, but he stayed quiet. The birds were loud, he supposed — sharp bursts of sound from the trees, unbothered by the imposition of human hours or sleep schedules. He tilted his head toward the treetops, tracking the rhythm of it. Sharp, fast calls. Repetitive. Like clockwork. 

Or like gunshots , his mind whispered.

He shook the thought off. He didn’t remember when they’d started chirping; he was always up before them anyways, it seemed.

Tony sipped his coffee. “You ever take time off?”

Peter blinked, still watching the trees. “Not really.”

Tony gave a small nod, like he expected the answer. “You should try it,” he said, casual. “Pick a nice lake. Suffer the birds. It’s not too bad otherwise, I guess.”

Peter let out a quiet breath that might have been a laugh. “Convincing.”

The sky had started to shift in earnest now — edges of pink bleeding over the misty lake. Now that his mind had already strayed there, all he could think of was the way the alley stones had looked on the night of Ben's death — red blood fading to pink, mixed with the rainwater, reflected in the light of the streetlamps. It was beautiful, in a kind of cruel way. Like the world was reminding him it would keep going, no matter who lay awake to see it.

The birds played their part in that performance of life; still chirping, indifferent and bright, filling the quiet as though they’d never known grief, like they had nothing to mourn and nothing to remember.

Peter listened and tried to pretend, for once, that he didn’t either.

~ ~ ~

Let the record show that Peter was moderately scared of anyone who could understand and predict the whims of a five-year-old.

On second thought, he actually didn’t want his record to show that. But the point remained.

Though, frankly, Morgan’s whims may have been more due to the fact that she was a Stark rather than a byproduct of her age. Either way, she was a tiny, jam-packed force of nature with a dangerous level of confidence in her own authority — and today, that authority manifested itself in the form of a game.

“We’re playing hide and seek,” she declared as she marched up to him.

Peter — who sat on the porch steps of the lake house watching her — had exactly zero emotional readiness for whatever was happening. “Okay. Do I get a say in this, or…”

“You’re the seeker,” she said over him as she spun on her heel. Peter took that as a resounding no . “I’ll go hide. You count to thirty and then you come find me.”

“Wait —”

“Count out loud, ” she added, already darting into the house. Peter sighed, then shrugged to himself.

“One… two… three…” he called out, half-zoning out until he realized he had reached thirty. Then he paused and listened, hearing little scuffled footsteps. Seemed like she was still arranging herself in her hiding spot.

“Morgan?” he called out. “Ready or not, here I come.” 

A loud shriek echoed from somewhere near the laundry room. “Noooo! That’s not how you play!” 

Peter frowned. “What?” he called back.

Morgan stomped back into view with put-upon rage. “You didn’t ask!” 

“Ask what?” 

She crossed her arms. “Are you ready yet?”

He stared at her. “I… what?”

“You’re supposed to ask ,” she said, with the grave intensity of a child grievously wronged. “You don’t just start looking. You say, ‘Are you ready yet?’ And if I say no, you give me more time. If I don’t answer, you start looking.”

Peter blinked, baffled.

FRIDAY’s voice drifted in, dry and calm. “Miss Morgan’s custom rule set is designed for variable difficulty. Responding adds time but increases risk. Remaining silent maintains concealment but forfeits the time advantage. The system encourages quick strategic judgment.”

Morgan looked proud. “Aunt Nat helped. She said it was better training this way. And Daddy said you should never play anything without stakes.”

Peter’s brow furrowed. He supposed there was a certain kind of… sense in it. It made the game far more difficult — and more strategic. If the seeker called out ‘are you ready yet?’ and the hider chose not to respond, they had less time to hide but didn’t give away which direction they’d gone. If they did respond, they gained more time, but gave the seeker a general idea of where to start looking.

The hider, then, had to make a choice under pressure: more time meant stronger positioning, but at the cost of giving away direction. The seeker, meanwhile, had to adapt constantly. More time could be a disadvantage, giving the hider extra seconds to hide — but it also gave the seeker a direction in which to begin. Listening, decision-making, estimating distance based on sound and silence. Not just a game, but a SHIELD field drill — adapted to the purposes of a five-year-old. 

Smart , he begrudgingly accepted.

Of course Romanoff would design a children’s version of a pressure-response test.

Peter blew out a slow breath through his nose. “Right. Okay. Got it.” He raised his hands in mock surrender. “My bad.”

Morgan nodded once, decisively, apparently satisfied that justice had been served. Then she scampered off again, hair bouncing with every step. Peter winced, seeing a few twigs stuck in it. He should pull those out, lest her hair get any more tangled. Pepper wouldn’t be happy.

He turned around, hands in his hoodie pockets, and gave himself a second. Then, dutifully, he called out, “One… two…”

He started counting louder this time, knowing she was listening for it and had probably gone further into the house. At twenty-eight, he heard a thump from somewhere upstairs, followed by scurrying footsteps. At thirty, he called out:

“Are you ready yet?”

There was a beat of silence. Then, muffled, from somewhere inside: “NO!”

He shook his head, smiling despite himself. “So now I count again?”

“I get thirty more seconds, then you come looking,” came her voice, slightly less muffled now. He gave it exactly thirty-one, then stepped inside.

And found her immediately.

She had wedged herself behind the armchair in the corner of the living room, tucked behind the curtains as well. Half of her shoe was sticking out. It was not particularly subtle. Although, granted, if her shoe hadn’t been there, he probably wouldn’t have seen her on the first pass. And he was certain his senses and training weren’t doing her any favors.

He shuffled around for about a minute or so, not wanting to totally crush her confidence, before he poked half-heartedly at the lump in the curtains. “Found you.”

Morgan shuffled, then poked her head out, pouting. “That was a level two hiding place! How did you find me so quickly?”

Peter blinked. “Level two hiding place?” he echoed. God knows it had been a long time since he ever played hide and seek with someone, but he was fairly certain there had never been levels . Even given all her other weird rules.

Morgan hmph -ed. “Level one is behind furniture,” she explained. “Level two is behind behind furniture. Aunt Nat calls it compound hiding. You don’t just go behind something, you add stuff. Like curtains. Or you crawl into something. Like under the guest bed and behind the suitcase. Or in the laundry hamper with the lid closed.” She looked up at him with narrowed eyes. “You’re not supposed to find level two on your first try.”

Peter sat back on his heels, trying very hard not to grin. “Ah. My mistake. I’ll try to suck more next time.”

Morgan gave him a suspicious look. “If you don’t, I’ll have to break out a level three hiding spot.”

Peter arched his eyebrows. “And what would a level three be?”

“I can’t tell you that, silly,” she huffed. “It would ruin it. But once, I lasted four hours before Daddy found me because FRIDAY wouldn’t rat me out. He said it was ‘mildly terrifying’ and ‘deeply concerning.’” She beamed. “It was awesome.”

“I’m sure your Aunt Nat was thrilled,” Peter said, wryly.

“She said if I can win hide and seek against her by the time I’m seven, I get a laser pen,” Morgan said proudly.

“A what now?”

“Laser pen,” Morgan repeated. “Like the tiny one she keeps in her boot.”

Peter grimaced. “That is…” Actually, he wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

“She said you have to earn it,” Morgan said, matter-of-factly.

There was a beat as she crossed her arms, probably already scheming her next move. Peter could practically hear the gears turning.

“You know,” he said idly, watching her, “next time, don’t say anything when I ask if you’re ready. Silence is important.”

Morgan looked scandalized. “But then I don’t get more time!”

“Yeah, but I also won’t know where to start looking,” he countered. “Your voice gives you away.”

She looked deeply conflicted about this. “Aunt Nat said that sometimes hiding is about when you make noise,” she finally offered. “Like, if you throw someone off first. Misdirection. That’s what she said.” Then she frowned. “But I did that with you and you still found me.”

Ah . So that was what that thump from upstairs had been.

“True,” Peter acquiesced. “But the problem when hiding in here is that the space is already so confined, and I’m already too close to you. Unless you have a way to make your voice sound like it's coming from the opposite direction, or can move spots without tipping off the seeker, then you’re better off staying still and silent. Both of which require years of training. But you,” he poked her shoulder gently, before she could begin to protest. “Have the benefit of being small. You can fit into places that adults won’t even think to look. That’s your best advantage.”

Morgan considered this, thoughtful. “But you’ll teach me how to do the other tricks?” she asked. Peter blinked, then hesitated. He wouldn’t be around for the years and years required to train her to be stealthy, to the level where she could pull off the skills he was talking about. But he didn’t want to upset her. And he could teach her some tricks, he supposed. He was certain Natasha would teach her more.

“Yeah,” he agreed. “I’ll teach you. But only if you master finding a good hiding spot first. That’s the most important, before any distraction tactics. And silence is key.”

“Deal.” Morgan sounded determined, brows furrowed in thought. “I want a rematch. Then it’s your turn to hide.”

“Deal,” Peter said. “How about I count to one-hundred this time?”

Morgan seemed satisfied with this development, because she turned and ran from the room. Peter turned his back and started counting, doing his best to tune out his enhanced hearing. He didn’t need it, anyways — his training was more than sufficient for this confined space.

This time, when he called out, “Are you ready yet?” there was no reply.

Peter smiled against his better judgement. “Attagirl,” he murmured.

~ ~ ~

The dinner table evoked a sickening sensation of nausea. Not for the food, certainly — in fact, it was undoubtedly higher-quality than he was used to, even before SHIELD. Rather, it was the familiarity. Or the complete lack thereof. Peter still hadn’t quite decided yet.

The food, the setting, and the company itself were all invariably different. Curved oak-toned walls instead of cheap drywall, the sound of birds and leaves rather than neighbors’ arguments, the scent of perfectly seared steak rather than that of charred meat or smoke — nearly everything was different.

But the atmosphere was the same. Familial, if he dared to think about it. Even though the table was set for six instead of two.

Romanoff had showed back up for dinner, this time with Clint Barton in tow. Stark had answered the door while Pepper had placed the finishing touches on the food. Peter had hovered awkwardly in the corner, doing his best to keep Morgan entertained and not underfoot.

“Back so soon, Romanoff?” Stark asked, teasingly.

“Don’t flatter yourself, Tony, we’re here to review the alien tech.” The words landed, tone flat, before she brushed her way past the billionaire into the living room.

“Ouch. And here I thought you wanted to spend time with me.”

“Correction,” Barton raised a hand like he was in elementary school from where he stood in the doorway. “ She’s here for the alien tech. I’m just here for the free dinner.” He sniffed the air, theatrically. “Seems like I chose well, too, if it’s Pepper’s cooking night.”

Stark scoffed. “Hey, what if I cooked?”

Barton scoffed right back, giving him a good-natured shoulder check as he stepped past the threshold into the cabin. “Please. The smell of your cooking is far less pleasant. Far more charred. I just love the smell of hydrocarbons.”

Stark wrinkled his nose. “Who even taught you the word hydrocarbons ?” he asked as he shut the door behind Romanoff. “That’s strictly above your vocabulary level.”

Barton grinned lazily. “Banner.”

“Traitor,” Stark muttered.

Romanoff breezed past them both without comment, her eyes already scanning the room. Next to her, Barton did the same — and both of them peered at him with twin expressions. Peter got the sudden, distinct feeling that he was akin to an animal in a zoo — that they were actually here to see him . 

It would have been a far-fetched conclusion, except Stark seemed surprised by the visit, which meant they were not usual occurrences, and Romanoff had been very clearly interested in him and his background the first time she visited. It would be no stretch of the imagination to assume that she told Barton, in turn, and they were both here to try to execute their spy tactics on him. Unfortunately for both of them, an oblivious target was far easier to obtain information on, and he was anything but. 

Morgan ran straight up to Natasha with a shriek of delight, grabbing her by the hand and tugging her toward the table. “You missed level two hide-and-seek today!”

“Level two?” Barton echoed, trailing after them. “What happened to level one?”

“Level one is for amateurs,” Morgan said, authoritatively. “I’m on advanced rules now.”

“You tell ‘em, kiddo.” Stark ruffled her hair.

Romanoff glanced back over her shoulder at Peter, one corner of her mouth quirked slightly. “She say you cheated yet?”

Peter blinked. “Not in so many words.”

“He’s being generous,” Pepper chimed in lightly from the kitchen. “She definitely told me he ‘found her too efficiently.’”

Peter felt his cheeks warm ( Morgan talked about him? ), but Morgan — already distracted by Barton letting her climb up onto one of the chairs — was too busy to argue. She was full of kinetic energy, bouncing between adults like a pinball, asking if Clint could do “the coin trick” and whether Natasha had brought the “cool throwing knives” this time.

Pepper called them all to the table before Peter could wonder too much about that last question. And then, just like that, they were sitting.

It wasn’t awkward, exactly. There was too much natural rhythm between the others, too much practiced ease. Barton cracked jokes, Romanoff parried them dryly, Stark kept up a running commentary that was only half-serious. Even Pepper, who Peter had sort of assumed would be the odd one out of the group, had a familiar banter with Romanoff and an exasperated fondness with Stark.

Which left Peter. It wasn’t that they were leaving him out, per se — in fact, they made quite the effort to include him. But he mostly kept quiet. Chewed slowly. Nodded when spoken to. There was something tight and choking in his chest, something that made it hard to speak and even harder to swallow.

It wasn’t even that it was particularly nostalgic — his aunt had never cooked steak like this, hadn’t had the budget or time or energy for these kinds of meals. But still, there was something about the sound of cutlery scraping gently on ceramic, the dimmed lights, the way everyone leaned in when they laughed. The sound echoed, folded back in on itself, washed up old memories that played behind his eyelids when he blinked — the past in 4D. It came with mismatched chairs and too-much-salt pasta and sitcoms humming softly from a beat-up television in the background.

He found himself missing her, suddenly and sharply and with a sickening vengeance. Not just her cooking, but her . The easy way she used to pat his shoulder when she walked behind him. The way she never commented on how quickly he ate when he’d had a bad day. The way she used to hum under her breath when she stirred sauce. It wasn’t as though he didn’t spend every day missing his aunt, of course, but there was something about this atmosphere, of all things, that made it impossible to try to ignore.

He set down his fork.

It wasn’t loud — didn’t clatter or anything — but the movement must’ve caught someone’s attention, because out of the corner of his eye, Peter saw Romanoff tilt her head, as if recalibrating. She didn’t say anything right away, just sipped her wine and kept her expression neutral.

“Everything alright?”

Peter gave a half smile, lifted his water glass, and said, “Yeah. Just pacing myself. Didn’t want to finish before everyone else.”

A half-truth, maybe less. But it came out easy and calm, and Romanoff hummed in reply — clearly not quite believing him, but not quite calling him on it, either.

Clint leaned back in his chair. “Kid’s got manners.” He pointed his fork at Peter. “That’s already one up on Stark.”

“ Hey ,” Tony said. He didn’t sound all that offended.

“What? It’s true,” Clint grinned, then looked back at Peter. “So. What’s your deal, anyway?”

Peter blinked. “My… deal?”

“Yeah. You know.” Clint gestured vaguely. “You’ve got the expressiveness of a mini-Nat. By that I mean none. So what’s your deal?”

Peter’s mouth twitched. “Bodyguard.” It was the same response he had given Natasha on her first visit — she didn’t bother to try to hide her eye roll this time.

Tony snorted. “He answers everything like that.”

Clint raised an eyebrow. “ All questions?”

“I answer the ones I want to,” Peter said, then added, “Which is usually zero.”

Clint gave an appreciative whistle. “Yikes. No wonder Nat likes you.”

Peter was only faintly surprised when Natasha didn’t attempt to refute the statement. 

Tony shuddered. “ This is what passes for affection in their terrifying little world?”

“Yes, because you’re the expert in expressing your affection,” Pepper cut in, tone wry. Tony just grinned.

Clint chuckled at that, clearly enjoying himself. “All right, fine. I get it. You’re the strong, silent type. I respect that. I do.”

Peter glanced at him, skeptical.

“He doesn’t,” Natasha said, blandly.

Clint shot her a glare, then held up a hand. “Scout’s honor. No more prying.” That lasted about ten seconds. “I actually dropped out of boy scouts,” he admitted.

“Kicked out,” Natasha interrupted.

“Yeah, yeah.” Clint waved a hand. “So anyways. Bodyguard, huh?”

Peter shrugged. “It has its perks.”

“Bet it pays better than high school science fairs, huh?”

Peter gave a dry laugh, but didn’t answer right away. He could feel the faint buzz of the trap being set — not hostile, but dangerous all the same. Soft ground, just enough pressure to see where it gave. Barton was playing it friendly, but Peter had been around SHIELD agents long enough to recognize a trained extraction when he saw one. A different kind of sharpshooting than the type Hawkeye was known for.

The thing was, it wasn’t exactly unpleasant . It wasn’t like the briefings or the interrogations, the way people used to prod him like a weapon that hadn’t decided which direction to fire. This was banter, mostly. Curiosity wrapped in warmth. Something about Clint's voice, low and easy — something about the way the air felt, thick with the smell of garlic and butter and something sweet in the oven. It reminded him of —

Peter swallowed his bite, considering it. He doesn’t mean harm , he reminded himself. But that didn’t mean he should say anything revealing.

Still, as the moment dragged on, Peter’s thoughts wandered to the dinner table back home. He could almost see the cracked tile countertop, the faint rust in a ring on the oven knobs, May’s fingers flicking him with a dishtowel when he hovered too close. She’d ask him how school was, and he’d mumble something noncommittal, and she’d hum and hand him a bowl to stir anyway. She never made it a demand, exactly, but she’d keep asking until she got a little piece of what was bothering him.

This felt like that.

Just tell them something , Parker, he thought. It’s not like they’re gonna turn you inside out.

“Guess I’m just good at keeping my head down,” Peter said at last. He wasn’t sure if it was enough of an answer or too much. “I’m not really into… the whole spotlight thing.”

“Hey, can’t blame you. A lot of us prefer it that way.” Clint tilted his head in Tony’s direction. “Well, except for Stark over there.”

Peter’s gaze flicked to Tony, who raised his eyebrows in mock offense, clearly amused but pretending to be scandalized. “I’ll have you know, I’m a humble genius with a knack for saving the world and —”

“Not a word of that was humble,” Natasha interjected, her voice flat, but her lips twitched in a smile.

Peter stifled a laugh, but there was something about the ease with which they bantered that loosened the tight grip around his chest. They’re just people , he rationalized. They’re not out to get you.

In his career of choice, that was a novel realization. Frankly, even outside of his career choice, people could suck. He knew the Avengers were superheroes, but he hadn’t exactly held high expectations for them, especially from what he’d seen from the media. Yet all of his instincts were telling him that they weren’t trying to con him, they weren’t out to get him. Even when Peter was at SHIELD, that was a rarity; he was judged more often than not. Which meant that either his senses were going totally haywire, or… the Avengers weren’t the huge jackasses he’d thought they’d be.

The dinner conversation had shifted into a comfortable rhythm by the time Peter had eaten enough to feel full, for the first time in a long while. Clint was still messing around, teasing Tony and Natasha — and even Peter himself — but nothing too intrusive. Nothing that made Peter feel like he had to lock up and turn off.

He didn’t know exactly when it happened, but his shoulders had loosened, and the silent internal chatter that usually occupied his prefrontal cortex had dimmed to a hum. Still, he kept his answers short, content to just let the others carry most of the conversation.

He only tuned back in when he heard his name spoken.

“— almost as bad as the kid calling me ‘Stark’ all the time.”

Peter furrowed his brows, trying to mentally backtrack to figure out what the hell they’d even been talking about. “What else am I supposed to call you?” he asked, dryly.

“Uh, ‘Tony.’ Duh.”

Peter was… somehow thrown off by this development. Tony had always been known — even by the media — to be fairly flippant with his formalities. It wasn’t as though he needed to be best friends with the man to call him by his first name. And there was a certain level of trust that came with the man allowing him to guard his daughter and wife; a level of trust that inherently already exceeded what would be required to call him ‘Tony.’

But still. When Peter had accepted the job, he and Stark had been so antagonistic to each other (although he did admit it was mostly one-sided) that he’d never even have considered that first-name basis was an option .

“Hm,” he said, when he realized he’d been quiet for a beat too long. “We’ll see about that, Stark.”

The man sighed in put-upon exasperation, but didn’t put up much of a protest. The conversation moved on, flowing into another round of bickering between Natasha and Clint, but Peter’s mind stayed stuck on that one word.

Tony.

There was a weight pressed against his chest. He wasn’t sure why, exactly, but hearing it spoken so casually left a strange, twisted knot in his stomach. Calling him "Tony" implied a kind of familiarity and ease; something that shouldn’t be the case. After all, as a bodyguard, his role was to be a presence, not a friend. A shield. Someone who existed outside of the mess of personal connections. He kept things professional, kept his distance. And yet, in the course of a few weeks, Tony had done nothing but challenge that boundary. Playing with Morgan, eating dinner with the Stark family…

Tony.

It was an invitation. He had only been doing this job with them long enough to challenge his preconceptions of the man, long enough to mellow out his hatred and resentment of the Avengers and Iron Man. But that didn’t change the fact that Peter was here to do a job, not to become part of the family. He couldn’t forget that, even if the man himself wasn’t exactly making it easy. The constant push-pull of professional duty versus personal connection was something he hadn’t really accounted for, because it had never been an issue in the past.

He wasn’t even supposed to want to befriend Tony. Their silent understanding had been based around the fact that they were both players in a game between Fury and Tony’s attackers — one that neither of them had signed up for, but were stuck in anyway. And that’s how it stayed, mostly. Stark was Stark , and Peter was Parker .

But it wasn’t that simple, was it?

The tension in his shoulders crept back in, and he shifted again, trying to clear his thoughts, but it wasn’t working. It never worked when it came to this job. He couldn’t compartmentalize everything the way he used to. With a quiet sigh, he set his fork down, folding his hands in his lap, trying to ground himself. He needed to clear his head. This was just dinner. It was just dinner.

The conversation at the table began to slow down, the hum of casual chatter turning into a lull. Tony caught his eye across the table and gave him a slight smile, as if nothing had changed. Maybe it hadn’t. Maybe Peter was the one making a bigger deal out of this than he should. Really, that was probably the case.

"Alright," Tony said as he pushed back from the table. "Dinner’s over. You two came to see the alien tech, right?”

Oh. Right. Peter remembered Romanoff and Barton’s excuse had been to check in on the tech. He watched as they started to stand up. Barton waved a hand.

“Nah, I wasn’t lying when I said I was only here for the free dinner.” He grinned unashamedly. “I’ll help Pepper clean up and then show Morgan the updated coin trick.” At that, he winked conspiratorially at the five-year-old, and she grinned and giggled back.

Tony snorted. “Suit yourself.” Then he glanced over at Peter. “You coming, kid?"

It was an easy question, one Peter really should have expected, considering the fact that he was literally there for that exact reason, but somehow the invitation caught him off guard. It was a simple extension of the routine — work continued after the meal, no matter what.

“No,” he surprised himself by saying. “That’s okay. I was just in there an hour ago, I’m all up-to-date and I doubt much more has happened since then. I’ll help clean up.”

Tony scrutinized him for a second, then shrugged. “Looks like it’s just us then, Red.”

“Joy,” Natasha responded, in a tone that implied anything but. It coaxed a crooked grin out of the billionaire, and Peter watched as they headed towards the lab, waiting until they left his eyesight. He turned to see Clint doing the same, a contemplative expression on his face. Morgan sat next to him, fiddling with a coin. Peter remembered her asking Clint about ‘the coin trick’ when he’d first arrived, and figured it had something to do with that.

“Not interested in the weapons and scraps?” Peter asked, after a moment of silence.

“Nah,” he said easily, as they turned and watched Morgan intently focus on the coin. “Looking at the tech has never been my schtick, anyways. And I’m not the biggest fan of alien shit after the Battle of New York.”

Peter remembered, belatedly, that it was unspoken knowledge that Barton had been compromised during the 2012 invasion. He seemed to have no issues referencing it himself, but Peter caught the slight strain beneath his words — the type that rarely went away, no matter how much exposure you had to your bad memories.

He had no response, really, so he just nodded and moved to the table, where Pepper had cleared some of the dishes.

“I’ve got it,” he leaned over to pick up the dishes before she could.

“Oh, no, Peter —” Pepper started, but he shook his head, giving her what he hoped was a smile and not a grimace.

“Really, it’s fine, I’ve got it,” he assured her. He didn’t mind doing the dishes at all; in fact, it could be meditative. But he’d certainly rather do them on his own, rather than have to worry about someone else in his immediate vicinity. “I think Morgan wants to show you her new coin trick.”

Pepper hesitated, clearly torn, but Peter knew he’d already got her. “Go on,” he waved her towards the room again, lifting the dishes in a clear show of ‘I’ve got this.’ Then he turned and moved towards the kitchen before she could give another token protest. He breathed a sigh of relief when he attuned his hearing and listened as Pepper made her way into the living room, met with Morgan's excited squeal.

He listened for a few more moments — his sensitive ears painting the picture that his eyes couldn’t see. (X-ray vision was unfortunately not included in his laundry list of superpowers, after all). Clint stayed by Morgan’s side, crouched low to her level as she tried to mimic the coin trick with clumsy fingers. He guided her hands gently, showing her how to tuck the coin into her palm with a sleight of hand. Peter could hear the patient rhythm of his voice, low and steady — the kind used by someone who didn’t just tolerate kids, but understood them. Probably had kids of his own, if Peter had to guess. 

Peter drifted toward the sink with a plate in hand, rinsing off crumbs and letting the warm water run over his fingers longer than necessary. The rest of the house buzzed with domestic noise — Pepper laughing at something Clint said in the living room, Morgan giggling, Tony and Natasha bickering somewhere in the lab.

It felt like a life he wasn’t supposed to be in. Like he’d wandered into someone else’s memory. Or, worse — his own.

He stared at the water pooling at the bottom of the sink, the faucet hissing faintly. His reflection shimmered in the basin: blurry, indistinct. It didn’t look like anyone he recognized.

On the counter beside him, a dish towel was folded neatly — red and white stripes, worn soft at the edges. His fingers brushed over it absently, the fabric still warm from use.

He blinked.

The stripes were the same.

So was the sink. Not exactly — the model was different, the window above it smaller, the skyline distinct in the setting sun — but the sensation was the same. The hiss of the faucet. The ache in his shoulders. The burning behind his eyes.

Suddenly, he wasn’t in the Stark’s lake house kitchen anymore. The present folded in on itself, slipping through the cracks. The warmth of domestic noise faded. And in its place, he heard his own voice — five years younger, harsher and angrier, fueled with a simmering rage he hadn’t allowed himself to feel or express in quite a while.

“I said it’s fine, May,” he snapped, voice acidic and sharp at the edges, tempered only by the squeakiness of prepubescence. It would almost be comical, were it not for the clear, blatant anger coating every syllable.

If he glanced up, he knew he would see May, standing across from him, just as she had that day — arms crossed tight, lips pressed into a line like she was holding in everything she wanted to say all at once.

“Peter, talk to me, please,” she’d pleaded. “It’s just me and you.”

It’s just me and you.

The words sounded like an accusation. Because it was Peter’s fault that they were two instead of three.

“I —” he’d started, throat closing up at the sight of her face. He wanted her love, he wanted her reassurance and for her to tell him that everything would be okay. He wanted to be cradled by her like he was a child again. But more than any of that, more important than anything else; he wanted her alive and okay.

“I can’t,” he’d said instead, because he was a coward and he knew it, and because her losing him was easier than him losing her. If she found out who Peter was, what he’d become; how he’d failed Ben in the present and how he’d failed his memory of him by becoming a murderer… she’d lose him either way. But Peter didn’t think he could stand to watch her love for him fade right in front of his eyes. “I’m sorry.”

That much, at least, was wholly the truth.

He blinked again, and he was back, at a different sink in a different house, the water from the faucet still running, fogging up the window. He turned it off and grabbed the stupid dishtowel, shoving it in a nearby drawer with far more force than was probably necessary. He was certain it was the wrong storage place for it. He didn’t give a shit, though — he wanted it out of his sight as soon as possible.

Peter knew that his descent into his emotional distance had begun long before he found himself in the role of Tony’s bodyguard or even Fury’s informant. But he’d done his best to try and push back the memories — ones that seemed intent on arising more and more, the longer he spent around the Stark family. It was easy (relatively speaking) to push back memories of having a family when he was surrounded by an environment that was anything but welcoming. It was far less so when he encountered reminders every single day — from Pepper’s cooking, to Stark’s actions, to sleeping in a room in the house itself. The memories returned with a vengeance — and along with them came a biting sense of fierce, unrelenting guilt.

No, it hadn’t begun with Fury, or with this bodyguard assignment. It had started with that conversation in the kitchen. With every call from May he ignored. Every text from Ned left unanswered. Every second of ignorance to MJ. Every desperate attempt to cut ties before someone could cut them for him. It was easier to disappear; to become something cold and sharp and untouchable. Fury had given him the perfect excuse to vanish — a role that demanded secrecy and detachment. Peter had embraced it like it was a lifeline.

He hadn’t expected to find any of this — what he’d been running from, all this time — on the other side of that mission brief. And he wondered, briefly: if May were to see him now, would she even truly recognize him?

He shook that thought away with a vengeance. This was stupid. All of this was stupid. What was he doing ? What was he thinking ?

Peter knew he needed to get out of the lakehouse, of all the homely reminders of what he had lost and pushed away. A change in environment would do him good — he needed to reinforce to his own mind that he was just here on a job, and he needed to act as such.

Privately, he resolved that he would broach the topic with Stark soon — the Tower would likely be safer, anyways, with all its occupants, and would be far more reasonable now that he had leads to follow, actually tracking down suspects.

One thing was for certain: he wasn’t part of the Stark family, and he never would be. He was just their bodyguard, and he needed to start acting like it.

Chapter Text

The next day, Stark brought up the idea of taking a day trip into the city, before Peter could even broach the topic of moving. He cited that it was for business purposes — Pepper had a board meeting, one Stark was also technically expected to attend, so they’d all go in together that morning. Pepper would spend the day in meetings, and Stark would stay with Morgan and Peter until he had to show up for the afternoon session. Peter doubted he’d be in there long. Not because he’d said as much (yet), but because, well — people talked. Even before he ever met the man, Tony Stark had always had a reputation: brilliant, yes, but also erratic, allergic to structure, infamous for ditching boardrooms and turning up somewhere halfway across the world instead. Peter didn’t know how much of that was exaggerated, but it didn’t seem entirely off-base either. The man seemed to orbit responsibility rather than land directly on it; although admittedly, he had cleaned up his act somewhat over the years. 

But in the weeks at the lake house, Peter hadn’t seen any of that. There, Stark was domestic. Quiet, even. He made Morgan breakfast, fixed the pipes when the kitchen sink got clogged, sat on the porch with Pepper in the evenings. Which meant either the man at the lake house was the real one, and the rest was a long-standing bit — or it was the other way around, and Peter just hadn’t seen him shift into that other gear yet. Peter had seen a very different facet of the man at the lake house, that was for sure, but it was still like he got itchy if he stood still too long. Which made Peter suspect that the board room would not be graced with Stark’s presence for very long.

He had also met Happy Hogan; face to face. The man had been recently cleared from the hospital, though seemed none-too-happy about being demoted to driver as opposed to bodyguard. He scowled at Peter as though the entire thing had been his idea — as if Peter weren’t as displeased with the situation as he was. Stark had reassured him that it had nothing to do with Peter himself; that was just the man’s default resting face. Peter wasn’t particularly convinced.

Still, Peter found himself seated stiffly in the back of the town car next to Stark and Morgan — Pepper up front — acutely aware of Happy's eyes flicking up to the rearview mirror every few seconds like he was waiting for Peter to slip up or launch a stealth attack. Peter didn’t exactly blame him. If their roles were reversed, and someone unfamiliar was guarding May, he’d probably feel the same.

“Don’t take it personally,” Stark repeated, one arm draped casually along the back of Morgan’s seat as he scrolled through something on his tablet. “Hap’s been my shadow for about fifteen years. Change makes him constipated. He doesn’t like that he didn’t get to approve your background check personally.”

“I can hear you,” Happy said flatly from the front.

“Good,” Stark replied without looking up. “Maybe if I keep talking, it’ll loosen you up. The kid’s cleared, Hap, calm down.”

Happy only grunted in response, dissatisfied, shooting Peter another suspicious look in the rearview mirror. Peter resisted the urge to snort, and his gaze flicked toward Morgan next to him, who hummed to herself and kicked her feet absently against the center console. Without a care about the grumpiness. Maybe she was used to it.

“At least he doesn’t chatter my ear off,” Happy grumbled. Stark practically beamed.

“That's a stellar endorsement right there, kid.”

This time, Peter did snort.

The city loomed larger as they drove — grey skyline framed by early morning light. It should have felt familiar, but everything just looked distant when observed from behind the tinted glass windows. At this distance, he wasn’t used to the smell of clean leather as opposed to the pollution of the city, nor in hearing the eerie silence the soundproofed car provided rather than the endless chatter.

Peter watched a delivery bike weave between cabs as they paused at a light. His fingers twitched.

“You get carsick?” Stark asked, not looking up.

Peter blinked. “No.”

“You look carsick.”

“I’m not.”

“Huh.” Stark finally set the tablet aside, folding his hands over his stomach as he leaned back to peer out the window. “Maybe that’s just your natural expression.”

Peter rolled his eyes and turned back to his own window, rearranging his expression back into neutrality. They were nearly at Avengers tower — both familiar and not, in the way everything was these days. 

They pulled up at what must have been the back entrance, door opening into a private garage. Before Happy parked the car, Pepper twisted in her seat to say goodbye, her phone already balanced between two fingers, prepared for the moment she opened the door. “Morgan, you listen to your dad, okay?”

“Yes, Mommy,” Morgan chirped, distracted by something on Stark’s tablet. Peter would be concerned about her propensity to turn into an iPad kid, except for the fact that she was clearly already five times smarter than a normal kid her age. Also, Pepper would never allow it.

Pepper’s gaze flicked to Peter, warm and brief. “Do your best to keep them out of trouble.” She smiled wryly. “I know Tony can be a handful.” The billionaire made a sound of indignation.

“No promises,” Peter said, dry.

Her smile didn’t fade even as she stepped out, the sound of her heels on the pavement a not-so-silent indication for Happy to follow her. He did, but not without grumbling under his breath about how perfectly suited he was for bodyguard duty. A professionally dressed assistant awaited them at the door to escort them inside.

“So,” Stark said once she was out of sight, glancing toward Peter, “breakfast first, or do we pretend to run errands for an hour before I inevitably bail on the meeting?” Ah, well. There was Peter’s confirmation of what he’d suspected.

Morgan perked up. “Waffles!”

“Her majesty has spoken. Waffles it is.”

They ended up at a tucked-away place on the Lower East Side, one that Stark claimed to have personally funded at some point after the owner saved his life and sanity with coffee after a particularly headache-inducing argument with Steve Rogers. (His words, not Peter’s.) The food was good — generous portions, compared to most places in NYC, overstacked pancakes accompanied by syrup in those fancy tiny metal syrup pitchers. Although it was far more casual than any breakfast place Peter would have expected Stark to allow himself to eat at.

Even after a few weeks at the lake house — watching him fix broken sink pipes in a T-shirt and argue with Morgan about cartoon logic over cereal — Peter still half-expected him to maintain certain appearances when they stepped outside. It was how he’d always seen him before: in interviews, on news broadcasts, magazine spreads, that polished version curated for the public eye. Maybe it was unfair, but Peter had kind of assumed that was the price of being Tony Stark — that even if the man had softened behind closed doors, there were still expectations he’d feel obligated to meet in the city. Or maybe he’d just severely misjudged the situation.

Either way, the waffles were excellent. Morgan had smeared syrup across one cheek, humming as she stacked her last piece and arranged the half-chewed fruit in a rainbow smiley face. Stark scrolled absently through his tablet with one hand, answering what Peter assumed to be emails and gently rocking Morgan’s booster seat with his foot under the table. Every time he did, she would burst into a fit of giggles and say “Daddy, stop that!” — upon which, Stark would give her his best impression of an innocent look and respond “stop what?”

Peter, for his part, nursed his coffee and watched the interaction play out, mostly for something to do with his hands. The table was small enough that he kept brushing knees with Stark or elbows with Morgan, and something about the normalcy of it all was… disarming. He didn’t belong in this scene.

He kept waiting for the moment when it would sour — when someone would recognize Stark, or when some other thing that even he couldn’t foresee popped up. His senses were on edge — in that way that he could never tell whether it was caused by the caffeine, his general anxiety, or whether something was about to happen. His eyes darted every time the bell above the door jingled, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

They stayed longer than Peter would’ve thought — Stark chatted with the owner, who introduced himself to Peter as Frank, and handed Morgan a cookie on the house — but eventually the bill was paid, the coats re-zipped, and they were back out into the crisp morning air.

It was only supposed to be a short walk; Stark wanted to stretch his legs, and Morgan wanted to see the bookstore down the block that apparently had a cat. Peter scanned the alleyways out of habit as they went, boots scuffing against uneven sidewalk, coat collar turned up to block the wind. He could feel the city alive around him, the buzz and burn of it under his skin, familiar and restless. The hairs on the back of his neck rose and fell in tune with the patterns of traffic and people around them. Perhaps his senses just weren’t accustomed to the city anymore, after all the time spent at SHIELD and the lake house. Or perhaps it was just due to his own paranoia. He was used to moments like this being fleeting. Illusions. Quiet before chaos. Calm before the crackle and snap of something catching fire.

“Peter?” An incredulous voice broke the air, and Peter stiffened, brain bending and stretching like a rubber band at the cognitive dissonance, because he knew that voice, but that voice wasn’t supposed to be here , not now, not when he could see —

Peter turned, and it was, indeed, Ned that stood in front of him, five paces away — MJ at his side. A physical proximity closer than they’d shared for years at this point.

Peter knew he should have tried to play it off, perhaps as a very convincing doppelganger — but that chance had long since passed within the first millisecond. He’d turned around, which gave Ned a clear view of his face, right before he proceeded to stare at the two of them like he was talking to ghosts. There was no denying it now.

He could feel Stark’s gaze as it drilled holes into the base of his neck from where he watched the interaction (he must have heard Ned say his name too, then). Peter felt trapped — torn between the persona of the past and the one of now. Both of them wholly inadequate representations of the truth, but too diametrically opposed to reconcile; caught between his past and his present and his future and somehow ruining all three simultaneously.

“Ned,” he got out in greeting, voice a little rough around the edges but markedly stable, given the circumstances. “MJ.”

MJ narrowed her eyes at him. “Michelle,” she corrected, pointedly. Peter only stopped the flash of hurt that lanced through him from showing on his face through sheer practice and willpower — though, really, he could hardly blame her. She’d always made it clear that only her friends called her MJ, and Peter had long since stopped acting as a friend to either of them.

“MJ,” Ned said, and his tone was quiet with a sort of pleading grief. MJ shot him a side eye, and Peter saw the way she softened — a look that might once have been directed at him — before she nodded slightly. Her gaze, when it returned to Peter, was still harsh and unyielding and sternly angry, but it had chilled somewhat, no longer in danger of boiling over at any second.

Even years out of practice, Peter could still read their body language as naturally as he once had — MJ was angry, sharp, and lashing out (justifiably so); only curbing herself because Ned didn’t want to fight. Of course he didn’t. He’d never wanted to fight with Peter, even in those darkest days when Peter had tried to goad him into it — aching and hurting and wanting some reason to feel miserable and angry outside of all the purely self-imposed reasons.

Peter took the moment of stalemate to observe them, eyes flicking over their appearances in a categorical fashion. They both looked… good. Achingly familiar, near-identical to how they’d looked when Peter had last seen them. Ned had gotten taller, cheeks tapered ever-so-slightly, growing into his features in a way he hadn’t experienced yet when they were fourteen. MJ stood straight, shoulders back and held proudly, not slouched in order to feign disinterest like she once had. Her gaze was just as sharp and intelligent as before, and her hair was pulled back to reveal sharp cheekbones and the angular slant of her jaw. She was just as beautiful and dangerous as she’d always been — if not more so, now, more sure of herself. They both were.

Peter could see them assessing him, too, and wondered what they saw in him. He was certain it was nothing as favorable; he kept the perfect mask plastered over his face, the neutral body position, the cool film over his eyes. They wouldn’t be able to read his personality or emotions, but at the very least they would be able to categorize the physical changes — the muscle he knew he’d put on, the slicked-back curls of his hair, the new scars running up and down the stretches of visible skin.

There was a beat of oppressive, heavy silence, weighing them down and stretching them out and Peter felt like he couldn’t speak, couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe. And Ned opened his mouth, and he looked sad about whatever he had seen — and Peter was going to crumble like a mudslide, all eroded soil and unstable ground, taking out anything and everything in his path of self-destruction.

“Agent Parker,” Stark took that moment to intervene, and Peter thought this was perhaps the first time since the mission started that he felt truly grateful for Tony Stark. He pulled his shoulders back, placed a dam over the flooding waters of his heart, and turned to the billionaire, head held high.

“Agent?” MJ interjected, tone sharp, before he had a chance to respond. Peter gave a half-shrug and nodded.

“SHIELD. Needed a job. Bills don’t pay themselves,” he responded, not allowing himself to elaborate for fear that if he started talking to them how he used to, he may never stop.

“Since when does SHIELD send agents on —” her eyes flickered to the cafe they’d only just walked a few steps from. “ — breakfast outings?”

A flash of inexplicable irritation rushed through him at the barely-concealed disdain in her voice. He certainly deserved it — he deserved worse, frankly — but the way she said it suggested that it was a waste of time. A pointless errand. As if any moment spent with Morgan, protecting her, would be time wasted.

“Since a breakfast outing could turn into another assassination attempt,” he shot back, tone harsher than he’d really intended. Ned visibly reeled back at the sound, but MJ just narrowed her eyes, gaze flicking back and forth between Peter, Tony, and Morgan, as though finally registering fully who he was on a ‘breakfast outing’ with.

Peter was sure that she, of all people, would have seen the news of the assassination attempt. Would have been hard not to, even if she didn’t follow current events almost religiously. And if she hadn’t, Ned most certainly would have.

“ You were chosen as a bodyguard for Tony Stark?” she asked, and her tone was even sharper now. She didn’t ask it in the awed way that Ned might once have; she said it suspiciously, like she was already putting the pieces of a puzzle together in a way that suggested a preliminary solution. 

Hearing the words out loud — spoken by MJ, of all people — made the whole situation suddenly feel unreal. How the hell had he ended up here? Of all the things Peter could’ve imagined for himself, this was not one of them. It didn’t make sense. Except, of course, for the fact that he wasn’t normal; he was enhanced. Whatever he or SHIELD said publicly, they didn’t just hand Stark’s life over to someone without the power to protect it.

Peter knew he’d already said too much; MJ was brilliant, and shrewd. She’d remember timelines, when things happened and how they changed, and she’d carefully add this new information from him to paint a bigger picture — why he acted strangely, why he left, where he went, what he was doing now.

She was right to be suspicious, with him guarding someone as well-known and wanted as Tony Stark was. MJ was no fool; this was already likely all the confirmation she needed to figure out that he was enhanced — whether she pieced it together now or in a few hours or days. Peter had no doubts that she would follow all paths to their inevitable conclusion. And with that conclusion, she would have more to go off of. Peter did not intend to stick around when she did.

But he was rooted, like something growing backwards — a tree refusing to let go of dead soil. Even the sound of Stark shifting beside him wasn’t enough to break the paralysis fully, only enough to get him to twitch his hand toward his coat pocket in a restless tic.

“Agent Parker,” Stark repeated, a little louder this time, and Peter turned his face fully. A silent reminder of the role he was supposed to be playing — not the lost and angry fourteen-year-old, but the SHIELD agent. The professional. The adult. He had a sense that Stark couldn’t care less about his actual role; the words were more for Peter’s own benefit than anything else. Something he would have bristled at, were it not for the fact that he so desperately needed it.

He straightened incrementally. Not quite a full transformation — but enough to signal to his brain to snap back to awareness and composure.

Ned still stared at him like he’d grown another head. “You… you work for SHIELD?” he asked faintly, and the question sounded like it hurt to ask, words unfamiliar in his mouth.

Peter gave a single nod. “Been a while.” His throat was dry. He didn’t add that it had been a while since anything good — that would have been a crack in his countenance, and once it cracked, it was prone to shatter. Peter had no intention of bleeding out, metaphorically or otherwise, in public.

MJ crossed her arms. “So you’re guarding Tony Stark now,” she repeated, tone flat. “You drop out of high school, vanish for years, and show back up shadowing a billionaire.”

Her eyes flicked to Morgan, who had nestled into Stark’s side and was watching them with unabashed curiosity — one thumb hooked around Tony’s pant leg. Peter shifted, stepping half in front of her in a move that was more instinct than conscious thought. MJ caught the motion. Peter knew what she was thinking: That wasn’t the Peter she knew. The Peter she remembered — at least before those final, horrible few weeks to months — would’ve said something sarcastic by now, would have smiled in sheepish apology, would’ve reached out and cracked some awkward joke to defuse the tension. He wasn’t their Peter anymore, though.

“I don’t know what you want me to say,” Peter said finally, tone neutral. Was the imperceptible waver in his voice imagined or real?

Tony sighed next to him and glanced at his watch with exaggerated impatience, as if this weren’t the emotional equivalent of walking through a minefield. Except the minefield was like a Hunger-Games-style rigged arena, and Peter was the unlucky tribute who had been targeted. “As riveting as this reunion is, Agent, we do have somewhere to be.”

Peter seized the lifeline like it might drag him out of open water.

“Right.” The single word came out clipped. He turned back to Ned and MJ. “Take care of yourselves.”

He meant to leave it at that — clean break, cold exit — but Morgan’s small voice piped up at the exact wrong moment.

“You know them?” she asked, blinking up at him.

“Old friends,” Tony supplied casually before Peter could speak, laying a gentle hand on Morgan’s head. “From before SHIELD scooped him up and turned him into a ninja.” His voice was warmer, feigned irritation melting in the face of his daughter’s question.

Morgan giggled. “Ninja.”

Peter let out a quiet breath. MJ and Ned still watched him as though they could just reach through him; peel back the surface and see what was left underneath. Not that anything was left. It was useless to even try.

“Bye, Peter,” Ned said softly, and it was the gentleness that nearly broke him. Not anger, not confusion — but that deep well of sadness again. Peter’s throat stayed tight. He gave a curt nod.

“Bye, Ned.” He swallowed harshly. “Michelle.” The words hurt to say, akin to chewing on shards of glass. Just as painful coming up as they were going down.

“Bye, Peter’s friends,” Morgan chirped, waving. The words may as well have been a bomb, for the reaction they pulled out of all of the adults. Pain lanced through Peter’s chest, as visceral and sharp as shrapnel. Morgan remained oblivious, tugging on her father’s clothes. “Daddy, I want to see the cat.”

Tony finally gave a quiet hum of acknowledgment. “Alright then, kitten patrol. Let’s go.” He turned with Morgan in tow. Peter fell in behind them, silent, two steps back, feeling Ned and MJ’s eyes boring holes into his neck as he went. His breathing had leveled out, but there was a hollowness to it. Something had been carved out between his ribs, an emptiness where something solid used to be.

They walked half a block in silence. The city noise closed in around them — horns blared, a bus hissed to a stop, a vendor shouted about hot dogs. Even through all of the other chatter and across the distance, Peter could hear his friends’ heartbeats — faster than normal, but still familiar, even now.

They stopped just outside the bookstore. It was nestled between a closed-down laundromat and a tiny Cuban deli. A cat, fat and grey, lay in the window on a pile of books, tail flicking lazily. Morgan squealed and reached for the door.

“Ten minutes,” Stark warned, following her inside. “Then we go meet with the city engineers or whoever I’m supposed to be yelling at today.”

Peter stayed outside; he couldn’t bring himself to step through the door. From where he stood, he could see the cat stir at the noise, its yellow eyes blinking open as Morgan pressed her face close to it. Tony said something Peter couldn’t make out — his hearing still firmly affixed to his friends’ heartbeats — and Morgan beamed in response, her hand still clasped in her father’s.

Peter turned away. He leaned against the brick wall just beside the entrance, hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket. His head tilted back until it bumped the wall behind him, and he stared up at the slice of sky barely visible between buildings. Grey, overcast. Ha. Fitting. His English teachers would’ve been all over that symbolism.

He didn’t know what he was doing. Standing here. Guarding. Protecting. Performing. Pantomiming, playing a role that had been scripted for him years ago, yet he’d still somehow forgotten his lines.

MJ’s — Michelle’s — face swam behind his closed eyelids. The sharpness in her tone, undercut by — concern, maybe. Recognition. The flicker of something like hope , even when she clearly didn’t know what she was hoping for. And Ned — Jesus, Ned had looked like someone had punched the air out of him. Like Peter himself had, probably. Like Peter was both the ghost and the executioner. That thought was more fitting than Ned knew.

The door creaked open behind him, and Peter straightened instinctively. But it was only a woman leaving with a paper bag of books and a coffee in hand, and her shoulder brushed past his without a second glance. He couldn’t help but feel a little hollowed out by it. The world moved around him, but never really with him. Time was just as blind to grief as it was to guilt, and he carried both in equal measures.

He didn’t relax again, but kept his gaze fixed on the sidewalk, jaw locked, breath held — waiting for the ten minutes to pass. Ten minutes, ten years. An eternity for both.

When Morgan stepped back outside, chattering about cats and a pet store or… something, he wasn’t sure — he dragged his gaze up to meet Stark’s. Before the billionaire could question him — because he knew it was coming — he spoke.

“You have a meeting,” Peter reminded him, steadfastly keeping his expression cool and neutral. “You’ll be late if you don’t go now.”

Stark narrowed his eyes. “They’re used to it, nobody will be surprised.” He waved a hand dismissively. Peter shot him a look.

“Miss Potts won’t be happy,” he reminded him. “I don’t think anyone wants to deal with that.” He knew he’d made a successful hit when Stark’s face twisted in mild displeasure.

He let out a low chuckle, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “True,” he muttered, looking at his watch again, then back at Peter. “Alright, let’s get moving.” He motioned for Morgan to fall in step beside him, and his hand rested lightly on her shoulder as she chattered away about the cat she had just met, before he glanced back at Peter.

“You good, Parker?” 

The question was hardly a surprise. Peter mulled over all his potential responses, over the situation itself, over the memories it had evoked. He thought of his friends’ faces. Michelle had looked at him like she didn’t recognize him — or worse, like she almost did. And Ned… Ned had looked like he was still waiting for that version of Peter to come back.

Peter didn’t know how to tell him that the version he was waiting for was long gone. He was nothing more than a weapon. One that remembered too much and felt too little. Or maybe it was the other way around. He couldn’t tell anymore.

But the encounter with his old life had made one thing even more painfully clear: he truly couldn’t afford to pretend any longer. He wasn’t a part of the Stark family, and he had to make that distinction crystal clear. Which meant he had to finish this mission once and for all.

“Yeah,” he lied. “I’m good.”

~ ~ ~

“You want us to move back to the city?” Stark asked, seeming vaguely skeptical as he arched an eyebrow in his direction.

“Yes,” Peter answered, once again carefully neutral. It was a half-truth; it would be more useful to be in the city, but the push was more of a personal one rather than related to the work. Stark didn't need to know that, though. “Your Tower is safer, and Fury wants me to track down the culprits. We have some leads given the tech, but I can’t do it from the lake house.”

Stark stared at him for a moment, clearly trying to gauge something from his expression. Evidently, he found what he was looking for, because he shrugged. “Not a fan of nature, hm?”

Peter’s nose wrinkled in annoyance, mostly against his will. He’d just said the reasoning —

Stark snorted. “Relax, kid. I was joking. Anyways, that’s fine, we’ll head back tomorrow. I’ll have Hap drive again. I know he’s itching to get back to the job.” He paused, considering. “Though perhaps we should go early. Not sure his doctor will appreciate if he raises his blood pressure yelling at the traffic. Probably not good for the healing process.”

Peter refrained from pointing out that anything and everything related to Tony Stark was unlikely to be conducive to lowering the man’s blood pressure. Instead, he nodded.

“That works.” He kept his tone level, and resisted the urge to shift his weight onto the balls of his feet — ready to move, to step away, to do anything but stand under Stark’s gaze.

“Hm.” Peter couldn’t help but feel like he’d clocked the movement, even though it should have been imperceptible to anyone non-enhanced. He was really getting too paranoid these days. “In that case, pack whatever you need. We’ll head out in the morning.”

Peter said nothing more to that, didn’t comment on the fact that he’d only brought a backpack’s worth of materials, anyways, and kept it all together in case he needed to move quickly at any given moment. The only things left ‘unpacked’ were his toothbrush and shoes. He felt like that wasn’t really the proper response to that, though.

Privately, he was beyond glad to head back into the city. The lake house was… nice, in a way. But it was too quiet. He wasn’t sure he could stand another night of the silent air pressed against his ears, of lying in bed with nothing but the sound of his own breaths and the distant rustle of trees and the occasional hoot of an owl.

He wasn’t used to silence. Didn’t trust it. The city never stopped moving, never stopped breathing — it was alive in a way that made sense to him. The lake house, on the other hand, felt like the pause between heartbeats, waiting for the other shoe to drop. It was a feeling Peter was intimately acquainted with, and one that made it near-impossible to relax in any capacity.

He remembered, suddenly, the conversation he’d had with Stark, the morning he’d gone on that first run, when they’d talked about exactly that, and Stark’s admission that he hated the quiet, too. He forced himself to shake the memory away — it was pointless now. He had to be focused on the mission.

In his spare time — of which he had plenty, at the lake house — he’d been methodically tracking down the person who’d done the hit on Stark; using FRIDAY, facial recognition software, and a little help here or there from Romanoff. It had proven to be infuriatingly ineffective, which meant that he needed to fall back on his own tried and true methods; the physical kind. Not that those had been massively effective either over the years, but they’d at least been more effective.

Still, something about this case itched at him — under his skin, as perpetually irritating as a splinter lodged too deep to pull out with tweezers. Or, more aptly, in terms of his own experiences: more irritating than trying to dig out stubborn shards of bullets. (Especially when they were in his ribcage or back. The angles were just all inconvenient, even with his enhanced flexibility.) 

The irritation, he could tell, was more than just the fact that this case was tied invariably to Ben and Peter’s own failings, although that certainly did nothing to ease his restless mind. The tech used in the attack was cobbled together from half a dozen known sources, which should’ve made things easier to trace, but somehow only made the whole thing feel more like a dead end. Every lead turned out to be as weightless as smoke, and twice as hard to see through; every trail ended just short of anything actionable.

Peter hated it. More than he already hated assassination attempts, that was. All other signs led to this being a personal hit — revenge, anger, vendetta — but this had all the reek of professionalism and none of the usual tells for such a scenario. Which also made it insanely inconvenient to do anything. 

Back in the city, he’d have more to work with. More patterns to follow, more movement, more mistakes to catch. And besides — if whoever this was came looking again (which they would, no doubt, if they wanted to finish the job), they were far more likely to try their luck in familiar terrain. Peter would be waiting.

—

The city smelled just as disgusting as it always did, and all the more potent with his enhanced senses. A hideous mix of trash, sewer water, smoke from the food carts and vehicles, pigeon shit, fifteen different cuisines, and always inexplicably underlined by the scent of piss.

Oh, how he’d missed it. He hadn’t really gotten the chance to take it all in yesterday, given everything that happened — or maybe he hadn’t allowed himself to, fully, until he knew he would be staying here again for a while. Regardless.

Their morning had started early — too early, in the opinion of Happy Hogan, who was apparently not thrilled about being coaxed out of bed at six-thirty with a travel mug of dubious coffee. For all his grumping and grumbling, though, Peter was soon able to see how he’d stayed employed by Stark for as long as he had; he was actually remarkably patient, underneath it all. He supposed that made sense for anyone who was able to put up with Tony Stark for multiple decades in a row.

The ride itself was uneventful, which was honestly a miracle, given the combined Parker luck and bad luck streak that the Starks had going on at the moment. They made a beeline straight for the Tower and pulled into the same entrance as yesterday; by silent agreement, Peter and Happy helped to unload the trunk of the few bags they’d brought back from the lakehouse. It wasn’t much — Peter assumed the Starks could more than afford to have duplicates of clothes or other necessities at both locations — but it was enough, with Stark hoisting a sleepy Morgan from the car and Pepper holding a purse and a stack of paperwork.

The elevator opened with a soft chime, and Peter immediately categorized the penthouse around them. In the daytime, warm light filtered through the floor-to-ceiling windows, a soft silver and chrome glow against the muted steel and glass.

Peter stepped out behind Stark and Pepper and took up the rear, letting the door slide shut behind them. Morgan mumbled something half-coherent and buried her face deeper into her father’s neck, probably drooling into the collar of his already bedraggled t-shirt. Peter noticed that one of her little sneakers dangled, lopsided, clearly dislodged at some point during the car ride; it was only the haphazardly tied double-knots in the rainbow shoelaces that kept it attached to her foot at all. Peter found it strangely endearing.

As for the room itself — there was an article of clothing draped over the arm of the couch, clearly not Stark’s. Well, he supposed it could have been, except he was fairly certain in his assumption that it was not, given the fact that the billionaire’s idea of proper attire either consisted of perfectly tailored suits or Walmart t-shirts. This particular shirt was neither — more of a tank top than shirt, and a hideously garish shade of purple. Judging by Stark’s crinkled nose when he caught sight of it, laying Morgan gently on the couch, Peter’s original assumption had been correct.

The owner of the shirt was made evident by the quiver slung over an adjacent chair. Someone had left toast crumbs near the coffee table, and an arrowhead was speared straight through yesterday’s copy of the Post, stabbing through the photo of a senator mid-smile.

“Well, well, well. Look who’s back!” a voice crowed, and Peter turned to find a familiar dusty-haired man poking his head out from behind the nearby wall, arms crossed.

“Barton,” Stark greeted, sounding more exasperated than not. He trudged forward and yanked the arrow from the newspaper with a scowl, then shoved it to the side to assess the damage to the surface underneath. “Haven’t I told you to stop sticking your arrows in my furniture?”

Barton shrugged, nonplussed. “Eh, only a dozen or so times, so basically never.” He grinned and leaned forward to swipe the arrow from the billionaire’s hands. “Hey, thanks for that, was just wondering where that went.”

“It’s a wonder I make you tech at all, with how poorly you treat it,” Stark grumbled, nudging the quiver with his foot.

“Please, you’d never be able to resist,” Barton snorted. “Un-upgraded tech gives you a conniption. I’ve seen it. Don’t tell me you want another Steve on your hands.”

Stark shuddered as if he couldn’t think of anything worse. “Speaking of the dinosaur — he and his lackeys back from that mission yet?”

Barton pulled a piece of toast from somewhere and shoved it in his mouth, muffling his words. “Yeah, Barnes and Wilson got back last night, Rogers this morning. Fury wanted a debrief.”

Hearing Fury’s name spoken so casually almost — almost — startled Peter into motion. SHIELD wasn’t small in the slightest, but he wasn’t quite used to other people reporting back to Fury directly about a mission Peter himself wasn’t involved in. It gave him a strange feeling of cognitive dissonance, the reminder of how many metaphorical pies Fury had his fingers in. (Though given the imagery that evoked, Peter was quite certain that would extend to physical pies, too. He’d seen the director down a solid slice of blueberry pie with rather impressive speed.)

Pepper interrupted momentarily, already peeling herself away, murmuring something about needing to get through her inbox before it spawned more heads. She pressed a quick kiss to Tony’s cheek and ruffled Morgan’s hair before disappearing down the hall with the stack of folders tucked under her arm.

The movement caused Barton’s eyes to stray in his direction, and he waved a hand in Peter’s general direction when their gazes locked. “Hey, kid. Still stuck with the traveling circus, I see?”

“For lack of a better option,” Peter droned. “I’m your newest clown.” The joke slipped out before he could think better of it, and he got a blink out of both Barton and Stark before a surprised bout of laughter.

“You’ll fit right in, then,” Barton winked, before his gaze flicked back to Stark. “Rhodes dropped by earlier, by the way — said he left something in the lab for you. Looked like a case, maybe for one of the suits? I dunno.”

Stark perked up immediately. “Why didn’t you lead with that? Jesus, Barton.”

“You were too busy interrogating my arrow placement.”

“And you were too busy ruining Pepper’s carefully curated newsprint subscription,” Stark shot back, already turning. He patted Morgan’s head lightly where she still dozed, muttered a distracted, “Watch her, Parker,” and made for the elevator.

Barton raised a brow, looking at Peter. “That a job promotion or a babysitting assignment, d’you think?”

“Could be both,” Peter commented, then grimaced. Well, there went his plans of exploring the Tower. He’d have to canvas it soon enough — sooner rather than later, preferably. It made him antsy, being unfamiliar with his surroundings and all of the exit routes and potential attack placements.

Barton seemed to read his mind. “She’s out cold. Go do… whatever it is you do. I bet Nat would appreciate a sparring partner.”

The idea sounded far more appealing than sitting and staring at a sleeping five-year-old, but he still hesitated. “Are you —”

“Yeah, yeah, I was gonna be here anyways.” Barton made a show of kicking his heels up onto the coffee table; clearly uncaring that Stark would probably complain at him later for scuffing his furniture. “She’s got me and FRIDAY watching. If anything, I’ll just call you back up here if I need to leave or something.”

“Alright,” Peter agreed, then added belatedly: “Thanks.”

“Aye, aye, squirt.” Barton gave him a mock salute. Peter found that the nickname actually didn’t irritate him as per usual. There was something easygoing about the archer, something that stopped Peter from being rubbed the wrong way. Perhaps it was that he’d witnessed his jabs at everyone else, too, or perhaps it was the suggestion in conjunction with telling him to go spar with Natasha — and the implicit message that Barton believed he was competent enough to be a good sparring partner. Whatever the case may be, he was grateful for the offer.

Peter slipped into the elevator, thankful to escape before Barton decided to test out more nicknames. He swiped down to the gym floors, stepping out into a quieter, cooler corridor. The air felt denser down here, thick with the scent of sweat, rubber matting, and metal. It was kind of gross, actually, to Peter’s enhanced senses — although the streets of NYC were arguably worse (not to mention any public gym). This was mild in comparison. Glancing around, he categorized that this level had less glass and glamour, more function. The polished touch that invaded the penthouse — even through its homeliness — didn’t stretch down here, and Peter found that he liked the distinction.

He followed the faint sounds of motion — the thump-thwack of fists meeting a bag, the squeak of the rubber mat — and rounded the corner in time to catch the blur of red hair. The figure landed a sharp blow to a heavy bag, and the chains above creaked overhead from the force. Peter could tell that she’d spotted him, but she carried through with the motion, rolling with the momentum before popping back up to her feet. A single hand reached out to stop the side-to-side motion of the punching bag, and she used the other to lift the hem of her tank top to wipe her face.

“Perfect. I need someone who can take a punch,” she greeted.

Peter snorted, taking that as permission to step further into the room. “Rough day?”

She blew out a breath and reached up to swipe back a few strands of hair that had fallen over her forehead, slicking them back into her disheveled braid. “Sure, you could say that.”

As far as Peter knew, she hadn’t been on a mission since he last saw her, and he hadn’t heard of anything that went disastrously amongst the Avengers or SHIELD recently. That likely meant that she’d had a rough night, courtesy of flashbacks or nightmares. Peter could sympathize, but he decided to keep his assumptions to himself. Instead, he padded further into the room and toed off his shoes. “I mean, I don’t have a death wish, contrary to popular belief. But I guess I’m flattered.”

“Don’t worry,” she said, not at all reassuringly. She pulled off her gloves and tossed them onto the bench nearby as she swiped a water bottle. “You’ll live.”

Peter smiled a little. “Assuming you’ll win, hm?”

Natasha bared her teeth in a somewhat terrifyingly delighted smile. She pointed the mouthpiece of the water bottle in his direction. “That's what I’m looking for. You’re fast. You recover quick. And you don’t whine.”

“Three of my more marketable skills,” Peter agreed, catching another bottle as she tossed it in his direction. “I also juggle. Not relevant, but you know. Just in case.”

That earned him a quick laugh. He surprised himself with the joke — it wasn’t as though his brain ever ran out of commentary (hilarious commentary, if he did say so himself) — but for years, now, he’d restrained himself from saying the majority of it out loud. There was something a little terrifying in the way that some of the Avengers made him feel at ease, even if subconsciously; so much so that his old mannerisms were beginning to leak through, even to the detriment of revealing more about himself. Something he’d avoided for so long, he hardly knew how to handle.

Speaking of the Avengers, though —

“Barton said you might need a sparring partner,” he commented, pushing away those thoughts. “The rest of the Avengers not here to take you up on it?”

“Not here, or not brave enough,” she snorted. “Mostly the latter. Steve, Sam, and Barnes were out on a mission and just got back. But most of us have been here since the attack on Tony.”

Peter narrowed his eyes. It felt like overkill, having an entire team of Avengers here, plus him. It made more sense when they were out at the lake house, but here, in the middle of the city? Did he really need to be here?

Natasha answered his unasked question. “The board of directors wouldn’t approve of the Avengers guarding Tony alone. They wanted someone else on standby, just in case a situation arose that required all hands on deck.”

“So I’m insurance,” Peter cut back, dryly.

She shrugged. “You’re not just here as a last resort. You’re here because you’re good.”

Peter blinked, thrown for a moment. That was distinctly a compliment, and one he hadn’t been expecting, given the circumstances.

“Anyways, enough chit chat,” she waved her hand, before she dropped the water bottle back onto the bench and gestured towards him, then a nearby mat. “Sparring. You and me.”

Peter hesitated, remembering the way she’d questioned him at dinner, a few days prior (and every meeting before that). He’d come down here with the purpose to spar, but now that he thought about it, sparring was a bit of a dangerous game, when it came to someone as skilled as Natasha. Not in the physical sense — although that too, he supposed — but in the fact that someone’s sparring and fighting methods revealed a disturbing amount about their personality and priorities. And the last thing he really wanted to do was place himself in a position to be questioned or analyzed by her for any extended period of time.

Natasha must have sensed this particular hesitation, because she quirked an eyebrow. “Unless you’re planning to go back upstairs and hover outside their doors,” she commented wryly, “you’ve got some time to kill.” She grinned. “Don’t worry, I don’t bite.”

“Well I might,” he shot back, just as quickly. Technically not a lie; he’d bitten someone before, while fighting. In his defense, what the hell did they expect from shoving their hand in his mouth to keep him quiet? It was like they were asking for it.

Natasha laughed again, a low, amused sound that made the back of Peter’s neck prickle with anticipation. Not the dangerous kind of warning from his Spidey-sense — well, okay, maybe a little. But mostly the excitement kind. He rolled his shoulders, bouncing on the balls of his feet as he stepped onto the mat. She stepped up, barefoot and loose-limbed, weight settled easily into a fighting stance that reminded him of Fury’s training. Peter mirrored her without thinking, letting instinct take over.

“Ground rules?” he asked.

“No weapons. No broken bones.” She flexed her fingers. “Tap out if something feels off. First to pin the other three times wins.”

Peter gave a slow nod. “Sounds fair.”

“And if you hold back on me,” she added, eyes narrowing, “I will make you regret it. Steve is a terrible sparring partner for that exact reason.”

He snorted, unsurprised in the slightest. “Message received.”

They fell into silence after that, circling each other. Natasha struck first — a quick jab toward his shoulder that he barely managed to duck under. He twisted, pivoted, and retaliated with a low sweep aimed at her legs. She jumped it clean, twisting midair, and landed on her toes at the other end of the mat.

“Not bad.”

“Please. I’ve hardly even started.” It was his turn to grin wickedly.

“Touche.” The syllables were hardly completed before she surged forward with a sudden burst of speed. 

Peter blocked the first hit, ducked the second, but her elbow came fast toward his ribs — a feint, he realized too late — and she used the distraction to hook her leg behind his and yank. He stumbled, caught himself with a hand on the mat, and rolled backward into a crouch before his back could hit the mat, just barely saving himself from losing a point.

“Nice,” he admitted, grinning despite himself. It had been so long since he sparred with someone so capable, someone who was unafraid of his enhancements and equally non-judgemental. He’d forgotten that it could be so… fun .

“Flattery won’t save you.”

“Didn’t think it would.”

This time, he was the one to move first. He shot forward with a series of rapid jabs — just fast enough to test her, not enough to overwhelm her, yet — and she blocked each one cleanly, shifting her weight to absorb the impacts. But she had to move faster now, movements no longer relaxed. Peter’s punches came from every angle — high, low, center — his enhancements giving him the advantage and pushing her own defensive reflexes to the limit.

She ducked a cross and tried to counter, but he twisted with her, grabbing her wrist and using her momentum to try and flip her. She tucked and rolled and landed on her feet, eyes gleaming.

“Fast,” she commented. He was gratified to hear her breathing a little heavier now, the physical manifestation of her effort.

Peter shrugged. “Be faster,” he challenged. She didn’t respond verbally — instead, came at him again, this time with a series of low strikes, aimed at his knees and shins. He backflipped away, just barely avoiding the hit, and Natasha followed him relentlessly, never giving him time to reset, just as he had moments prior. Her knee slammed up toward his sternum, and he caught it with both hands, twisting and pushing her back.

She stumbled half a step, regained her footing, and spun into a roundhouse kick that nearly clipped his jaw. Peter ducked, feeling the air shift just above his head, and struck back — palm flat, aimed at her shoulder. She took the hit but used it to spin again, and caught him with the heel of her hand under his chin.

His head snapped back, but he grinned, impressed. His body pumped with adrenaline, now — all his senses in sync, endorphins flowing, akin to what he’d experienced the morning he’d gone running at the lake house. The next flurry of motion was almost too fast to follow. They were matched in rhythm — strike, block, shift, duck, spin — their bodies reacting by instinct more than conscious thought. Natasha twisted into a back kick, Peter caught it and flipped her — she landed hard, but rolled to avoid his follow-up punch. She came up behind him and locked her arms around his waist; he yanked her forward and twisted, throwing her over his back.

Neither of them gained an advantage for long. Both were familiar with some of the others’ tricks — the novel ones only provided half a heartbeat of an advantage before the opponent’s instincts or training kicked back in and retaliated. She had decades of experience on him, but he had his Spidey-senses, enhancements, and at least half a decade of training up his sleeve. With each move, they cancelled each other out.

Until —

Peter finally landed a hit. Right hook from below, aimed for her shoulder — but she pivoted, just a hair of a centimeter in the wrong direction, and it clipped her jaw instead.

She stumbled back, and Peter felt an instinctive flash of concern — that he’d accidentally lost control of his strength, hit too hard. By the time his rational mind caught up to the fact that he had controlled his strength and that Natasha was used to taking far stronger hits without flinching, her ploy had bought her the time she needed.

She launched, closing the distance in less than a heartbeat — like those snakes on the nature documentaries May liked to watch; here and there with only the space of a blink in between movements. He had no time to dodge. She tackled him full-force, driving him backward and down, twisting midair to control the fall. He hit the mat hard — and she landed on top of him, pinning both his wrists above his head with one hand, her knee braced across his chest.

He blinked up at her.

She grinned, utterly unrepentant.

“Gotcha.”

Peter huffed, feeling the bone of her kneecap digging into the cartilage of his ribcage. “Dirty move.”

“Strategy,” she replied sweetly. “You hesitated. That’s on you.”

“You faked being hurt.”

“I did.” She leaned down a little, peering at his face. “And what does that tell me about you, Agent Parker?”

Peter scowled, not liking the way she said it, nor the implications that came along with it. This was why he knew sparring with her was a terrible idea. 

“That I’m decent enough not to beat up an Avenger and a fellow SHIELD agent?” he responded, dryly. He really wasn’t — there were more than a few SHIELD agents he’d love to sock in the face — but she didn’t need to know that.

She hummed and took a moment to stand up, relieving the pressure on his ribcage before she stood over him and offered a hand. He took it, albeit somewhat begrudgingly. “You may have beat me, if you weren’t so worried about your strength,” she said. “Your weak spot is your concern.”

“I wasn't actually trying to hurt you,” Peter argued back. “That's different in a real fight.”

“Is it?” she asked, bluntly. “Your strength would easily allow you to kill people,” she continued. “but I don’t think you’re the type.”

Peter didn’t flinch back, but it was a near thing. The feel of bone crunching under his hands, the gurgling scream, the blood —

“You don’t know a lot about me,” Peter rasped, voice low, knowing that he’d given something away and not caring. Natasha considered him. 

“Perhaps,” she conceded. “But for the record, I meant that as a compliment. Sometimes it’s good to be weak, if it means you’re human.”

“I'm not human,” he reminded her, tone flat. He hadn’t been since the spider bite, since he lost Ben, since he killed the man who did it. Since he became a murderer, and started to act like one. Since he severed his ties with the last of his family to keep them clean of the blood that tainted his hands.

He felt like Frankenstein’s monster — an amalgamation of the worst traits humankind had to offer, pieced together with all the finesse of a toddler taking its first stumbling steps. He was enhanced in every way — except, perhaps, in his humanity, doomed to sacrifice the last vestiges of his innocence to nature’s callous and indifferent design.

His so-called enhancements had not absolved him; they had condemned him. Their existence meant he wasn’t spared the guilt of failing to prevent his uncle’s death, as a normal human might have been, nor the guilt of using them to kill the man responsible. He was stronger, faster, more capable — and that only made his failures all the more evident. In the end, Ben’s death was a wound even his enhancements couldn’t heal, and the life he’d taken in the name of revenge was a stain that no single, nor collective, act of penance could ever wash away.

These enhancements, then, were the architects of his undoing, and played a leading role in the initiation and proliferation of the loss of his humanity. He wasn’t Frankenstein’s creation, longing to be human. He was its heretical inverse: born human, only to feel the pieces of his humanity stripped away, sacrificed to the demands of his unnatural abilities.

Natasha watched him with quiet eyes, her body still, her expression anything but passive. “You say that like being human is something you lost,” she said finally.

Peter didn't respond. What could he say? That he had lost it? That he’d traded it in exchange for knowledge and pain, like some shitty children’s fairytale? And not even the rewritten, Disney-happy-ending versions, but the original Grimm brothers pain-and-suffering ones?

Instead, he shook his head and turned away, reaching for a towel on the bench beside the mat. His body was damp with sweat, muscles coiled with leftover tension, but the adrenaline had soured now, curdling in the pit of his stomach. The high of the sparring match had faded, replaced by the chill of cooling sweat on his brow and the frigid press of memory against his ribs.

“I’ve seen what happens to people who get too comfortable with power,” he muttered, not looking at her. “They stop asking questions, stop checking themselves. Start believing they’re right just because they can win.” It was one of the reasons he’d grown to resent the Avengers, and Iron Man. Less so, perhaps, now that he knew more of what they were like. But some of the bitterness still came rushing back at the thought.

“And you think that’s where you’re headed?” she asked, tone more curious than judgmental.

Peter turned to face her again. “I think it’s already where I’ve been.” 

He regretted saying it as soon as it left his mouth, but Natasha didn’t so much as flinch. Of course she didn’t. She’d heard worse — maybe, probably, been worse. That was the difference between them, he thought. She’d done terrible things, but she’d also done the work to make peace with herself. Or at least learned how to live with it. He hadn’t really figured that part out yet — didn’t even know where to start, actually.

Natasha sighed. “You’re good at what you do. But you need to learn when not to pull your punches.”

Peter pressed his lips together, unable to stop them from twisting down at the corners. “I can’t exactly afford to get it wrong.”

“Sometimes,” Natasha brushed herself off, “neither can the people you're trying to protect. Even if that person is yourself.” She looked back up to him. “You think we all walked into this knowing how to be heroes? I killed people before I ever saved anyone. I became an Avenger to try and balance the scales — and they still don’t feel even most days.”

Peter bit the inside of his cheek, and the familiar tang of copper brought a rush of familiarity. He’d joined SHIELD for the exact same reason, and had the exact same doubts. To hear Natasha admit that she’d thought the same — well, it was at the very least, a little reassuring.

Maybe she could answer the question he still couldn’t answer himself. He hesitated. But, really — what did he have left to lose? 

“Then why do you still do it?”

Natasha didn’t answer right away. She walked past him, over to the far wall where a set of gloves had been left neatly folded, and picked them up as if buying time. Not stalling, Peter could tell, just choosing her words.

She turned the gloves over in her hands once, then glanced back at him. “Because I decided that my past didn’t get to be the only thing that defined me. Because doing nothing would feel worse than the guilt. And because someone better than me once gave me a shot I didn’t think I deserved. I figured the least I could do was try to live up to it.”

Peter looked down at his feet, considering. It wasn’t the grand, sweeping declaration of redemption he’d half-expected an Avenger to preach. It wasn’t even forgiveness, really. Only a choice made, over and over again, to keep moving forward.

“I don’t know if I can do that,” he said after a beat. “Live with it.” The statement was ridiculous, in its purest, most basic meaning. He’d been living with it for half a decade, after all. It wasn’t as though it was going to make him drop dead. But he figured that Natasha knew and understood what he had really meant by it. 

“You don’t have to do it alone,” Natasha said. “That’s what being part of a team is for. But you do have to decide whether you want to stop running.”

He scoffed, folding the towel in his hands. “I’m not running.” He decided not to point out the obvious — that he wasn’t part of their team. And wouldn’t be, once this mission was over.

She raised an eyebrow.

Peter gave a humorless huff. “Okay. Maybe I am. But it’s not like I know where else to go.”

“That’s the trick,” Natasha smiled, though it held no joy, only wry amusement. “You don’t wait until you know. You move anyway; the direction comes after.”

Well that was a shitty idea. What if you ran right off a cliff? Metaphorically speaking, obviously. Though he figured physically speaking would be just as unpleasant. Natural selection in action.

“Even when you make wrong choices?”

“Especially then. Because you make the call that feels right in the moment. And you’ll carry those choices whether you like it or not. Each wrong choice teaches you something.”

Perhaps that much was true, but it wasn’t Peter paying the price for his wrong choices — it was other people. That didn’t feel fair. It wasn’t fair. 

“It’s not right,” he found himself saying.

“It’s not,” Natasha agreed readily, and his gaze snapped back to her, surprised. “But it’s never going to be. Doesn’t make it easy, but it makes it bearable.”

Bearable. Yeah. That was the word for what Peter had been doing for the last five years — bearing his guilt like a cross. The only part of the metaphor he was missing was being publicly punished for those crimes. He was still waiting on that part, the other shoe constantly waiting to drop.

He must have said something out loud, because Natasha tilted her head. “You’ve got a heavy burden for someone your age.”

Peter offered a half-smile that probably didn’t reach his eyes. “Guess I got a head start. Go me.”

“You did,” she agreed. “But that means you also get to decide how the rest goes. You can’t change what happened, Peter. None of us can. But there’s control in the form of what you do with it.”

He swallowed again. His throat felt raw, like he’d run ten miles and then swallowed gravel. Not a pleasant feeling. “And what if I don’t want to control it?”

His guilt, really, was the last thing he had of Ben — and it was the thing he relied on, to make sure he never crossed that line again. If he allowed himself to let go of the fear, he was certain it’d be a slippery slope. What was one death to two? To three? What was one death to one hundred, if he let himself go? There was no other natural barrier, not like the barrier between zero and one — that line that most people never crossed.

“Then you wouldn’t be here.”

He stopped and blinked up at her.

“You wouldn’t be standing in this room,” Natasha went on. “You wouldn’t have joined SHIELD. You wouldn’t still be trying to protect people, even after everything you’ve lost.” Her mouth quirked in a small smile. “You wouldn’t be pulling your punches. It hasn’t swallowed you just yet.”

Peter looked at her, and for a long moment, he said nothing. Then: “Is that what you tell yourself?”

A pause. “Sometimes. Sometimes I tell myself worse.” She shrugged. “But I don’t let it stop me.”

They stood in silence for a beat before Natasha tossed the gloves she’d picked up into a nearby bin and stretched her arms behind her back. “You’re not as alone in this as you think, you know.”

Peter raised a brow. “Pretty sure I still don’t have a chair at your famous roundtable.”

Natasha rolled her eyes. “There’s no roundtable. We’re all just mostly trying not to fall apart at the same time. Don’t tell the press.”

He almost smiled. “So what, you’re going to pencil me into your schedule to fall apart on alternate Thursdays?”

She leaned over and cuffed the back of his head gently. “When you need to,” she corrected. “And then you’ve got people to help put the pieces back.”

Peter looked down at his hands. Calloused, scarred, roughened from everything he really didn’t want to remember, but didn’t exactly have a choice in the matter. (Barring retrograde amnesia, which honestly sounded pretty appealing most days). Then back up at Natasha.

“…Thanks,” he said. Strangely, he did feel a bit better — even though he knew that he wouldn’t be here for long, not enough for the Avengers to help him in any capacity. Certainly not long enough to become familiar enough with them to let them help. But still. This was… enlightening.

She nodded once — an implicit you’re welcome , before wrinkling her nose and giving his shoulder another gentle shove. “Go get cleaned up. You stink.”

Peter snorted, but obliged.

—

The gym showers, ultimately, were a hundred times better than anything SHIELD had to offer. Peter resisted the urge to languish under the warm spray for too long — he was already antsy about leaving Morgan for too long, despite the fact that Clint had said he’d watch her, and FRIDAY hadn’t alerted him of anything wrong. He was more than half-worried that his Parker luck would hit and she’d inform him of an emergency while he had shampoo in his hair or something. He really did not want to have to stumble back to the penthouse soaking wet and covered in soap, thank you very much.

But everything remained quiet through his shower, and he hopped out after just a bit longer than average, toweling his hair dry. He hadn’t brought a spare pair of clothes downstairs with him, but it turned out that Stark had the gyms stocked with full, over-the-top amenities — including basic gray and black sweatpants and t-shirts, in numerous sizes.

Peter seriously thought that it was all over the top, considering this was clearly the Avengers’ private gym, and did they really need changes of clothes just sitting around? The answer was no, but this was also in reference to Tony Stark, so Peter couldn't really say he was surprised. Besides, the clothes were high-quality, and he wasn’t about to complain about free stuff. He was just glad that the shirts didn’t all have Stark’s face plastered all over them, or the sweatpants with something stupid emblazoned over the ass — because that was exactly the type of stunt that Peter would have expected from him. On second thought, Peter considered that the man probably tried to do something of the sort and Pepper was the one to shut it down. Minor blessings.

Freshly showered and only mildly damp around the edges, Peter jogged to the elevator, raking a hand through his hair as it gave an unhelpful flop across his forehead. The muscles in his shoulders ached, but not in the bad way — more like the post-fight, post-talk, post-kind-of-breakdown way. He felt… aired out. Emptied, but in a way that left space for something else to move in. It was a pleasantly novel feeling.

The elevator rose back up to the penthouse, and as the door opened, Peter could hear the sound of talking coming from the common room. As he hurried towards the sounds, he could hear Morgan’s voice among them — it seemed that she’d woken up from her nap, then. Peter’s heart rate jumped slightly — why hadn’t he been informed? She was awake, and there were more people in the room than just Clint. 

As he rounded the corner, though, he registered that she was laughing, and if he focused, her heart rate was calm and non-agitated. That, in turn, calmed his own nerves, even before his brain registered that the two new voices belonged to Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes. Peter stepped in, mouth half-open to call out — and froze instead.

Morgan was, as he’d heard, very much not asleep. Instead, she sat cross-legged on the couch, surrounded by what could only be described as a small war zone of legos and dolls alike. But what made Peter freeze in the doorway and practically gape at the scene was the fact that she was currently attempting to braid the long hair of a very patient Bucky Barnes. There were maybe six elastic bands tangled into one side and what looked like a lopsided French braid trailing behind his ear, with a plastic butterfly clip barely clinging to the end.

Morgan had forced him to sit on the floor so that she could sit on the couch behind him and easily reach his hair. Next to him, Steve Rogers was seated comfortably on the rug, sleeves rolled to the elbows, one hand outstretched to offer Morgan a different color rubber band when she reached out her tiny fingers and made a grabby motion.

Peter’s gaze shot over to Clint, who stayed slouched in the same armchair as before, an assortment of clips and bows taking up nearly all of his available hair. At Peter’s look, the archer shrugged.

“What? She woke up and wanted to do my hair. Ran out of free real estate, though. Barnes showed up just in time.” He grinned lopsidedly. “How do I look?”

Peter blinked at him. “Like a Matisse exploded on your head.”

Clint beamed. “Perfect. Exactly what I was going for. My net worth just increased tenfold.”

Peter refrained from pointing out that he was both famous and an Avenger — he really didn’t need to be concerned with the likes of low net worth.

At his response, both super-soldiers and Morgan looked over at the doorway to see him standing in it. Steve caught his eye first, expression shifting into something warm and calm — like meeting an old friend for the first time. What a bizarre response.

“You must be Peter,” Steve greeted. He rose fluidly to his feet and offered a hand. “I’m Steve, that’s Bucky.” Bucky waved in greeting from where he sat — still clearly indisposed with Morgan's hands on his shoulders. “We’ve heard a lot about you.”

Peter tore his eyes away from the absurd scene on the couch to lock eyes with the super soldier again. 

“You have?” was his only response, coming out a bit dumbfounded, before he mentally slapped himself. He hadn’t been this caught off-guard in years . Really not the best first impression on his behalf.

Steve took it in stride, though, and nodded his head. “Morgan’s been telling us all about you.” He sounded amused.

Morgan turned at the sound of her name, and her eyes lit up. “Petey! Look! I’m doing his hair! But it’s hard ‘cause his hair’s all slippy.”

Bucky raised a brow at Peter with a sort of tired patience of someone who’d accepted his fate a while ago. “It’s not that bad, right?”

Peter grimaced sympathetically. “Uh…”

“Go on,” Clint said, deadpan. “Be honest. Rip the Band-Aid.” He turned to Bucky before Peter had a chance to speak. “Sorry, man, it looks like you lost a fight to a raccoon.”

“Not inaccurate,” Bucky mumbled, just loud enough for Peter to hear. He stifled a snort.

Morgan huffed in exasperation. “He moved his head while I was braiding!”

Judging by the way Bucky’s head was in the exact same place as it had been when Peter walked in, he seriously doubted that was the case. He shot a dubious glance in Steve’s direction, who shrugged.

“None of us know how to braid hair, and she didn’t want to wait for Pepper.”

“I know how to braid hair,” Peter blurted out, before he could think better of it. Before he could think at all, actually.

All three grown men blinked at him. Even Morgan paused, mid-braid, and gave him a narrow-eyed look of skeptical curiosity.

The truth was — Peter did know how to braid. May had always been terrible at reaching her own hair in order to braid it. Uncle Ben had always joked she had no hand-eye-coordination, and she’d always swatted his shoulder good-naturedly in response. Peter remembered that Ben had always been the one to braid her hair for her; he’d taught Peter how to do it himself when he was ten. Just because you don’t need it for your hair doesn’t mean you shouldn’t learn it, Pete , he’d said. You never know when it might come in handy .

The first and last time he’d braided May’s hair without Ben present had been for his funeral. He’d gone to SHIELD not all that soon after. With a pang of sudden grief, Peter wondered whether she’d ever learned to do it herself, in his and Ben’s absence.

He was torn out of his musings by Morgan’s excited squeal. She jumped off the couch, jostling Bucky’s shoulder as she went, before she bounded over to Peter and grabbed his hand forcefully.

“ Petey. You have to help. I want it to look nice. ”

“I — okay, okay — jeez, I’m helping.” Peter let himself be dragged down onto the rug between the couch and the coffee table, settling cross-legged beside Steve, who sat down again and made no attempt to hide the amusement from his features. Morgan immediately scooted to the side and gave him room, wide-eyed and deadly serious.

“Fix it,” she commanded.

Oh, she was the daughter of Tony Stark alright.

Peter reached up hesitantly toward Bucky’s hair, paused, then craned his neck to look at the man’s face. “Uh. Is this… alright?” He was so utterly out of his depth here. The ocean floor might as well have been miles away.

Bucky huffed a laugh, arid. “At this point? Kid, you’re my only hope.”

Peter nodded, suppressing the sudden, absurd urge to salute. This was a fever dream spurned by hallucinogens. Or he was in a coma. That was the only logical explanation. Instead, he carefully began untangling the mess of elastics and braids Morgan had left behind, fingers surprisingly steady given the fact that they were currently buried in Bucky Barnes’s (deceptively soft) hair.

For a while, the room lapsed into an easy quiet — it was strangely meditative, actually. Familiar in a way Peter hadn’t felt in a long time. Then Steve spoke up from where he watched Peter’s fingers at work, just as Morgan watched beside him.

“So… SHIELD’s got you on Tony’s protection detail?”

Peter glanced up, met Steve’s eyes, then looked back down to his work. “Oh. Yeah. For now.” The man certainly knew that he was, considering that he knew who Peter was.

“You new to them?” Steve asked, not prying, exactly, as Natasha and Tony had been beforehand — just curious.

“Not really,” Peter said after a beat. “I’ve worked a few cases for Fury before. Just usually more… solo stuff.”

Steve raised a brow, intrigued. “And now you’re here?”

“Now I’m here,” Peter echoed. He really didn’t like this line of conversation, but for some reason, it was a lot harder to act gruff to Captain America. Or maybe that was because Morgan was still here, pressed against his side and staring at his fingers. Or maybe it was because he was so thrown off by the whole situation as a whole. No matter how used to the persona he was, it was hard to act gruff when staring at three grown men with rainbow clips in their hair.

Steve seemed to get the sign that he really didn’t want to talk about SHIELD, and seemed more than happy to drop the line of conversation.

“You mentioned Matisse,” Steve said, curiously. “You like art?”

“Oh,” Peter said, completely thrown off-guard yet again , despite his better judgment. The utter absurdity of the situation was making his usually collected demeanor go all haywire. “No, well — yeah, but it’s not really my thing. M —” he stopped and swallowed down the name that almost tumbled out. “My… old friend was really into art. I learned from her.”

Steve was gracious enough not to comment on his slip-up. Instead, he nodded, watching Peter's hands continue working through Bucky’s hair, his tone light. “She must’ve been a good teacher.”

“She was,” Peter said, after a pause. His fingers slowed, but didn’t stop. “She had a lot of opinions about what counted as art. Matisse was on the approved list.”

“Lucky guy,” Steve murmured, and Peter couldn’t quite tell whether he meant the artist or Peter himself. Ironically, he figured he so often focused on his bad luck that he hadn’t stopped to consider how true that statement was for what good luck he did have. Even if it was a brief amount of time, he’d still gotten the love of his parents, and Ben, and May, and his friends.

Peter’s fingers paused in Bucky’s hair, his thoughts momentarily tangled in conjunction with the strands. The quiet that followed Steve’s last comment was surprisingly comfortable — he would have thought he’d feel more antsy, after slipping up as much as he had in the past few minutes. He wasn’t sure whether it was a testament to his own declining sanity, or the absurdity of the situation, or the company themselves that created the distinction.

Morgan went back to humming softly under her breath, organizing her next batch of accessories, and Steve watched her with a faint smile.

Even Bucky, to Peter’s surprise, had settled. There was something unexpectedly grounding — or perhaps humbling would be the better word — about detangling glittery hairbands from a world-class assassin’s head.

Peter had just started on disassembling the next braid — one that looked like it had been through seventeen rounds at Sky Zone — when footsteps echoed from the hallway.

“Incoming,” Bucky muttered, sounding peeved. Which was kind of saying something, considering that the man had enough patience for the demands of Morgan.

There was a thud of boots, a muffled curse about someone’s “damn dog,” and then: “Steve? You left the door open, man, I can hear your classical vinyl —”

An unfamiliar man — Sam Wilson, Peter registered — stopped cold in the doorway, sunglasses halfway down his nose. “Am I… am I interrupting a cult meeting?”

“Hairdressing circle. Very exclusive,” Bucky said dryly, and shot Sam a look. “But you can’t get in. You don’t have enough hair.”

“I have plenty of hair,” Sam argued back, removing his sunglasses. “It’s just efficiently maintained.” Peter was pretty sure the man was arguing just out of principle, not because he actually believed what he was saying. Bucky’s peevishness made more sense now. The two were already arguing like an old married couple, after no more than three seconds spent in the same room.

“A teenage boy with peach fuzz has more hair than you, Sam,” Bucky shot right back.

Steve, ever the diplomat — thank you, Captain America — cut in before Sam could fire back. “I’m sure we can compromise. We’ve got enough leftover clip-ins to create something.”

Morgan nodded eagerly and rummaged through the glittery plastic chaos in her lap. She didn’t seem to have made much progress in the sorting department. Or, if she had, Peter was not privy to the logic of her organizational structure. “We can build him a hair hat.”

“A hair hat?” Sam asked, looking vaguely horrified at the prospect.

“You mock it now,” Steve’s lips twitched, “but you’ll be the height of playroom fashion.”

Huh. Peter mused. Who knew that Captain America could hold so much sass?

“I’m not letting Barnes insult my follicles and then glue a sparkly toupee to my head,” Sam shot back.

“You afraid you’ll look better?” Bucky asked, smug.

Before Sam could respond, Morgan proudly held up what could only be described as a... well. Actually. Peter had never seen anything quite like it. There were about twenty clips, thirty rubber bands, and probably a dozen small bows. It was, truly, hideous. And it looked like it had been super-glued together. Except that there was no super-glue in sight, which meant that she already had the monstrosity on hand. (Truly, Peter was fairly certain that it hadn’t been purposeful — it looked more, to him, like she’d accidentally spilled glue in a drawer that contained all of the components and elected to keep the amalgamation that resulted from the disaster.)

“Hold still.”

“No — wait — hang on —” Sam tried to backpedal, but it was too late. Morgan, fueled by her father's confidence and the full backing of her adult enablers, pounced. With Steve pinning one of his shoulders (yeah, okay, Captain America was so full of shit), she slapped the thing on Sam’s head and clapped her hands.

“Beautiful,” she declared.

Sam touched it gently. “Is this hot glued?”

“Yes,” Morgan said sweetly. “Extra strong.” Alright, not super-glued then, at least. The point still stood.

Peter was unable to muffle his own laugh at that, although the sound was drowned out by everyone else cracking up, too. Clint, notably, was the loudest; the archer’s laugh sounded like a dying howling banshee.

“Okay. What fresh kindergarten nightmare have I walked into?” Another new voice — albeit familiar — cut in. Peter glanced up and caught sight of Tony, standing in the doorway, blinking at the occupants of the room. He was notably more disheveled than he’d been since the last time Peter saw him (although Peter could say the same of himself) — motor oil streaked his forearms and there was a smudge on the side of his cheek. He held a coffee mug loosely in one hand, although judging by what Peter could smell, it was empty.

Clint was the first to respond to the inquiry, tipping his head back over the armrest of the chair to stare at the billionaire upside-down. A few of the clips in his hair dislodged at the movement, clattering onto the hardwood floor with tiny plink -s. “Your daughter is abandoning the engineering field to open a hair salon instead.”

“Nuh-uh,” Morgan refuted. “This is just for practice. I’m gonna do both.”

Peter heard Sam mutter a God help us all under his breath, and resisted the urge to snort. He kept his hands in Bucky’s hair, fingers methodically detangling and tightening the braid. He was already two-thirds through and figured finishing the job was less embarrassing than trying to extract himself from the whole scene now. Besides, Bucky wasn’t protesting.

Morgan peeled herself away from Peter’s side — clearly losing interest in the actual know-how of braiding hair in light of a more interesting subject — and ran over to her father.

“Your turn, Daddy,” she tugged on his wrist.

Tony visibly considered the doorway behind him. Then sighed. Really, his first mistake was extracting himself from the lab. The second was stepping into the common room. It was the man’s own fault for being so unobservant.

“You know what?” He walked over and sat heavily beside Steve, setting his mug down on the coffee table. “Go on. Clip me.”

Morgan delightedly obliged. Peter was just glad she hadn’t tried to drag him into braiding Tony’s hair — not that it would have been very easy, considering the length, but technically still doable. Regardless, he didn’t think he’d ever recover from the indignity of that one.

“Uh-uh, little miss, I demand Iron Man colors,” Tony said, when he saw Morgan reaching for a blue clip. “No way I’m turning into Capsicle propaganda.”

“Blue is a good color,” Peter defended — mostly because he wanted to be contrary, but also because it was true.

Tony snorted. “That government propaganda is rotting your brain, kid. They’ve got you gunning for the American flag. Next you’ll be reciting the pledge in your sleep.”

“SHIELD isn’t American,” Peter pointed out.

“Uh, sure,” Tony said. “Tell that to the DC office. I’d say they’re funded by tax dollars but Pepper does my taxes so I wouldn’t know.”

That fact was hardly surprising. Steve interrupted their argument by holding out a red clip to Morgan. “Compromise. Red for Iron Man, but it still matches my suit.”

“That’s just because you stole my color palette,” Tony muttered.

“You stole mine , ” Steve replied mildly.

Jeez. For a bunch of alleged adults, they sure made the average kindergarten class look composed.

Peter shrugged. “Red’s not bad,” he acquiesced. “Gold’s a little ostentatious.”

“ Ostentatious , he says,” Tony echoed, offended in the way only someone with a gold-plated suit and a tower named after himself could be. “Jeez, didn’t know they taught that word to middle schoolers.”

Peter expected the ever-familiar hot wave of irritation to wash over him at the common age-related insult, but found he could only muster a mild pang of annoyance. 

Huh.

“Says the man who doesn’t even know how to file his own taxes,” he shot back. “You really want a supposed middle schooler to beat you on that front?”

“Hey now, I could learn —”

“Excuses.”

“— but I have more important things to fill my brain with.”

“Right. Because your thick skull takes up most of your head’s free volume.”

Clint actually barked a laugh with that, interrupting before Tony had a chance to come up with his own retort. “Oh, he got you there, Stark.”

“Hardly.” But he didn’t seem bothered in the slightest by the interruption.

Morgan, for her part, remained completely unfazed by the bickering around her. She finished affixing a rainbow clip to Tony’s hair and beamed. “Perfect. Daddy, you’re gorgeous.”

Tony touched the top of his head gingerly. “Well, that’s new. Usually I have to pay people to say that.” He narrowed his eyes at his daughter. “Did your mom put you up to this?”

Morgan elected not to respond, instead turning on Peter. “Your turn.”

Peter rose in an aborted escape motion. “Oh, I’m not —”

“Sit,” she ordered, already fishing through her somehow never dwindling pile of accessories.

Peter hesitated. He could say no. He should say no. But then again… everyone was watching, and somehow none of it felt mocking. Not even from Tony, who looked more entertained than anything else. And besides, how could they be mocking, when all of them were similarly decked out?

So, Peter sat. And resigned himself to becoming the next victim.

Morgan climbed up behind him without ceremony and started pinning things haphazardly. One or two clips snagged hard — enough to make him internally wince — but he didn’t pull away.

The tugging wasn’t gentle, not by any meaning of the word. But it was familiar. Not in the exact way. May had steadier hands. She’d hum sometimes, barely loud enough to hear. But the feeling — the touch — was something he hadn't felt in years.

Peter let his eyes close for a second.

When he opened them, he caught Tony watching pensively. Peter wanted to duck his head away, but Morgan’s fingers in his hair prevented him from doing so. Instead, he turned his gaze towards the windows of the penthouse instead, not wanting to look at the expression on anyones’ faces. Mostly because he had no idea what he would find. The premise was equally terrifying and exhilarating.

Morgan finished arranging the last clip and sat back, clearly satisfied with her handiwork. Peter didn’t have a mirror, so he couldn’t see what she’d done, but he heard a snort from someone to his left as she hopped off the couch.

“Ta-da!”

Peter resisted the urge to grimace as he experimentally twitched a muscle in his temple and felt the tug of a too-tight clip yank at his overly sensitive hair follicles. 

“Thanks,” he said, instead. Morgan beamed, and he felt a little better.

“So when’s the photo op?” Tony clapped his hands together. “I need it for blackmail material.”

“You say that like you’re not the most decorated one here,” Clint called. Tony waved a dismissive hand.

“Oh, everyone’s seen infinitely worse from me. Nobody would get blackmail material for me out of this.”

“Alright, alright. I got it,” Clint reluctantly stood from his armchair and rummaged in his pockets before he pulled out a cracked, half-destroyed phone.

“Y’know FRIDAY can just take the picture,” Tony wrinkled his nose. “It’ll be higher quality anyways.”

“Hell no,” Clint rebutted. “I’m already standing, may as well.” He clambered on top of the back of the armchair in a manner that was, quite frankly, gravity-defying — and deceptively graceful for a man of his size and build. He tilted the phone at an upwards angle to get everyone in the shot — and, belatedly, Peter realized that included him , too.

He shifted, making a motion to move out of the frame, but his shoulder was pushed back down before he’d even risen halfway.

“Nuh-uh, you too, kid,” Tony said.

Peter wished he could attribute his trepidation to the fact that Tony had explicitly called this photo blackmail material , but even he couldn’t lie well enough to fool him of that fact. He knew perfectly well there was no real leverage weight the picture would hold, in terms of useful trading purposes. It was just the implication of its existence, of Peter among this team — family, really — that he wasn’t truly a part of. He was out of place, an ill-fitting Lego block in an otherwise uniform structure.

Regardless, it didn’t seem like he had much choice in the matter. And though he was more than willing to push back on even arbitrary things just for the sake of it, Morgan had already settled down into his lap, and he didn’t feel like being the reason to taint the otherwise light atmosphere.

So he stayed. 

Clint started a countdown, and Peter felt the most absurd combination of nerves churning in his stomach. It was just a picture. What was his deal?

Morgan twisted in his lap — whether sensing something with that uncanny perception of hers, or just because she wanted to — and beamed up at him. Peter couldn’t help but smile back, even though in comparison, it was about 98% less blinding than Morgan’s. Still, compared to his own track record, it was probably 110% more expressive than he’d displayed in years.

The flash went off before he registered that the countdown had even ended, and Peter blinked back up at Clint, who rolled off the top of the chair back down into the seat.

“FRI, hack his phone and display the picture,” Tony ordered.

“Dude, you could just ask me to text it to you like a normal person,” Clint muttered.

“How pedestrian.”

The holographic screen displayed the picture before they could bicker any longer, and the breath caught in Peter’s chest.

The clips in his hair were red and blue.

It was a small thing — ridiculous, really. Maybe even coincidental. He would have assumed it were coincidental, at least, had Morgan not been as intelligent as she was. He hadn’t said red and blue were his favorite colors, just endorsed them in a single sentence in a conversation he hadn’t even been aware she’d been fully paying attention to. It was a single act of kindness and recognition that he hadn’t been privy to, not in years. If he had less control over his emotions, he might have actually cried. And man, that would be embarrassing.

But it wasn’t just that, either. In the picture, he’d somehow been caught at the exact moment he’d smiled down at Morgan. It wouldn’t win any points in the smile model department, that was for certain, but Peter knew that was the softest he’d seen his own expression in… years, at the very least. His full face wasn’t totally visible, half tilted down to Morgan in his lap, but the scene it painted was evident enough. What he hadn’t realized before, either, was the fact that the Avengers had gathered in a circle around him and Morgan — Clint in the foreground, Sam leant over the back of the couch, Bucky sat at the foot of it. Tony at his right and Steve at his left.

And Peter felt — for the briefest of moments, there and gone before he could catch and examine it — the strange, unfamiliar tug of an emotion he hadn’t felt in well over half a decade.

A sense of belonging.

Chapter Text

Natasha cornered him before dinner. Well, not before dinner, precisely — more like he walked into the room for dinner and had immediately found himself the target of her attention, before the food had even been served.

“Heard you’re the newest braiding expert,” she said, in lieu of a greeting. “A bit insulted I wasn’t invited to the party.”

“It was more of a hostage situation,” he deferred, taking the bizarre opening in stride. “But why don’t you tell me what you’re really after?” 

She had that gleam in her eye, the same one she had during sparring this morning, the same one she had when she’d first met and questioned him. She was curious, and Peter was frankly impressed that it took her this long to try and corner him. Though, really, it was good manners to wait until he at least had food in him before running an interrogation.

Natasha smiled. He had the sense that she was pleased with his cut to the chase approach. Usually, he was all for deflection, but he wanted to know what she was after — it would give him data to work off of, too. 

“This attack — the alien tech — it’s personal for you, isn’t it?”

Damn. Coming out swinging, are we, Romanoff?

Despite being phrased as such, it wasn’t a question. He supposed he hadn’t really been subtle about having something in his closet during sparring this morning; it didn’t take a genius to jump to a few conclusions here or there.

Peter knew how to play this game — how to keep his bodily responses perfectly controlled, in the same way he knew Natasha catalogued every careful projection. It was a dangerous game of cat-and-mouse, except they were perhaps both the cat, disguising themselves as a mouse. Man, he really had to get better with his analogies.

“Why do you say that?” he asked in response, careful to meet her gaze head-on, voice steady. It was a challenge; either she admitted she only had a hunch, and thus let him know she had no real evidence, or she revealed her hand to him, and let him know where to better cover up next time. In both cases, she would lose an advantage over him — the advantage of the unknown — and he would gain something.

He saw her mouth flicker in another smile, knowing she’d come to the same realization as him, and that she was impressed with his response.

“Hm,” she leaned back with deliberate ease. “You’re waiting for something to go wrong.”

Peter let out a snort, pretending to consider her words while he assessed her body language. “That’s called being prepared.”

She smiled, deceptively placid. Peter was not having it. “It’s called having a stake. Something you’re afraid to lose, hm?”

Well, that was a low blow after their conversation. Not that he could really blame her; he’d have done the same. He was still doing the same, technically.

“Everyone has something to lose,” he countered.

“If you two are quite done exchanging cryptic remarks,” a voice piped up, and Peter remembered they weren’t alone in the room. “The food’s ready.”

The voice belonged to Tony, but when Peter turned, a retort at the ready, the words died in his throat. Next to the billionaire stood Colonel James Rhodes. Or, “Rhodey,” as the rest of the Avengers, Tony included, called him.

Peter recognized him instantly — and although he would hardly admit it, it wasn’t because of his time at SHIELD. It was because he and Ned were huge nerds, and War Machine fit the bill for their obsession, even years ago. He swallowed down the memory and took in the man’s appearance, knowing he was being judged the same. War Machine, decorated officer, one of the longest-standing Avengers, and — by all accounts — one of Tony Stark’s closest friends.

Which explained the way Rhodey was eyeing him now; sizing him up. Peter didn’t flinch, but he did straighten to meet the challenge, muscle memory snapping into place.

Rhodey stepped forward, his gaze listing briefly to Natasha — who gave him a tiny, amused look in return — then back to Peter.

“So,” Rhodey said. “You’re the kid.”

Well. Clearly that nickname meant that he’d heard of Peter from Tony himself. Regardless, he had no quarrel with James Rhodes — in fact, he’d always respected him, even when he was bitter about Iron Man in particular. Something about the man, in all the interviews he and Ned had watched, made him think of Ben. Peter nodded once. “Yes, sir.”

Rhodey’s brow lifted, and he glanced at Natasha again, almost too quick to catch. 

“You don’t have to call me sir.” Rhodey pivoted and moved towards Tony, clapping him lightly on the shoulder as he moved to sit. “I’m not your superior. You’re SHIELD, right?”

“Yes,” Peter swallowed the urge to tack ‘sir’ on after that. It was strange, really, how immediate even his internal demeanor changed in different peoples’ presence. There were very few people who could wring that immediate urge out of him.

“And you’re what, nineteen?” Rhodey asked as he eased into the chair beside Tony. There wasn’t any judgement in the words; if anything, Peter was certain Rhodey could understand — what with enrolling in the military at eighteen and all. There was a level of understanding there that wasn’t often shared by anyone else Peter encountered.

Peter nodded. “Old enough to do the job I was assigned,” he agreed — a confirmation and reassurance rolled into one.

That earned a snort from Tony, and a muttered “what, Fury’s got his agents doing PR training now?” which Peter ignored.

The team filed in before they could really continue the discussion — Clint loudly argued with Sam over who got the last breadstick from last time, Bucky muttered something under his breath as he took a seat, and Steve offered a polite greeting and offered to help Pepper, only to be handed a bowl of salad and ushered back to the table.

Peter retreated and took a seat at the end of the table — one chair down from Natasha, who gave him an encouraging glance that seemed to say something like: see? they’re not so bad. Peter had no idea what her end goal was from that fact, especially not right after her little interrogation.

Tony took the seat at the head of the table. Morgan clambered into the chair beside him, then immediately popped up again to run over and tug on Peter’s sleeve.

“You’re sitting too far,” she informed him.

“What?”

She looked up at him expectantly. “Come sit next to me.”

It wasn’t really a request. Peter looked over at Tony dubiously. He had figured Pepper and Tony would want to sit on either side of their daughter, and he didn’t want to draw more attention to himself by messing up the seating arrangement.

Tony just shrugged. “Good luck winning that argument.”

Really, if Morgan didn’t have Pepper as an influence, Peter was pretty certain she would never be as well mannered as she was, considering how infrequently people tried to argue against her. Wouldn’t he be doing them a favor, anyways, doing that part of the work for them? Denial was good sometimes in child rearing, wasn’t it?

Peter hesitated, looking at Morgan’s pleading eyes. And then — damn it — he got up and moved his seat, settling awkwardly beside her, earning a grin for his troubles.

Dinner started. There was talking and teasing and something that was a bit too close to arguing but never actually turned into it. Clint tried to teach Morgan how to flick peas at Bucky, and Sam was clearly starting to regret sitting between Steve and Natasha.

Peter didn’t say much. It wasn’t until halfway through the meal that Steve, of all people, turned the conversation his way.

“So, Peter,” he said, his voice easy and friendly in the same manner it had been in the common room earlier, “Natasha mentioned you handled yourself well this morning. You enjoy training?”

Peter swallowed his bite of rice before he answered. “Sometimes. When she’s not trying to break my ribs.”

“He’s being generous,” Natasha interjected smoothly. “He keeps up better than any of the SHIELD recruits. Those willing to spar me, that is.”

Peter shot her a wary look, not sure if that was meant to boost him up or set him up for failure.

“And you’re enhanced?” Steve asked, still in that same even tone. There was no judgment in it — just curiosity. Assessment, maybe. Peter thought back to their discussion in the common room earlier, and realized that the topic had never actually come up. Steve had asked briefly about SHIELD, then, but they’d never touched on his enhancements. He was certain they knew , of course, but he didn’t know what the objective here was.

Peter hesitated for a beat too long. Tony — because of course Tony — piped in before he could answer. “He’s got some tricks. Strength, speed, balance, the whole Cirque du Soleil package.”

“That’s not a real thing,” Peter muttered.

“Sure it is,” Tony replied.

Steve tilted his head. “You run?”

“Sometimes,” Peter responded, wary of the shift in topic. He could run, but it had never really been his thing, even after the bite.

Steve smiled. “I do laps every morning. You’re welcome to join. We can make it interesting.”

Before Peter could decline the offer, Tony piped up. “He’s fast. I bet he can beat you, Cap.”

Bucky raised his eyebrows across the table, and one corner of his mouth twitched. “He just bet your dignity. You gonna take that?”

Ugh . No, he was not.

“Screw you, Stark,” he muttered, before he could think better of it. Now he couldn’t exactly decline without losing his dignity. Not that he had much of that left these days, anyways. The man in question snorted.

“Hey. I’m vouching for you, kid. Same team, yeah?”

“No,” Peter said, dryly. “You’re vouching against Rogers. Not the same thing.”

Tony grinned, but didn’t deny it. “Tomato, tomahto.”

Sam groaned. “Why is it always running with you people? Can’t we once have a competition that doesn’t end with somebody puking on the lawn?”

“Sounds like you’re just mad because you lost last time.” Bucky stabbed a piece of roasted carrot and waved it in his direction.

Sam pointed his own fork back. “ I'm not enhanced. And you elbowed me.”

Bucky blinked, too innocently. “It was a crowded turn.”

Peter sat back and observed the exchange. This was a level of banter he wasn’t used to being included in. Normally he was the silent audience to people like these — not a participant, seated at their table.

Steve ignored the back-and-forth with practiced ease and focused on Peter. “What do you say?”

Peter hesitated. He could already feel the tension creeping up his spine. He didn’t like being tested. Didn’t like performing on command, especially not in front of a table full of literal heroes and legends. It wasn’t the running that bothered him, but everything that came with the offer — the scrutiny, the evaluation, the risk of confirming what some of them probably already suspected: that he didn’t belong here.

But then he felt a light nudge against his arm. Morgan, swinging her legs under the table, grinned up at him. “You should do it. You’ll win.” The statement was spoken with complete faith — something only a child could hope to achieve. Peter hoped she kept it for far longer than he’d ever managed to.

Peter sighed. Fine. If he was going to be judged, he might as well get it over with.

“Okay.” He lifted his gaze to meet Steve’s. “Tomorrow morning?”

Steve smiled. “See you then.”

“Don’t worry,” Tony said cheerfully. “I’ll have the medbots on standby in case you break a hip, gramps.”

“Tony,” Steve sighed without much heat, already turning back to his plate.

Peter shook his head and reached for his water again, already anticipating a disaster. Not because of the running itself, but because it was him, and because of his particular company. But at least Morgan looked satisfied, and — weirdly — Natasha looked a little proud.

Maybe it wouldn’t be all bad.

—

The next morning, Peter puked on the lawn.

Well, actually, it was a fake lawn, next to the indoor track.

And, to be fair, that happened after the run.

Before that, there’d been the pre-dawn sky, smeared with that gray-blue just-before-sunrise color, the type that made everything look colder than it was. Dew streaked the windows of the penthouse, and even the birds had barely started their chirping agenda of the day yet.

Much to Peter’s equal parts fascination and horror, they had an audience . Because waking up at the ass crack of dawn was somehow — somehow — redeemable if they got to watch Peter and Steve Rogers race each other (although Peter figured that Tony had, in fact, not gone to sleep at all, and had just stayed up instead). That fact did nothing to help settle Peter’s stomach. Nor did the breakfast he’d eaten. Rookie mistake.

In fact, Steve and Sam had come into the kitchen this morning, right as Peter had been shoveling food into his mouth. Steve had only raised an eyebrow, silently reaching for the mugs, but Sam had cringed.

“You’re gonna regret that, pal,” he warned. Peter glanced down at his plate and then back up at the two of them — and out of spite, had finished the whole thing. Not his wisest decision.

Anyways. Point was, they had an audience.

The location had turned out to be an indoor track, all the way underground, past the basement of Avengers Tower. Peter had been baffled when they’d directed him downstairs instead of upstairs, towards the track on the gym level. 

However, it became evident why they’d chosen this one once he got there — it was massive, much larger than any track upstairs could ever be. If he had to guess, it was at least a few miles long rather than the usual, standard track length. Tony had seen him staring at it, and had explained that they would probably get too dizzy from the centripetal force if they had tried to make the tight turns that a traditionally distanced track required at the speed they would be running. Peter hadn’t considered it beforehand, but he supposed the man had a point. No need to add any more reasons for dizziness into the mix.

Steve gave Peter a nod as they stretched. Peter had never actually stretched before he’d run — unsurprising, considering the fact that he could count the number of times he had purposefully gone for a run during his life on one hand. He just followed Steve’s movements, and hoped he wasn’t being too conspicuous in his inexperience.

“The rules are simple. Run as far and fast as possible. No pacing, no slowing down. First one to quit loses.”

Peter arched an eyebrow. “We’re not timing it?”

“Nope.”

“No finish line?”

“Only the horizon,” Steve smiled like a stupid motivational poster. Also, what a dumb sentence. They were running laps, not in a straight line. And they were indoors.

“How do we know who wins, then? What if I’m faster but you last longer, or vice versa? That’s not really a measure of much,” he argued.

“Fear not,” Tony interjected, waving his phone around. “The kid’s got a point, Cap. FRI will analyze and weight your speed and endurance equally against each other. You’ll get a score at the end. The higher one wins.”

Great. So the only way he was guaranteed to win was if he went both faster and longer than Steve did.

“Most people would probably die if they did this level of activity, y’know,” he commented wryly.

Steve smiled, serene. “You can always back out. No shame in it.”

His words didn’t align with the competitive glint in his eyes — Peter could tell he was excited for this. Captain America was so full of shit.

His brain screamed there’s still time to walk away ; his ego screamed you’re gonna win this if it kills you . It wasn’t too difficult to figure out which one won out.

“What, you’re telling me you want to back out?” he challenged, before his brain could win back rationality. Steve smiled more, and Peter knew he was in for a world of pain.

“Not a chance, son.” He cracked his neck. “Enough talking, then.”

That, Peter could get on board with. They both stepped up to the track, shoulders side by side. Tony tilted his chin down to peer at them over the rim of his glasses. Why he was wearing sunglasses before dawn, Peter had no idea. Especially considering that they were indoors. And underground. Triple whammy.

“FRI will monitor your distance and your speed. Do try to stay on the track, I don’t want to hire more people to fix my turf if you tear it up.” His mouth quirked in a smile. “With that — three, two, one —”

“GO!” Morgan cut in with a shout, and Peter didn’t have time to think of that before his feet obeyed the command.

Afterward, Peter would need to review the data — he was fairly certain he hadn’t imagined the gravitational pull he felt from the sheer acceleration of his first few steps. It felt a little bit like a rollercoaster, except horizontal acceleration rather than purely vertical. Unless he counted the gravitational component; that was still very much vertical. Within the first few minutes, they were already moving at a speed that no normal human could ever maintain for a few seconds, much less miles.

They were going so fast that it felt like Peter was buffeted by strong gusts of wind — even as he knew that wasn’t possible, being indoors and all. Still, it caused an odd rushing in his ears. He hadn’t faced that issue when he went on the run at the lake house, although he guessed that was because the trees broke any wind he might have faced, and he hadn’t been going at a straight sprint; he’d needed to duck and weave along the path.

Peter surged ahead. He didn’t even mean to, really — his speed had never been something he thought about. He just moved. His legs knew how to fly; they ate up the miles like nothing. But Steve stuck with him. Not by matching speed, exactly; more like stubbornly refusing to be left behind.

Peter glanced at Steve out of the corner of his eye — at the speed they were going at, the man was the only thing in focus; the only thing not a nauseating blur. A lovely reminder from physics: motion was only meaningful relative to another object in motion. Without him there, Peter wouldn't be able to tell whether they were moving at all, or just standing still while the universe whipped past. Well, okay, theoretically speaking, at least. His muscles and lungs could very much inform him otherwise.

Steve's jaw was set, eyes focused forward, and he had a distinctly Captain America expression plastered on his features — something Peter didn't know had actually existed until just now. Or, at the very least, hadn't considered what it would look like up close.

Peter, for his part, had made several poor life decisions. His stomach sloshed threateningly. That massive breakfast? Clearly not a great move. The eggs were currently fighting for their lives in his ribcage. And he definitely wasn’t used to this type of endurance — sure, he sprinted all the time, but running full-out for dozens of miles with someone who refused to quit? That was new. And hell. At the lake house, he’d gone out slower from the get-go, and only had himself to compete against.

It was silent for a long time, save for the thump-thump-thump of feet on the reinforced flooring and the low hum of the air systems that kept the room ventilated. That, and Peter’s breathing — which was already getting tight. But no way in hell was he letting Steve win.

They hadn’t spoken since they started — talking took far too much oxygen. Breathing was more important. Peter could feel himself hit his limits — the kind where his body started sending error messages in all caps. Blood in the ears. Pressure in the skull. Legs carved out of concrete. All signs he was intimately familiar with before the spider bite.

But —

Steve was right there. Not ahead. Not behind. Right there. He could still win, if he outlasted him.

At mile something-or-another — he honestly, absolutely, had no idea, he’d lost track around twenty-three — Peter felt the first wave of real nausea. Not the simmering oops, I ate too much nausea — but the there’s gonna be a reckoning nausea.

Still, he grit his teeth and pushed forward. Steve grunted — the first real sound either of them had made in a while. He was sweating, face flushed and strained with clear effort, but he hadn’t broken stride, either.

Peter’s vision edged a little blurry. Tunnel-y. His body screamed. The eggs had staged a full revolution in his gut. A whole ‘let them eat cake’ moment. Peter would be lucky if he kept his head after all of this.

He kept running.

Peter hit the next lap, barely ahead of Steve — maybe half a body length, but it was the first time either one of them had lagged — and realized two things at once:

He was going to win.

He was also going to throw up literally everywhere.

With each step closer to the completion of what he knew, instinctively, would be their final lap, he could feel his body fail him (the traitor). He couldn’t even see Steve in his periphery any more — whether because the man had fallen behind or because his vision had gotten black around the edges, he didn’t know.

He hit the white line of that final lap and made it three more staggering strides sideways onto the lawn before his legs gave out and he collapsed. Rolled over, and —

Well. There went all of it. Every single bad choice. The food related ones, at least. All over the turf. 

“I’ve gotta pay someone to come clean that, y’know.” Peter didn’t look up, but knew the voice belonged to Tony, who stood somewhere nearby. The words came through warped and weird through his fuzzy eardrums. “Doesn’t rain in here, unfortunately.”

Peter opened his mouth to respond — and promptly emptied even more of his stomach contents onto the turf.

“Payback,” he managed to rasp, after he had semi-recovered. He twisted his head to see Steve hunched over nearby, breath sawing in and out of his chest, looking just as worse for wear as Peter himself. Minus the breakfast disaster.

He looked up at Peter.

Peter looked back through stinging, blurry eyes. And they both started laughing. Sort of. Wheezing, mostly. Neither had enough air in their lungs for true laughter.

Peter rolled onto his back. His whole body felt like it had been sanded raw, starting with his lungs and everything else followed suit. “Never again,” he croaked.

Steve dropped fully onto the grass beside him. “You won.”

“I hate myself.”

“You should. That was stupid.” Wow. Peter got Captain America to agree to self hatred. He’d call the press if he had any strength to move.

Peter gave him a shaky thumbs up. “Stupid and victorious. Don't forget that part."

“I told you not to eat all those eggs, man.” Sam’s face hovered above him.

“I’ll throw up on you, too.” Peter warned half heartedly. “Don’t try me.”

He would , actually, but definitely by accident. He didn’t have the strength in him to purposefully move and launch a stomach-related attack. Sam still took the warning at face value and stepped away.

Tony crouched in his view, squinting over his sunglasses. Peter shut his eyes to avoid the sight of his face as it swam in his vision. His brain was doing the Windows blue screen of death. His skin felt clammy. The air tasted vaguely like regret. On second thought, maybe that was still the breakfast.

Morgan’s voice rang out from somewhere to the side: “He won, Daddy!”

Tony sighed. “Yeah, little miss, he won. Won himself a protein-scented grave. Very impressive.”

Peter raised a hand in a victory salute. “Bury me here.”

“Tempting,” Tony muttered.

There was a pause. Peter's breathing finally evened out, sort of. Long enough for a dangerous question to occur to him. “How many laps did we actually do?”

A beat.

Tony snorted. “Thirty-nine. You idiots ran over twenty miles. At a dead sprint, which for you all is about 30 mph, or two-minute miles.”

Peter made a noise that even he didn't recognize. “I’m gonna puke again.”

“Do it somewhere else, Parker. My turf’s already seen too much.”

Peter rolled onto his side. “Oh, don’t worry,” he muttered, “I’m gonna go christen your fancy trash can next.”

(He threw up in the elevator, instead.)

—

Apparently, Morgan didn’t understand the difference between exertion-induced and virus-induced gastrointestinal distress. So she forced Peter to sit on the couch after his episode with a blanket, and tried to bribe one of the adults to get him chicken noodle soup. 

Well — either that, or she understood the distinction perfectly well and just wanted to guilt-trip him into watching cartoons with her. It was a toss-up, honestly.

Never in Peter’s life did he imagine that one of his missions from Fury would result in spending his Thursday afternoon watching My Little Pony with Tony Stark’s five-year-old daughter. Apparently that was where he was at, though.

Peter, personally, preferred Transformers — Morgan’s go-to before My Little Pony . Unfortunately, Tony had interjected during their attempt to enjoy it, yammering about the flawed mechanics of the robots’ transformations and the completely impractical fuel requirements. He had brought Peter soup, though, so it wasn’t totally miserable.

“— and who designs a robot with exposed gears ? First speck of dust or dirt and it becomes about as functional as Hammer tech —”

“It’s science fiction , Stark,” Peter got out after he slurped a noodle down.

“It’s engineering malpractice is what it is. Look at the way those fuel lines are pinched.” Tony waved his hand wildly at the screen. “No child of mine is going to consume this nonsense. I could build her a more functional robot out of a car battery and the kitchen silverware.”

In truth, Peter had originally been fairly indifferent about the show itself. It was only when he noted Stark’s patented disdain towards the portrayal of the source material that he himself took a liking to it — out of the principle of the matter, of course.

The billionaire’s complaints about engineering flaws in a kid’s show was in-character and, to some extent, expected. What baffled Peter was why Stark had purposefully cast himself as the bad cop in this scenario, leaving Peter to play the good cop — at least in Morgan’s eyes, whenever she begged Peter to put on Transformers when her dad wasn’t watching. Naturally, Peter obliged — both because he didn’t really give a shit about Stark’s opinion (and he took a certain pleasure in directly defying him), and because he couldn’t bear to disappoint Morgan. If he were being honest with himself — which he hardly ever was — it was mostly the latter.

The strangest part was that Peter knew that Stark was fully aware of their little scheme, yet chose to ignore it and play along. Peter couldn’t figure out what the man’s angle was — why would he intentionally let his daughter favor Peter (at least in this particular scenario) over him? What could he possibly gain by making his daughter like Peter more?

Instead of saying any of this, Peter arched an eyebrow.

“‘Engineering malpractice,’ coming from you?” he asked, his tone flat. “I've seen your lab, Stark. It’s enough to make an OSHA representative cry.”

“It’s not that bad,” the man replied, feigning offense.

“You had a beaker of graphene oxide sitting out in the open. Next to a welding torch.”

At that, the billionaire cocked his head to the side. “Surprised you recognized that,” he commented. Peter snorted faintly.

“It’s not that obscure,” he pointed out. “Plenty of applications in the biomedical field.”

“Sure, but most people wouldn’t recognize it without the label.”

“Which is another OSHA violation,” Peter muttered. Stark pointedly ignored him.

“So you recognized it. Any ideas what I was using it for?” he asked, casually. Too casually. Peter glanced up and shot him a suspicious look. He hadn’t snooped around for long enough to actually see what the graphene oxide was for. Was this a test — to see whether he had ? Or was he supposed to make a guess? Another one of Stark’s attempts to gauge his intelligence, like the morning of the run when he’d grilled Peter about his powers? Would it be more suspicious if he guessed accurately, or if he was completely off the mark?

It was Stark’s turn to snort. “Relax, kid, it’s not a trick question. Just curious.”

Peter hesitated for a moment more before conceding. “It’s strong, light, and very conductive when reduced,” he said slowly, considering. “You’re probably testing it as part of some armor upgrade or power-storage component. Nanotechnology, maybe.”

The billionaire’s eyebrows shot up, and he tilted his head to the side. “What made you guess that?”

Peter arched his own eyebrows. “So you are using it for nanotech,” he commented. Stark seemed unable to mask his surprise to his guess; meaning he’d been spot-on. For a brief moment, he worried that the man would take that as confirmation that Peter had been snooping in his lab — even though this particular guess had just been a guess — but luckily, that didn’t seem to be the case.

“Maybe,” Tony responded, noncommittally — in that kind of tone that told Peter he was looking for a challenge. Well, if it was a challenge he wanted, it was a challenge he would get. Just as he thought as much, Tony continued. “Prove it.”

Peter crossed his arms across his chest and leaned backwards. “Well, it makes sense for nanotechnology,” he mused aloud. “Its strength-to-weight ratio is off-the-charts, and the conductivity properties make it ideal for integrating with smart materials, compared to other options.”

At that, Tony’s eyes seemed to gleam with a certain kind of excitement that could — and would — be considered dangerous to anyone else. “Let’s say I was using it for nanotech. What’s the first problem you think I’d run into?”

Peter shot him a mildly unimpressed look at the poorly masked attempt at picking his brain, but found he was too interested in the conversation to shut it down. Besides, it was unlikely that anything he would say was something Stark would be incapable of thinking of already, so Peter himself was more likely to get something out of the discussion than the other way around.

“Aggregation,” he responded, instead, leaning forward, now, to brace his elbows on his knees. “The sheets clump together, and when they do, you lose the uniformity you need for reliable nanoscale applications — which is a problem if you’re using it in composites or electronics.”

“Exactly.” The man snapped his fingers and pointed at him. “And do you know how many people in the R&D department have pitched ‘just use more surfactants’ as their big solution?”

Peter snorted, faint but amused. The man didn’t wait for him to verbally answer, taking that as his assent.

“Way too many. Would make me question the hiring process, except Pep is in control of that and I’d like to keep my head intact. So —“ Stark clapped his hands together. “ — what would you do?”

“Ultrasonic dispersion. A solvent to suspend the graphene oxide, then hit it with ultrasonic waves to break up the clumps. Not perfect, but likely better than overloading it with surfactants and risk messing up the material properties.”

Tony tilted his head, considering. “Huh,” he said, slowly. “You know, I had a whole mini-rant planned, but you just leapfrogged two meetings’ worth of wasted time and ten million dollars of trial and error.” 

Peter raised a brow. “Ten million?”

Tony waved a hand. “Okay, like two for the experiment. Eight for the migraines.”

“Your migraines are expensive.”

“What can I say? My brain’s a luxury item.” 

Before Peter could fire back, a small hand tugged at his pant leg. He glanced down and saw Morgan peering up at him, hugging her Rainbow Dash stuffed animal to her chest. Her curls were slightly static-y from the rug, and her cheeks were pink with exertion from where she’d been rolling around on it.

“You said we could play hide and seek after your science talk,” she complained. Peter was pretty sure he had never promised such a thing, but he was wise enough to not point that out.

Peter shot a side eye at Tony. "Why me? Why not your dad?" 

She wrinkled her nose. "He sucks at finding me." 

“That’s because I wasn’t looking.” Tony didn’t look up from his tablet. “You always leave a trail of Fruit Roll-Up wrappers like some kind of snack-obsessed raccoon.” He turned to Peter and whispered, none too subtly: "Gives me a few hours of peace and quiet." 

Morgan scowled. “You still didn’t find me,” she repeated, before she turned and sped off. 

“I wasn’t looking!” Tony called after her, affronted, as Peter stood and stretched with a quiet groan. His muscles were still sore from the all-out race, although he could feel his body repairing itself.

“You sure you don’t wanna play this round?” Peter asked, half-hopeful at the prospect. He didn’t really want to spend forty-five minutes crammed in a closet again. 

Tony snorted. “Duty calls, Mr. Parker. You’re the one who made the deal with the five-year-old. Play or perish.”

Peter grimaced. “I’m pretty sure both of those mean the same thing in this context.”

“ Petey !” Morgan called from the other room, before Tony could respond. Peter held back a sigh and followed the sound of her voice.

“Are you hiding again?” he asked her, and she nodded vigorously.

“First you have to teach me another tactic. You promised.”

Peter furrowed his eyebrows. Had he? He had, sort of. He didn’t really think she would take it to heart, though — children were notoriously finicky in what they cared about minute-by-minute.

“Alright,” he agreed, because he had no better ideas and no real reason to resist. “How about I teach you misdirection?”

She blinked owlishly. “What’s misdirection?”

“When you use things in your surroundings to make people think you’re one place when you’re actually in another,” Peter explained, leaning over to pull a blanket off the couch. He tossed it on top of the throw pillows until the lump vaguely resembled something human-shaped. “See how that kind of looks like a person?” She nodded. “You won’t have much time in this game, since you only have thirty seconds to a minute, but it can still be useful, so that the seeker wastes time looking at places you’re not in.”

He leaned over to pick up one of her shoes — the likes of which she’d discarded by the couch. He threw it across the room, where it hit the wall and landed on the floor with a thump . “That’s using sound for misdirection. If they think the sound was made by you, they’ll look over there first.” He paused. “You’re not ready for this skill yet, but this can be particularly useful if you make a misdirection and then use the time that they spend looking over there to sneak out of your hiding spot and move into a place that they’ve already looked through. That way, they’ll never find you.”

Morgan stared, wide-eyed, bouncing on the balls of her feet. “Like a ninja! I want to learn, I want to learn!”

Peter ruffled her hair before he could think better of it. “We’ll get there. First you should practice basic misdirection without adding the sneaking in. Then you can advance it.” He paused. “Consider it a level four hiding place.”

Morgan seemed ecstatic by this particular development, because she dashed off — only remembering to call out over her shoulder “start counting” as she went.

Obediently, Peter started his obligatory seeker countdown. He cupped his hands around his mouth. “One… two… three…”

From somewhere behind him, a loud crash echoed — something like a chair toppled over, and a few things hit the floor in rapid succession.

Peter cringed, belatedly realizing that he probably should have warned her not to actually break anything, but he kept counting. Oh well. Tony could afford it. “Ten… eleven… twelve…”

Another bang. Maybe the toy chest lid slamming shut?

“Seventeen… eighteen…”

Something skidded across the hardwood floor, followed by silence. The quiet remained until Peter finished his count to thirty — no more attempts at misdirection. Probably for the better; she needed some time to get into her hiding spot, after all.

“Are you ready yet?” he called out. Predictably, there was no response.

Peter took a slow step into the hallway. “Huh,” he said aloud, for Morgan's benefit. Couldn't hurt to let her into his thought process, right? Plus, he kind of had an advantage, considering his enhanced senses; he could find her within seconds, no matter how well she hid. “Guess that crash I heard must’ve been her trying to climb into the pantry again.”

He made a show of tiptoeing toward the kitchen, glancing toward the pantry door — which was indeed ajar. There was a toppled stool next to it, and a stuffed lion toy lay half-in, half out. He picked the animal up and righted the stool, moving it out of the hallway.

As he did, he reached out with his hearing, and felt her in the room down the hall. The floor plan of the penthouse was big; she didn't exactly have time to move to a different floor, like she did in the lake house, but there were more than enough rooms in the penthouse to hide in. He just hoped she didn't invade one of the Avengers' rooms or something. Not because she wouldn't be allowed in there, but because he didn't particularly want to be accused of snooping. 

He heard her down the hall — in one of the guest rooms, thankfully — and smiled a bit to himself. He didn’t move immediately, though, calling out instead: “Weird. She’s not in the pantry. Maybe she knocked something over and then ran down the hall?”

Peter made a point of keeping his steps slow — just noisy enough for Morgan to hear them coming. He peered theatrically into the hall closet, then ducked his head into the bathroom, giving a dramatic sigh. As he eased the door shut again, he turned — and nearly collided with someone standing just outside the hallway.

Alright, he hadn’t expected that one. He’d been listening so closely to Morgan’s heart beat that he hadn’t paid attention to the one approaching him.

“Why the hell are you creeping through Stark’s closets?”

Peter was kind of glad that his head wasn’t in the doorway any longer, otherwise he was pretty sure he’d have slammed his head harder than he’d have liked. He straightened instinctively and folded his hands behind his back. “Strategic hiding assessment.”

Sam blinked. “What?”

“It’s training. For her. For Morgan, I mean. You know. Teaching her early evasion tactics. Environmental awareness. Uh. Misdirection.”

As he spoke, the confusion washed from Sam’s face, replaced by burgeoning delight. “Hide and seek,” he deadpanned. “You’re playing hide and seek with a five-year-old.”

“Modified hide and seek,” Peter defended, because it wasn’t as though he had anything better to say.

Sam rolled his eyes. “Oh, sorry, modified hide and seek.”

Peter sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. “Blame Stark or Romanoff. They’re the ones who changed the rules.” He paused. “Actually, just blame Stark. Blaming Romanoff is a death wish. For normal people like you, at least.”

“You’re so full of shit, kid.”

At that, Peter didn’t try to hide his grin. “Your funeral.”

Sam rolled his eyes and ignored the jab. Probably because he knew he wouldn’t win in an argument. “What are your modified rules, then?”

Peter gestured to the ceiling. “FRIDAY?”

Obediently, she repeated the same spiel she’d given Peter at the lakehouse. “Miss Morgan’s custom rule set is designed for variable difficulty. Responding adds time but increases risk. Remaining silent maintains concealment but forfeits the time advantage. The system encourages quick strategic judgment.”

“Plus the extra rules Morgan has taken to adding,” Peter added dryly. “If I say it too fast, apparently that’s cheating, and she starts from a new spot. If I take too long, she declares herself the winner by forfeit.” He sounded resigned, even to his own ears. He was in too deep to try and think of a dignified way out. Whatever.

Sam busted out laughing after a moment of silence. “She’s got you by the throat, man. She’s a Stark all right.”

“Actually, I think that’s more a Potts trait,” Peter mused, running a hand through his hair.

“Boss says you would be correct in that assessment, Agent Parker,” FRIDAY said. “He also says not to let her hear you say that.”

“She’d take it as a compliment from me,” Peter dismissed. “But thanks for agreeing, Stark. Now I have blackmail material against you.”

FRIDAY took a moment to respond. When she did, it wasn’t her voice that came through, but Tony’s.

“Well played, Mr. Parker. But you’ve officially been compromised. She’s gotten in your head now. Might as well hand over your badge and retire.”

Peter snorted. “Which ‘she’ are you talking about here?” Between Pepper, Morgan, and Natasha, they were all equally likely to be the culprit of such a sentence.

“Morgan, but now that you say it —”

“Wasn’t aware a five-year-old counted as a security threat.”

“She’s a Stark,” Tony said. “It’s a lateral promotion.”

“So what I’m hearing is,” Sam interrupted, “you’re losing to a kindergartener.”

“I’m losing strategically . ” Peter shot his best frosty look at the man. “There is a difference.”

“Oh yeah?” Sam drawled. “Explain that one to me, agent.”

Peter opened his mouth, closed it, then glanced ceilingward. “FRIDAY, define strategic loss.”

FRIDAY, sounding entirely too smug for an AI — although she was created by Tony Stark, so he really should have expected that — replied, “A strategic loss is a temporary concession made in order to gain long-term advantage. However, Agent Parker has not demonstrated any evidence of long-term advantage. Conclusion: it’s just a loss.”

Sam doubled over laughing.

“Et tu, FRIDAY.”

Tony’s voice came back on. “Don’t take it personally, kid. She turned on me years ago. I just pay the bills now.”

Before Peter could respond, there was a loud crash from down the hall. Then a pause. Then the unmistakable sound of duct tape being unraveled.

Peter and Sam exchanged glances. Peter remembered that he had made the grave error of leaving a five-year-old unsupervised for the entire length of this conversation.

Well, shit. He really didn’t want to know what horrors she could cook up.

“Where the hell did she get duct tape?” he muttered.

“Under the bathroom sink,” FRIDAY sounded amused.

“Huh,” Tony mused. “Didn’t even know we had duct tape in there.”

“What’s she doing with it?” Sam asked.

“I believe that informing you would be against the rules of the game,” FRIDAY responded. Sam said something — probably a complaint — but Peter didn’t hear it, too busy stretching his ears to listen for Morgan’s position and movements.

His hearing had always been sharper than most — one of the few benefits his otherwise frail body had provided him in his younger years — but ever since the bite, it worked like an array of overly sensitive directional microphones, picking up and isolating sounds across rooms and through walls. If he focused hard enough, he could generally distinguish exact distances, too, although he tried to avoid that during his everyday activities because the overload of data gave him a headache. 

First, he filtered out the obvious: Sam’s breaths beside him, the low mechanical hum of the tower's ventilation, FRIDAY’s ever-present server cycling, the sound of the city in the distance. 

Then he honed in on the hallway itself. The initial crash had sounded like plastic or wood — maybe a bin or cabinet lid — hitting tile at an angle, but not a full drop. Three seconds of silence. Then the duct tape: the sound of adhesive peeling in a steady pull, followed by the sharp rip of separation. 

The sounds themselves, Peter had learned, weren't the most important part; what didn't follow was. There was no retreat, no shifting of weight, no shuffle of small feet over hardwood or carpet or tile. No creak of doors or movement through rooms. If she’d run, Peter would’ve heard it. She hadn’t moved, which meant that she’d actually listened to his instructions. He was pleasantly surprised by that fact; children were notorious for not following directions, and even more so when said child was the spawn of Tony Stark. 

That meant the duct tape had been within reach of her hiding spot; that alone narrowed things. She was either in or immediately adjacent to a storage space — under the bathroom sink, FRIDAY had said. And she’d thought ahead enough to bring the tape with her when she finalized her hiding spot. Not bad.

Then — fifteen seconds later — a second sound, much lighter. A small object — maybe a plastic figure or a rolled-up sock with something heavier inside — tapped something hollow and hard, likely a wall or doorframe, at an angle. A click and ricochet followed, muted by fabric or carpet. 

Peter’s eyes narrowed. She’d used the tape to secure the object. Then flung or nudged it to make noise in a different location. But the sound profile was off — the throw hadn’t come from a running start. The impact angle was shallow. No arc, no vertical drop. The object hadn’t fallen into the room, but had slid or bounced along the ground from somewhere low. Which meant it had been pushed — probably by hand — from a crouched or hidden position. In summary: she was still in place and still waiting. 

He turned and pointed down the right side of the hall. “She’s in there. Four doors down.” 

Sam blinked. “You sure?” 

Peter nodded. “The duct tape was prepped near her position. She didn’t move after using it. The object she used for the fake-out came from a low angle and hit the door frame to the adjacent guest room, but it came from behind the half-wall by the closet.”

Sam gave him a strange look. “You got all that from some tape and a thunk?” 

Peter didn’t answer, already moving. He stopped just inside the threshold of the bedroom and peered at the bathroom door, which stood ajar. Then he spotted the lid of the laundry hamper, skewed. A hoodie was draped carelessly over the top, but not enough to fully cover the unevenness. ​​

He walked over and tapped the plastic side. “Nice try, Morgan.”

“No fair!” came her muffled protest.

“You didn’t move your position after the decoy,” Peter said. “Your throw was good, but you gave away the angle.”

He lifted the lid to find her crouched among towels and socks, still clutching a strip of unused tape. “I didn’t have time to crawl out and back,” she said defensively. "And you said not to try and move my hiding spot after the countdown was up. That’s a level four."

“True, but you didn't have to.” Peter picked her up to help her out of the basket. “It was a solid misdirect, but next time — pick a target farther from your hiding spot. Makes the triangulation harder.”

Morgan blinked up at him. “What’s triangulation?”

Peter snorted. “I’ll tell you after lunch. You hungry?”

Morgan’s face lit up. “YES!” she screamed, and the single syllable sliced through the air, shriller and more piercing than a fire alarm. Peter winced. His sensitive ears reeled from the sound — it felt like someone had fired off a flare gun inside his skull — but he kept his expression carefully composed, even as he half-flinched and half-laughed through the ringing in his head.

“Okay, okay.” He rubbed the side of his face as he moved to set her down. “Indoor voice, please, or I’ll go deaf before I hit twenty.”

Morgan looked marginally sheepish. “Sorry. But I’m starving! I’ve been hiding for ages .”

“It’s been fifteen minutes.”

“Same thing,” she insisted, then frowned, reaching back up for Peter. “Daddy always carries me to the kitchen.”

Peter snorted but obliged the request, lifting her back onto his hip with ease. “Your dad’s a pushover,” he informed her, and she kicked her legs in agreement. “Let’s get you some food before you waste away.”

She giggled again and kicked her heels lightly against his side as he stepped out of the room. But the moment he turned the corner, he spotted Sam, still leaning against the wall — and just beyond him, Tony, who must have come up from the lab in the interim. His arms were crossed loosely and he watched them both with a soft, unreadable look. It wasn’t mocking or amused, or even surprised. It was… warm. Approving. The kind of expression Peter didn’t see directed at him often, and certainly not from someone like Tony Stark.

All of a sudden, Peter realized just how uncharacteristic his actions had been for the past few hours. He’d let himself go — not once, but repeatedly. He’d engaged with Tony about lab work, threw quips back and forth to Sam and Tony and FRIDAY, gave Morgan the physical contact she asked for without so much as a second thought.

When was the last time he’d acted like that? Not since before SHIELD, long before this assignment. But today, here, with them — it was like thirteen-year-old Peter had clawed his way out from behind his eyes and taken the wheel. It was so far removed from the persona he’d sworn to allocate for this mission, and it had happened without him even realizing . That, in and of itself, was the most jarring part.

He couldn’t fool himself into thinking it was purposeful, either. It served no purpose, didn’t garner a reaction that he sought. And it wasn’t just because of the length of this mission, either — Peter had kept up a persona for five years; a few weeks or even months was nothing in comparison. No, it was the atmosphere and the company that had led him to slip. Because somewhere in his subconscious, he associated the Avengers and the Starks in the same category — or at least one adjacent — to the one that housed May and his old friends. He had to allocate his full energy to keeping up his appearance in their presence, because he was otherwise too relaxed and familiar not to slip up. The Avengers had triggered that impulse in him.

He adjusted his grip on Morgan as she rested her cheek against his shoulder, now that the excitement had passed. She hummed contentedly — warm and trusting, totally unaware of the mental tailspin he’d been violently thrown into.

Peter forced his body to keep walking, to carry them toward the kitchen like nothing had changed — because he was certain he’d get questions if he stopped dead in the middle of the hallway. But that expression on Tony’s face — it wasn’t just warm, it was familiar. It reminded him of May, when he fixed her old toaster instead of trashing it. Something that said: I see you. And I like what I see.

It made him feel off-balance, like the ground under his feet wasn’t entirely real.

“Hey,” Sam called, peeling off from the wall as they passed. “Rescued the princess?”

Peter cleared his throat and pushed a half-smile to the surface. “She’ll live. But I’m under strict orders to feed her before she starves to death.”

Tony snorted.

Peter kept walking, but his mind hadn’t stopped racing. He hadn’t meant to engage like this — and certainly hadn’t meant to enjoy it in any capacity. But something about this place and these people had chipped away at the version of himself he’d so carefully built; the version that didn’t get attached. And if he wasn’t careful, they’d start to think this version — the one who quipped, and carried kids, and accepted a seat at the table — was the real one. Worse, he might start to believe it himself. That, he couldn’t afford.

He knew he was too far gone to fully go back to his icy persona — if nothing else, Morgan would probably be upset, and what was the point, anyways? He’d already revealed his hand; pretending would do nothing to erase that, and would cause more questions than he really wanted to answer. But he had to make the mental distinction, if only to himself. This was his mission . Missions had an end point. One that didn’t involve dying, if you had enough luck and skills. Peter didn’t have much by way of the former, but he had plenty of the latter.

Peter didn’t expect them to follow. He thought they’d go back to whatever conversation they’d been having — something he hadn’t been paying attention to, but was either important stuff or totally useless bickering, judging by what he knew about the two. Either way, it was the kind of stuff he was usually dismissed for; people didn’t usually appreciate his presence. But as he helped Morgan into her booster seat and reached for the nearest snack packet in the cabinet, the voices carried closer.

“— not my fault you let a six-year-old clown you,” Sam was saying.

“She’s five,” Tony corrected. “And don’t act like you didn’t know that.”

“That makes it worse.”

Peter looked up just as they strolled right into the kitchen after him, like they belonged there. Which, okay, maybe Tony did, considering it was his Tower and all that. But Sam didn’t hesitate to follow — he leaned against the counter and snagged an unopened juice box from the table like this was his kitchen, too. And they weren’t even in the main communal kitchen right now; they were a floor down, in the smaller personal floor. Which, come to think of it — what had he been doing down here in the first place anyways?

Peter stood there, a bag of Goldfish in one hand and a juice pouch in the other, feeling oddly like he’d walked into a conversation by accident — except he hadn’t. They’d walked into his space. Well, okay, it wasn’t his; as established, it was Tony’s — but still, they’d followed him .

They didn’t have to be here. They weren’t here to get something from him, or brief him, or remind him of the risks or the next tactical move. They were just here , talking, taking up space — letting him take up space.

No one at SHIELD had done that, not in five years. Not once. He’d gone from room to room like a ghost — something dangerous and useful and vaguely off-putting. The people he protected rarely looked him in the eye unless it was urgent, and even then, it was often followed by awkward tension. They’d tolerated him, sure, and a few of them respected him in a distant, professional way. But they hadn’t invited him into rooms like this. They certainly hadn’t stayed past what they needed to.

Even before that, the last time anyone had followed him into a kitchen — or any room, really — just to be there had been May. He hadn’t felt anything like this since Queens. Not since Ned and MJ and May’s constant presence — circling around him like moons, tethering him to gravity with nothing more than their words and warmth. He hadn’t realized just how far he’d drifted without it. How cold he’d gotten.

The sound of Tony pulling open a cabinet shook him from his thoughts. He pulled out a container — pretzels, maybe? Something in a jar that clinked and that smelled like salt — and set it on the counter without looking. 

“You know, back in my day,” Tony started, casually dumping a few into Morgan’s bowl, “we had to sneak into kitchens if we wanted snacks.”

“‘Back in my day,’” Sam snorted. “Your age is showing. You hear yourself right now?”

Tony didn’t look up. “I hear a man who’s lived. Sorry if that’s unfamiliar territory for you.”

Sam huffed a laugh. “Man, you’re not even that old. You just sound old. Even more than Steve.”

“I sound seasoned,” Tony corrected, popping a pretzel into his mouth. “Like cast iron. Rogers could only dream of such class.”

“You sound like a dad who’s two minutes away from reminiscing about uphill snow walks.”

Tony raised a finger. “I did walk through snow once. In Tennessee, dragging my Iron Man suit. Whole world thought I was dead. Can you believe it? Dead and I still had to do manual labor. And then someone — multiple someones, actually — tried to blow me up. Wasn’t a fun Christmas trip. I upgraded my fire systems after that.”

Sam snorted. “You sure that wasn’t just because you set the kitchen on fire?”

“Which time?”

“You’re setting a bad example for your daughter.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Tony dismissed. “I’m giving her a benchmark to dramatically surpass.”

“You know most parents aim for ‘role model,’ not ‘warning label.’”

Tony shrugged. “Role models are overrated. Besides, cautionary tales build character.”

Sam snorted again, then turned to Peter. “What about you, Parker? You got any cautionary tales?”

Peter blinked, caught off guard by the question. Or, well, not by the question itself — he had plenty of cautionary tales — but by the fact that even in a two person conversation, they’d looped him in like it was normal. He opened his mouth, found his throat unexpectedly tight, and cleared it.

“I, uh… once caught a microwave on fire,” he said, half-heartedly.

Tony turned, his own eyebrows lifting. “Now that sounds promising. What was it? Pizza roll massacre?”

“Fork left in a cup of ramen,” Peter muttered. “Didn’t even realize until it sparked.”

“Rookie mistake,” Sam nodded gravely. “Shameful.”

Morgan giggled.

Peter glanced down at her, swinging her legs and eating pretzels. And these two — these loud, ridiculous men — were just standing around, mocking each other and him like it was second nature. It rattled something loose in his chest, and all of a sudden he wanted to share more.

“That’s nothing compared to the kitchen crimes my aunt committed,” he confessed. “She’s a terrible cook.”

“Oh yeah?” Tony asked, tilting his head to the side. Belatedly, Peter realized that this was the first time he’d ever mentioned May in their presence. Actually, first time he’d ever offered anything remotely personal of his own volition. He swallowed.

“Yeah, she —” he huffed and glanced over to the stove; mostly so he wouldn’t have to meet their eyes. “My uncle — he was the cook. After he… well, she tried to take over the cooking but she never got the hang of it.” Thankfully, neither of them commented on his slip regarding Ben. He did his best to shrug. “Though maybe she’s gotten better at it by now.” 

His throat tightened at the realization that he didn’t know much about May, not anymore. He knew she was in contact with Fury — to some extent, at least. Fury wasn’t exactly forthcoming with his information, but even still, she would know more about him than he knew now about her. 

He tried to swallow down the sudden well of grief that cropped up at that thought. He had no right to grieve something that was his own fault; he’d been the one to push her away. She had made it clear that she still loved him, in the few times he’d seen her in-person since. But… it had been a year or two now since he’d last seen her. Maybe she’d finally given up; Peter couldn’t blame her. Maybe she had learned how to cook, and how to braid her hair, and all of the things that Ben and Peter used to help with. Maybe she had moved out of their old apartment, found somewhere new. Maybe she had changed the shape of her glasses or the cut of her hair or the style of her clothes. Maybe she no longer hummed when she washed the dishes, and maybe she no longer ate at their kitchen table.

There were so many things he didn’t know about her anymore — he’d been so focused on making sure that she never saw what he had turned into that he didn’t stop to think of how she may have changed.

“What’s she like?” Sam asked, tearing him out of his thoughts, and Peter blinked, realizing the man’s voice was gentler than he’d ever heard it. Strangely, that didn’t brush him the wrong way, nor make him automatically bristle. It wasn’t a pitying kind of softness, nor one that would be used on a child; it was more… encouraging. Bizarrely, it reminded him of the SHIELD-mandated therapy that he’d spent a few sessions going to when he first joined — except he’d been sullen and closed off back then, and had refused to talk.

It didn’t escape his notice that Sam used what’s rather than ‘what is’ or ‘what was.’ It was a distinction Peter was grateful for — no assumptions, not that she was dead or alive, nor that Peter was speaking of past or present knowledge. He could only speak of the version of May he once knew, but that one deserved to live on in someone else's memory, not just his own.

“She used to tape little notes to the fridge.” Of all the things he could have started with, he wasn't sure why it was this. “Like Post-its. But not with reminders or shopping lists or anything normal. I mean, one time she spilled raw chicken juice everywhere and didn’t want me to open it until she cleaned it, so she drew a biohazard sign with the little symbol and cartoon eyes.”

Idly, he ran the pad of his index finger over a hangnail edging the ridge of his thumb. “She worked overnight twelve-hour shifts, and she’d still come home and make sure I had a packed lunch for school whenever my uncle had to leave early for his own shift. I’d try to make it myself to give her a break, but she’d always sneak in and redo it after I went to bed.” He grimaced. In retrospect, he was pretty sure that was because most of his lunches consisted of oreos and popcorn, but whatever. 

“She liked painting her nails, even if the polish was chipped by the next day. Used to make me pick the colors. I’d pretend like it was annoying, but I’d spend forever at the pharmacy picking out the weirdest shades. One time she wore this… uh, glow-in-the-dark green to work and freaked out a patient.”

He glanced up, now, and realized that both Sam and Tony were watching him. Listening to him. That, alone, was a novelty. He’d built up his persona at SHIELD so that anything he said was a necessity, and he was good enough at his job that people had to, at the very least, listen to that much from him. But he certainly didn’t ramble anymore, not like he used to, and he was pretty sure this was the longest unbroken string of words that he’d spoken regarding something completely unrelated to the job in — years, perhaps?

Sam smiled when it became clear that Peter had paused in his speaking. “Sounds like she was cool.”

“She is,” he said quietly, through the tightness in his throat. “Cool. I mean… I think so. She cared a lot.” Cares , he corrected, internally, but didn't dare say it aloud. That was one trait of hers that he hoped hadn't changed, because he didn't know who she was without it. 

He remembered her telling him, one night, one where he'd been silent and closed-off after Ben, that love wasn't soft. That love is bone-tired and stubborn and it shows up even when you don’t want it to. Especially then. He hadn’t allowed himself to remember, until just now. It brought him a strange, unfamiliar sense of comfort, although he didn’t dare look at the root of the reason. 

Peter rubbed the back of his neck when he realized that he’d been silent for too long, unsure what to do with his hands. “Anyway,” he muttered. “She can’t cook. That was the point.”

At that, Tony snorted, and the atmosphere was broken. Morgan hopped off her stool and ran over to Peter, tugging his hand.

“You promised I could have two ice pops,” she whispered, loudly. Peter arched an eyebrow, but he was grateful for the distraction, truth be told.

“I’m pretty sure I didn’t promise any ice pops.” Well, he knew he didn’t promise any ice pops. But he wanted to hear what she’d come up with.

“Nuh-uh,” Morgan insisted. “I won. That means you owe me two.”

“First of all,” Peter waved a finger at her. “I found you, what do you mean you won? Second of all, where in the rules does it say that winning gets you ice pops?”

“Yeah,” Tony agreed. “I’ve been skimped on my reward, little miss.”

She stuck her tongue out in his direction. Tony reached out and grabbed it between two fingers, like the mature adult he was. Gross . Peter wrinkled his nose. Morgan squealed — although the sound was slightly warped by the fact that her tongue was still half outside her mouth — and batted her father’s hand away. He let go with little resistance, before grimacing and wiping his hand on a nearby towel.

“Didn’t think that one through, did you?” Peter asked dryly.

“That goes for many things in my life, Agent Parker,” Tony dismissed.

Morgan — who seemed to have recovered from her father’s impromptu tongue-snatching — scowled and crossed her arms. “Two juice pops,” she insisted. “It’s in the fine print.”

Tony narrowed his eyes. “Hold on. Is your mom teaching you legal jargon now?”

“She says you never read what you’re signing,” she sniffed.

“That’s extortion,” Peter deadpanned, arching an eyebrow.

“It is not ,” Morgan said, indignant, before pausing. “What’s ‘torsion?”

“ Ex tortion,” Peter said. “Torsion is different.”

“Ex-tor-shhhhuun,” Morgan repeated carefully, her little brow furrowed in concentration. Tony’s grin stretched wide — an expression of pure delight that was a little bit unnerving, given the context of the situation.

“Well, would you look at that?” Tony said, using that warm, playful tone Peter had only ever heard him use around Morgan. It wasn’t quite a coo — Peter was fairly certain Tony Stark had never cooed in his life — but there was a lightness to his voice that softened the edges of his usual sarcasm. 

“Baby’s first business lesson: ex-tor-ti-on,” he repeated, drawing out the syllables slowly.

“Ex-tor- shun ,” Morgan echoed proudly, and Tony’s grin somehow managed to grow even wider.

“Guess you’re not such a bad influence after all, kid,” Tony declared with mock seriousness. Peter was quite sure that no normal parent in their right mind would consider a ‘good influence’ to be teaching their five-year-old daughter the word ‘extortion,’ but Tony Stark was anything but normal and it was anyone’s best guess as to whether he had ever been in his right mind. (Peter would bet that the answer to that particular question was a fat, resounding no , and was inclined to believe that anyone who had ever spent more than ten minutes with the man would probably agree with him.)

“Business lesson?” Peter echoed, deciding not to comment on Tony’s… questionable parenting. “Pretty sure the first rule of business is to avoid criminal activity, not partake in it.”

Tony just shrugged, unbothered. “Depends on the business. Besides, knowing the rules is how you learn to break them. Right, Maguna?”

Morgan nodded solemnly, though Peter wasn’t sure she entirely grasped the meaning of the words — though, given the conversation topic, that was probably for the better. He shot Tony a look, but he just winked, clearly enjoying himself.

“Anyways, clearly Pep is teaching her legal jargon, so I gotta get ahead of the curve.”

“I don’t think that’s considered responsible parenting.”

“Never accuse me of such a thing again, Mr. Parker. Responsible parent. Eugh.” He shuddered. “You just gave me the heebie jeebies.”

Who the hell even says heebie jeebies anymore ? Peter thought to himself.

“And besides, if she’s going to dismantle corporate monopolies and run the world one day, she needs to learn the tools of the trade early. Pep’s on board with that plan.”

"You know I'm a mandated reporter of SHIELD, right?" Peter said, dryly. "Before you go revealing your plans of world domination and all.” They both knew he had no intentions of doing anything of the sort.

“Please,” Tony waved a hand. “I’m already on their little watchlist. And don’t bother to lie, I hacked their servers and saw it myself. Updated my file, too, while I was at it. They used such an unflattering photo beforehand.”

Peter was at least ninety-three percent certain that had been on purpose.

Sam — who Peter just remembered had been in the room this whole time — interjected. “Maybe try not to drag the five-year-old down to your levels of moral ambiguity.”

“Well, dragging her down implies she started above me, which is statistically improbable. Genetics, and all. Pep isn’t half-bad on the world domination front, either. Actually, she’d be better than me at it, because I don’t have the patience for that. Too much paperwork.”

“You’re not helping your case,” Peter pointed out.

“Also, not trying to,” Tony replied, probably more cheerful than Peter had ever seen him.

Meanwhile, Morgan had successfully liberated her second ice pop and was now sitting cross-legged on the counter. “If I say thank you,” she asked Peter between bites, “is it still extortion?”

“That’s… more like bribery,” Peter said, after a beat of thinking.

She perked up. “That’s better, right?”

“Morally? No.”

“But legally?” she pressed.

Jesus Christ.

Tony laughed. “Cheer up, Agent Parker. You’re helping mold the next generation of morally flexible CEOs.”

“Great,” Peter said. “Do I at least get hazard pay for this?”

“Absolutely not,” Tony replied. “But if you survive long enough, I might let you be the VP of her inevitable startup-slash-global-empire.”

“Do I get dental?”

“Don’t push it.”

“Hm,” Peter pretended to consider, mostly for Morgan’s sake. She had a hand clasped over her mouth, trying to hold in her giggles. He could tell that Tony was playing it up for the exact same reason. “Fine. But I’ll need a guarantee.”

Tony held out his hand. “I swear on my… third best suit.”

Peter snorted. “What about the first two?”

“One’s in orbit. I lost a bet. Don't ask. The other is sworn to Pepper. Also don't ask.”

Peter had no intentions of asking. Tony wiggled his fingers in the air. “So, do we have a deal, Mr. Parker?”

Peter reached out to shake his hand, but Tony pulled away. “Nuh-uh, not a handshake.”

“You gotta do the pinky promise!” Morgan interjected from her spot.

Peter sighed but hooked his pinky around Tony’s anyway. 

“I, Peter Parker,” Morgan intoned, “do solemnly swear —”

“Oh, come on, I have to repeat it too?” Peter shot a glance at Tony, who just gestured for him to keep going. The shithead was enjoying this. Peter rolled his eyes, then repeated, “I, Peter Parker, do solemnly swear —”

“— to serve as Vice President of Morgan Stark Enterprises —”

“— to serve as Vice President of Morgan Stark Enterprises —” he repeated dutifully.

“— and to always bring snacks to board meetings.”

He squinted. “That part feels tacked on.”

“Already breaking your promise, kid?” Tony teased. “So much for integrity.”

Bizarrely, Peter remembered his SHIELD training — particularly the lesson on hazing and how cults start. He should probably be concerned with the fact that it aligned with these particular actions.

“Fine,” he sighed. “Snacks included.”

“You people should not be allowed to raise children,” a new voice interjected. Peter turned to see Natasha propped in the doorway. He straightened slightly, untangling his pinky and giving a quick, almost embarrassed wipe of his hand on his jeans.

Morgan gave a small wave with her sticky hand. Her legs swung idly over the edge of the counter, socked feet knocking against the cabinet below. She was still clutching the melting remains of her second ice pop, though now it was more juice than solid. The stick dangled precariously from her fingers. “Hi, Auntie Nat.”

Natasha raised an eyebrow. “Am I interrupting something?”

Peter opened his mouth, then closed it again. He wasn’t sure what he’d been about to say, but it definitely wasn’t going to come out right.

“We were finalizing an executive agreement,” Tony said, tone dry but relaxed. “Big structural shift in the board. Parker’s in charge of snacks.”

“Ah,” Natasha said, eyes narrowing slightly as they flicked to Peter. “Congratulations on your promotion.”

“I’m negotiating for dental,” Peter muttered.

“You’re not getting dental,” Tony replied, distractedly wiping Morgan’s hand with a dish towel he'd grabbed off the counter. She squirmed but let him.

“You’re literally a billionaire, man,” Sam snorted. “Give the kid dental.”

“Picking favorites, I see,” Tony muttered. “Fine. Parker, you’ve been upgraded. Congrats.”

Sam snorted again. “Just ask anyone who their favorite is and they’d pick the kid over you.”

Peter blinked, completely thrown. Huh ?

“Ouch. I’m hurt,” Tony said, not sounding hurt at all. Sam — or maybe Natasha — said something in response, but Peter didn’t hear it. He was still stuck on the ‘favorite’ comment. Something that nobody else seemed to pass off as anything other than normal, despite the fact that it was very much not normal. 

Now that he was looking back on the conversation, he realized just how many times they referred to him as ‘kid’ — a fact that should have made him bristle like normal. In truth, he’d barely registered it. But that could easily be explained away by psychology; his brain had just filtered it out as something they called him, whether he liked it or not. Besides, no point quarreling about it now — the time for that would have been right when they said it, not minutes after the fact.

And, anyways, that wasn’t the real point of contention. The real question was why the hell had Sam insinuated that anyone would pick him over Tony? Even as a passing joke, it just didn’t make sense. Unless the punchline was the fact that it was such a ludicrous, improbable thought.

Tony — for all his eccentricities and character flaws — was a part of their team. Peter knew that no matter their bickering or personal quarrels with each other, the Avengers held a fierce protective streak for anyone who was one of their own. And Peter wasn’t one of their own — he was a temporary placement at best, and throughout the duration of his time here, it wasn’t as though he’d been particularly polite or forthcoming in any manner.

The only person he would maybe consider calling him a favorite was Morgan, and that was because a five-year-old’s designated favorite thing changed directions as rapidly and arbitrarily as a summer storm. He was just her current hyperfixation; it would pass. She would certainly never choose him over her father, if it came right down to it. Not that he’d ever make her choose, but —

So, why ? What was he missing?

Peter wasn’t sure when his hands had curled into fists, but he forced them to relax, fingers smoothing flat against his jeans. The sounds rushed back in — thankfully, the other adults were still occupied in their conversation. He needed to pull back. Recalibrate. Because he wasn’t supposed to care what any of them thought. That wasn’t part of his assignment, and neither was pinky-promising Tony Stark about his daughter’s fictional corporate empire, and it definitely wasn’t wondering if Sam Wilson genuinely meant it when he said people would pick him .

The thought sat uneasily in his chest, denser than it really had any right to be. He let it stay there for a second too long, knowing he should push it away, knowing this wasn’t the time. He wasn’t here to be liked; he was here to do a job. To keep Stark and his family alive. To stay out of everyone’s way.

Not that he’d done a great job at that so far. Well, at least he’d kept them alive — minor blessings — but it wasn’t as though he’d done anything. And the rest of it he’d failed spectacularly at. Get in and out, stay alert, and do not get attached. He hadn’t thought of his personal rule since near the start of the mission. 

Which, in hindsight, was probably when he’d already broken it.

He didn’t know exactly when it had happened. Maybe it was the first time Morgan had grabbed his hand without hesitation, or the first time he'd played hide and seek. Maybe it was when the Starks had asked him about his preferences, and made a point to take them into account. Maybe it was between the first and the seventh family dinner. Maybe it was the fifth or sixth time Tony had casually called him kid, or the first time he hadn't immediately bristled at it. Maybe it was when he stopped straightening his spine around Natasha, stopped treating Rhodey like a commanding officer, stopped second-guessing himself every time someone laughed and it wasn’t at his expense.

Horrifyingly, he realized that somewhere along the line, he'd started… relaxing. Getting comfortable. Trusting . And he was in too deep — the riptide had pulled him away from shore before he’d ever realized it, and he was left floundering.

It was a mistake. One he needed to fix. Because, inevitably, the mission would end. He’d leave. That was the plan. That had always been the plan. And when he did, they’d go back to their lives, and he’d go back to his — and he'd be alone again. So, he had to stop now, before it got worse. 

No more pinky promises. This wasn’t his family, and it wasn’t his people. They were just too nice to remind him of that particular fact. Or perhaps they just didn’t realize how screwed up he was, and how his brain would interpret any scrap of kindness or camaraderie. 

He needed to pull back. Recenter. Listen without engaging. Watch without reacting. He leaned back, trying to tune in just enough to not be obvious about tuning out.

“— which is completely unfair,” Tony was saying, “because I wasn’t that late. Five minutes doesn’t even count as late.”

“You were seventeen minutes late,” Natasha said flatly.

“Fashionably. Late. There’s a difference.”

“It was brunch, Tones. You can’t be fashionably late to brunch ,” Rhodey said. Peter blinked. When had Rhodey entered? He was really out of it if he had missed that entrance.

“It was practically lunch by the time he showed,” Natasha added.

Peter kept his eyes on the table, feigning indifference. He really shouldn’t say anything.

Tony let out an exaggerated scoff. “You people are so rigid. Seventeen minutes is nothing. Time is a construct, brunch is flexible, I bring charisma —”

“Or a complete disregard for other people’s schedules,” Peter muttered under his breath, mostly to himself. It wasn’t loud — barely above a murmur — but the beat of silence that followed made it obvious it had been heard.

Tony turned toward him, eyebrows lifting. “Why do I feel like that was directed at me?”

Peter looked up, met Tony’s gaze, and hesitated. It would’ve been so easy to backpedal. Say what was? and go silent.

Don’t engage.

Don’t engage.

Don’t engage.

He blinked. “Maybe because it was.”

Dammit.

Well. He may have already just broken his own self imposed rule, but the sly little grin Natasha shot his way and the affronted look on the billionaire’s face made it almost worth it.

“Slander,” Tony sniffed, jabbing an index finger in his and Natasha’s direction. “And character assassination. I should file a complaint.”

“You hired your own character assassin and then committed character suicide as a public spectacle before the execution could commence.”

“A bit wordy, but point taken,” Tony acquiesced.

Too close. Too easy. Too normal.

He needed to stop this. Now. Before he said something else stupid, before he let his expression slip again, before the warmth in his chest solidified into something dangerous like hope. He could make an excuse, even if it was a shoddy one — perimeter check, a SHIELD check-in, a mission debrief. Hell, he could fake a stomach ache if he had to. He just needed to leave , needed a few feet of separation, a door, a hallway, anything —

Morgan yawned. Loudly.

Tony cringed. “Uh oh. That sounded suspiciously like a sugar crash incoming. Retribution for those ice pops, kid.”

Peter froze, not expecting to be addressed. Morgan slid across the counter, over to his chair, and made a move that seemed like she was about to jump off the counter. Peter reached out instinctively, not wanting her to fall from that height and break a bone or something.

But to his surprise, she looped her arms right around his neck and nuzzled into his shoulder with the possessiveness of a barnacle. A very pink, glittery barnacle.

She sighed. Deeply. Contentedly. Like he was a warm blanket and not a barely-functional barely-human person trying desperately to construct emotional boundaries. And failing, apparently. 

This was not part of the plan. This was so far outside of the plan, he couldn't even see the coastline anymore.

“Uh,” he said, dumbly — but she was already out cold. He looked up to Tony, and desperately hoped that his expression didn’t scream help as much as his brain was screaming it. “I think she passed out. Either that or she’s faking it.”

He was pretty sure she wasn’t faking, given the fact that her heart rate was slow and even, compared to her usual quick heart rate when she was trying to pull something off. But what did he know?

“Flip a coin,” Tony muttered in agreement. He stood, stretched with a grunt, and padded over. “I can take her.”

Peter shifted to hand her over, but Morgan clung tighter, making a soft protesting noise.

Tony stopped in front of them and cocked an eyebrow. “Traitor,” he told his daughter. She didn’t respond, of course. He squinted at her. “Little miss, if you don’t respond now I’m gonna sell Rainbow Dash to the highest bidder.”

A few seconds passed. At Peter’s look, he shrugged. “What? That usually works. Guess she really is asleep. Sorry, kid, guess you’re stuck on babysitter duty.”

He swallowed. His voice, when it finally came, was thin. “I… should move her. She’s gonna cramp her neck.”

Tony shook his head. “Good luck with that. She’s got an iron grip.” He tilted his head. “She usually only clings to me like that when she’s sick or pretending not to be asleep to avoid brushing her teeth. You’ve been chosen, Parker. Congrats.” He cocked a half-smile. “Or condolences, depending on how you look at it. You might be stuck as her favorite pillow now.”

He turned and meandered back to the other Avengers, who had retreated into the adjoining room so as to not disturb Morgan with their murmuring. Peter — for his part — sat there, frozen, Morgan’s soft breaths warming the hollow of his throat.

It shouldn’t have felt like a warning wrapped in a compliment — a gentle shove masked as trust, or maybe the other way around. This was temporary. He was not her designated or favorite anything. That title belonged to people who stayed. People who didn’t lie for a living. People who didn’t run contingency plans every time they got too close to comfort. People who didn’t already have one foot out the door.

Still, his arms curled tighter around her as he leaned back, carefully adjusting so her head didn’t slump too far sideways. Her weight was solid and warm. He closed his eyes for a second and stayed like that for a while — silent, still hyper aware of every breath Morgan took against his collarbone.

Her trust was casual and unquestioning, as if she hadn’t even considered the possibility that he might drop her. He wouldn’t, of course not — but that wasn’t the point. The point was, she shouldn’t have chosen him. Not that she was even awake to hear his complaints about the matter.

Peter exhaled slowly, heart thudding under the soft press of her sleep-slack cheek. His arms shifted around her just a fraction tighter.

…maybe just until she woke up.

Then he’d go.

Chapter Text

Tony hadn’t faced a problem as intriguing as the enigma that was Peter Parker in… years, probably. It certainly wasn’t because of the kid’s sunny personality — he was a little bit of a shithead, actually — but the juxtaposition of his words to his actions was on par with the switch-up he’d seen from Natasha. Although it had taken more time before he’d seen any gentleness from her — he attributed that fact to the lack of one Morgan Stark. Not to mention his own attitude during that era.

In his defense, he was dying. Not great for first impressions.

Anyways. Point was, Peter wasn’t nice — he had made that clear to Tony from the very start — but what the teen failed to recognize, beneath the near-perfection of his indifferent mask, was that he was intrinsically good . Good in a way that couldn’t be hidden, not by the coldest of masks; goodness that was not contingent on niceness to maintain its existence. It didn’t come in the form of pandering, nor a form of saintly kindness — rather, it existed in the disgust he felt toward injustice and the way he dedicated his powers and skills to the protection of people he barely knew.

Tony knew he was not — and could never be — as good as Peter Parker was. He had too much blood on his hands, too much history to atone for. Yet still, it was as though he were staring into an unyielding mirror of his own follies — or worse, trapped behind the reflection, forced to watch the kid attempt to build the same masks he once had. A ghost, in the truest sense, condemned to spectate and mimic, but never act.

When Morgan had shifted from the counter to Peter’s lap, Tony caught the expression on Peter’s face — a strange mix of frozen surprise, tenderness, and an almost visible flicker of panic. It was the same look Tony himself had worn when Morgan was a newborn; the moment he realized that all the confidence, all the genius and bravado, suddenly boiled down to one terrifying truth: he could screw this up. Badly. And it would be his daughter who paid the price.

That look, he knew, was the fierce, clenched-jaw determination of someone who loved more than they ever thought they could, and who was quietly (or not-so-quietly, in Tony’s case) scared shitless of ruining it. Even if the ‘someone’ in question didn’t realize it yet.

Tony swallowed the lump in his throat. At the start, he hadn’t known what to make of the kid. He thought he was another one of Fury’s insufferable lackeys. Really, he should have known not to make judgements based on the sole fact that their first interaction had only been the two of them (plus Fury), because Tony knew he had the tendency to rub people the wrong way. And while he’d gotten better at not antagonizing people instantaneously, he’d apparently hit a sore spot when he referred to Peter as ‘kid’ from the get-go. 

Which, in his defense, he really hadn’t meant as a true insult — it just slipped out. He hadn’t been lying when he said that in his own ever-increasing age (god, he was getting old, ugh), the kid practically looked only a few years removed from Morgan. Regardless, they hadn’t exactly hit it off, and maybe Tony was just a little bit bitter at the thought of a SHIELD agent invading his home. In his defense, he’d also just almost been killed, so he was kind of under duress.

But it wasn’t until he saw Peter interact with Morgan for the first time that he realized he’d clocked it all wrong. Embarrassingly wrong. Even Happy acted more successfully grumpy around Morgan than Peter had within three seconds of meeting her — and Happy was a giant softie. Ultimately, beneath Peter’s snark and defiance was a kid just as vulnerable as Morgan — maybe even more so. Even if he would probably willingly throw Tony out a window if he dared ever say it to the kid’s face.

There was a particular kind of exhaustion Tony had grown used to over the years — the sort that came not from lack of sleep or physical effort, but from the mental strain of trying to be the thing someone needed without actually knowing how to. He’d felt it in the days after Afghanistan, when it came to the public’s expectations of Iron Man and the new and uncharted direction of Stark Industries. He’d felt it in the months after New York, when it came to adjusting to being part of the Avengers, and the expectations of being a team member for once in his life. But nowhere, nowhere , had it hit harder than those first nights home from the hospital, Morgan tucked like a ticking bomb against his chest, impossibly small and impossibly real and impossibly delicate.

He hadn’t known how to breathe around her, let alone hold her. And — for some ungodly reason — she’d liked him. It would’ve been easier if she hadn’t. If she’d screamed every time he walked in a room. But no — she’d just blinked up at him, quiet and peaceful.

Clearly, she hadn’t gotten the memo yet. Which was okay, she’d have plenty of time to be a little genius and leave other people in the dust; he supposed he could accept that she was behind the curve on this one aspect. (Who was he kidding, he’d love her even if she was as clueless around technology as Steve Rogers. He would never say that out loud, though.) 

Point was, she didn’t know what kind of man he was. She believed in him. Not in Iron Man, not in Stark Industries, not in the Avengers — because she sure as hell didn’t even have a concept in that tiny way-too-squishy baby brain of hers about what any of those were. Just… him.

The worst part was how much it reminded him of himself at that age. Well, okay, maybe not exactly that age, he was pretty sure he had no memories of when he was a few weeks old. He was a genius, but apparently weeks-old babies were all on the same playing field. Whatever. He remembered enough — more than enough, he’d be happy to forget most of it — to know what his childhood was like. The years all lumped together, gathered into two distinct phases: the before and the after . The before was when he was still dumb enough to believe his father might notice he was drowning and reach for a rope instead of a drink. The after was — well, everything after. Including the present. And now here he was, holding the same damn rope, scared to throw it wrong.

Peter had that same look sometimes. Like he was daring the world to prove him wrong for caring, for hoping. He was so careful with Morgan — like someone who didn’t trust his own hands. He had the countenance of someone who hadn’t been given the space to be gentle very often; someone who wasn’t used to being trusted with anything fragile.

Tony could see it every time Morgan crawled into his space like she belonged there — which, to be fair, she had decided she did, no questions asked. And to Tony’s surprise, Peter never pushed her away. He stiffened like someone expecting a hit, sure, but he didn’t recoil. He accepted her warmth like it was something he hadn’t had in a long time — or maybe ever.

There was a certain ache in watching it happen. Because Tony knew the sensation — knew what it felt like to hold something gentle with hands that had only ever been trained to build weapons or clean up disasters of your own making. Peter hadn’t had Morgan fall asleep on him because he was a good bodyguard or quick-witted or whatever else he had up his sleeve. She’d fallen asleep on him because, in the end, kids didn’t care about armor or sarcasm or trauma. They gravitated to safety. And Peter, for all his protestations and barbed words, was safe. She’d seen it instantly.

Tony had, too. It just took him longer to admit it. He didn’t know what Peter’s deal was — not all of it, Fury had just about nothing on the kid in SHIELD’s servers; of course, Tony had looked. But he knew enough. Enough to see a scared kid pretending he wasn’t scared, clinging so hard to self-sufficiency it practically bled out of his overly-large teenage pores (Tony did not miss that era of his life). The kind of kid who didn’t want to be known, because if someone saw all the cracks, they might decide he wasn’t worth fixing.

And maybe Tony wasn’t the right guy for that job — he never had been, not really — but if the universe had decided to keep throwing people like this at him, then he was going to at least try not to ruin them.

Which meant he had to say something. Because of fucking course it came to him to give the emotional pep talk, when it was quite possibly the one singular thing he couldn’t master overnight. There was a sort of dramatic irony in that. The fact that he was simultaneously the most suited for this discussion because he was the most similar to Peter, while also being the absolute least suited for this discussion because he was — well, him . And it was emotions.

God, he hated this part.

Tony exhaled through his nose, dragging a hand over his face like he could rub out all the old mistakes — and not for the first time, wished he were better at this. Better at vulnerability. Better at… people. But he’d never needed to be, back then. Before Morgan. Before Peter.

Now his inability just felt like negligence.

Maybe if he cracked open the vault a little, showed the kid that he wasn’t alone in that feeling, it might help. Just a fraction. Maybe it would let Peter see that love and fear weren’t opposites — they were twins, knotted up in the same breath.

He glanced over to where Peter still sat on the chair, Morgan half-curled into him like a barnacle, her fingers tangled loosely in his sleeve. The kid’s spine was stiff as hell, like he was trying to hold still enough not to wake her.

Jesus. He was actually going to talk about his feelings. Willingly . He’d been parentified.

Parentified, softened, sentimental — god, Pepper was going to have a field day when she heard about this. If he told her. Which, let’s be honest, he probably wouldn’t. Because talking about this kind of thing was one thing in theory, in the quiet spaces of his own head, but quite another when he was supposed to put it into actual words. Out loud. With eye contact. Ugh.

There was probably a joke in there, about karma and Shakespearean tragedy, something about how the once-patron saint of avoidance was now the guy sitting on a chair silently psyching himself up to comfort a teenager who didn’t even like him. Or claimed he didn’t. Tony wasn’t convinced. You didn’t let someone’s kid curl up in your lap like that if you didn’t care — or maybe that was just projection again, one of the thousand little ways his brain kept trying to make this easier to understand. And besides, Morgan was still a whole lot more likeable than Tony himself was. Whatever. Maybe he’d get brownie points for association.

Tony sighed again, slow and tight, and leaned back in the chair like he could sink through it, let it swallow him whole before he had to actually do anything. His gaze stayed fixed on Peter and Morgan, unmoving, but his mind was already running a thousand miles ahead of his mouth. Usually it was the other way around. Well, not literally, his brain moved far faster than the speed of speech, but he was known for speaking without thinking.

But what the hell was he even supposed to say?

Hey, kid, I know what it’s like to feel like a weapon? Join the club, we’re called the Avengers.

Too heavy-handed. Too on the nose. And Christ, he hated metaphors. Analogies were better. Still, it wasn’t like he had a better one. And it was true, the Avengers did have a boatload of trauma.

It hit him, then — this stupid, sappy, goddamn realization — that this really wasn’t supposed to be his life. Not any of it. He was supposed to die in a cave, or drunk at a press conference, or in some ten-second war zone missile strike of his own making. His legacy was supposed to be a bleeding list of the people he’d armed and the ones he couldn’t save, not… this.

Not fatherhood. Not family. Not Uncle Steve. Lordy. There was a time — not even that long ago — when he’d have laughed until he choked at the idea of Steve Rogers getting that title. The guy he used to fantasize about punching right in the star-spangled mouth. Yet now the man had a seat at their dinner table — America themed placemat and all (courtesy of Morgan, of course). Helped Morgan build a birdhouse last spring. Gave her advice about how to make friends at school, because Tony himself certainly was no help in that department. Like some jacked-up, time-traveling Boy Scout.

Tony used to think the only person who’d ever get that close to his ( hypothetical ) kid would be Rhodey. Pepper, too. Because — other than the whole ‘it takes two to tango’ thing about babies — she knew him nearly better than anyone, had seen him raw and bleeding and ugly and still said yes, for some reason. Married him, for Christ’s sake. As if that alone didn’t prove that miracles existed. Or that she had a moment of temporary insanity. Except the fact that it had been years by now leaned more towards the former, which meant it was proof that he could change.

And he had. In ways he didn’t even recognize, some days.

He used to be a walking obituary. The Merchant of Death. That was his name in headlines, not some exaggeration. And maybe that’s where he was still heading, when all was said and done. He didn’t know if there was a God — other than the Asgardians, who didn’t exactly hand out judgment days, from what he’d seen — but if there was , Tony figured he wasn’t getting a gold star. He’d seen too much, done too much. There were countries still clawing themselves back from the holes he’d dug for them. Families torn apart by weapons he’d designed in the same years he was throwing house parties on yachts.

Maybe he couldn’t ever make up for that. Maybe the Iron Man suit, all the good he tried to do with it, couldn’t tip the scale far enough back in his favor.

But Morgan.

Morgan was different. Morgan was his second draft.

She was the one good thing he’d made that hadn’t come with a kill switch or a PR strategy. She was all the best pieces of him and Pepper, and none of the rot. She was the legacy that actually mattered — not the arc reactor, not Stark Industries, not even the Avengers. And that’s what made it easier, in the end, to let Iron Man go. Because he didn’t have to be that anymore, not for the world. He’d given the world something good instead — something that might actually grow up whole.

And now there was Peter. 

Peter, who had practically walked into Tony’s life with his fists up and his teeth bared, expecting to be let down. Tony knew that instinct. Knew what it was like to trust no one but your own brain, your own hands. For abandonment to be as immutable as gravity. To flinch before you were ever hit, just to be ahead of the curve.

And it wrecked him, honestly — how familiar it was.

Because Peter was just a kid. Underneath all that edge and sarcasm and overcompensation, he was just another kid trying not to drown. One who clearly didn’t think he deserved to be loved without earning it, without proving something first.

Tony wanted to tell him that wasn’t how it worked. That if Morgan could crawl into his lap and trust him — that if Tony could, for all his ever-present trust and abandonment issues — then there was something good and solid inside him, something worthy, no matter what Peter thought he’d done.

And goddammit, if he — Tony Fucking Stark — could change, could go from a war-profiteering, narcissistic disaster zone of a man to this , to someone who worried more about being a decent dad than his press coverage or party life, then Peter had a whole ocean of time to fix whatever it was he thought he’d broken.

Maybe he couldn’t say all that. Maybe he wouldn’t get the words right. But he could try.

Because Morgan had picked him. Because Pepper had married him. Because Steve Rogers was family now, and even if that still made him want to laugh hysterically, it was the truth.

And because it was time for someone to choose Peter the way that Pepper and Rhodey had chosen him, all the way back then. And if that someone had to be Tony, well then he’d tell the universe it was fucking dumb for choosing him because he had none of the competence that Pepper and Rhodey had, but he would do it anyways.

—

Peter didn’t realize he’d drifted off until he blinked back into awareness. After a second or two of complete confusion ( where am I what’s happening what’s pressing on my chest what woke me up — ) his brain reoriented, and he realized that he was still on the chair with his feet propped up, Morgan fast asleep against his chest. Judging by Tony standing near his outstretched legs, the man had probably brushed against them and jarred Peter back into consciousness.

“Oh, did I wake you up? Sorry. Jeez, I’m already messing this up, huh,” Tony babbled. Peter squinted up at him, brain struggling to come fully back online. What the hell was he even talking about?

He narrowed his eyes at the man, who shifted on his feet almost guiltily. “Spit it out.”

“How’d you know I was gonna say something?”

Peter, still pliant and woozy from sleep, gave a shrug. “I dunno, you’ve got… that face. Like you’re about to say something that’s gonna ruin my week.”

Tony snorted but didn’t exactly deny it. “Not just your week, kid. I’m going for full character development. Lifetime impact. Therapy bills. The works.”

“Um,” Peter said, because… what else was he supposed to respond to that with?

“You know the phrase happy accident? Like people call an unexpected baby a happy accident?” Tony said, abruptly. He didn’t wait for Peter’s response. “I always thought that phrase was stupid, because there are no happy accidents, only unexpected results. Gotta be scientifically accurate.”

“Where, exactly, are you going with this?” Peter interjected, tiredly. This seemed to come out of left field, and he really didn’t want to know what possibly triggered this conversation.

“Right-o, I'm getting there, cool your jets. Anyways. Morgan was definitely an unexpected result. Do you know how she was born?”

“I know how babies are made, Stark, and I’m really not interested in a debrief of your sex life.”

Tony snorted, momentarily amused. "Please. I’d never waste my own time on a debrief. You could just Google that."

Peter grimaced in disgust — he didn’t even want to think about the creepy Tony Stark fans who obsessed over his every move and likely had plotted a night-by-night timeline of his long and sordid playboy years. For a second, he felt a flash of sympathy for the billionaire — even if he was used to it, having his life constantly scrutinized like that had to sting sometimes. He pushed the thoughts away with a small shake of his head.

“Has anyone told you that you have no sense of appropriate work boundaries?” he asked instead, because even though Tony Stark was decidedly not his boss, he was fairly certain there were probably at least three different rules they were breaking with the direction this conversation was going in.

“Oh, yes. HR hates me. They’ve got a whole Tony Stark dedicated sub-department.” Tony grinned brilliantly before sobering. “Anyways. You’re getting me off-track here, kid, I’m trying to impart wisdom.”

“Is that what this is?” Peter muttered under his breath. Tony didn’t stop to respond this time.

“But that’s not what I meant. Morgan was unplanned, and I was anything but happy. Not a happy accident in sight. I mean, I wasn’t sad , per se. More like panicking. Deeply.”

Peter blinked. Then glanced back down at Morgan in his arms, making sure she was still asleep. It seemed like a bad idea to talk about her with her being right here and all, but he didn’t think he’d have much luck in getting Tony to shut up.

“Point is, when Morgan was born, I didn’t know how to take care of myself, much less a family. I’d just figured out how to not die in the middle of the afternoon. That was already taking up most of my calendar.” He rubbed his chin, where his goatee had grown out a little bit. “Pep refused to marry me, actually. At first. She said that she had no control over what role I decided to play in her life, but she refused to have our daughter experience the effects of a divorce too, if I was just doing it for appearances’ sake and didn’t intend to actually step up.”

He paused, then, and there was some heavy kind of implication there — some history that Peter was not privy to, but could guess it wasn’t pleasant. He almost expected Stark to end there; he wasn’t exactly known for his emotional vulnerability, after all, and especially not to strangers — which Peter was, for all intents and purposes. But to his surprise, the man continued speaking after just a moment of hesitation. 

“All my life, I never wanted kids because I was too afraid of becoming my father.” He said it like the confession it was; a weight he’d borne for years, and a promise he’d sworn to fulfill. “I couldn’t make that choice — to have them — knowing what I had the potential to become. But then I had one, and that choice was taken away from me, and I realized the only surefire way to become my father was to pull back and be distant.” Another shrug. 

“I’ve done a lot of things I regret,” Tony continued, quieter. “A lot of things I can’t take back. And for a while, I thought the only way to fix that was to fix everything . Build better tech, fund better people, throw money at every broken thing and hope one of them stuck. But… turns out, you can’t buy redemption.”

He paused. Watched Morgan’s hair shift with every tiny breath against Peter’s shirt.

“You can earn it, though. Slowly. In pieces. In —" he made a vague hand-wavey motion toward the two of them that looked more like a flap, "— the whole ‘being there’ thing. Not running, even when it’s hard. Especially when it’s hard.”

Peter heard May’s voice again, clear as ever in his mind: Love isn’t soft. Love is bone-tired and stubborn and it shows up even when you don’t want it to. Especially then.  

He hated how similar they sounded.

“I don’t know what you think you did — or what you did do,” Tony continued, soft and honest in a way that Peter would never before have truly attributed to him. “But unless it involves time travel and a murder spree, I’m pretty damn sure you’ve still got time to fix it. Hell, even if it did involve time travel and a murder spree, we’ve got options. Not great options, but you get my point.”

Peter snorted the barest of laughs and got a half-smile in return.

“I guess what I’m trying to say,” he went on, “is if a guy like me can end up here — surrounded by people who should have written me off, but didn’t — then there’s nothing you’ve done that puts you past saving.”

Peter opened his mouth to argue, instinctively. “That’s not — you don’t —”

“Ah-ah! Don’t come at me with that ‘you don’t know what I’ve done’ angle I’ve seen you pull,” he said, pointing a finger. “I may not know what you’ve done, but you know what I’ve done, yes?”

Peter opened his mouth to respond, but Tony rolled right through it again. The man was clearly very terrible at listening. Even more terrible than giving pep talks. If that's what this was supposed to be.

“Sure you do. You’re just as bad as Cap when it comes to reading all of SHIELD’s files. ‘Weapons manufacturer’ ring a bell? No?”

“That’s — different,” Peter said, a little too quickly.

Tony’s eyebrows went up. “Enlighten me, then. I know that’s your favorite pastime.”

Peter glared at him, but it was the kind of glare he gave when he was too tired to commit to being mad. “That’s… you didn’t know what you were doing.” Not like I did. Not when I searched down my uncle’s killer. Not when I had a whole week to think it through. Not when I killed him with my bare hands.

Tony tilted his head. “Not sure whether to appreciate the out-of-character attempt to give me the benefit of the doubt or be insulted at the assumption of my intellect. I’ll go with the first one, but no. I knew what my weapons did. I just thought the people they were being used on deserved it. I’d never been told any differently. Not that it excuses it, but.” He exhaled through his nose, sharp and humorless. “Point is, if I can have the life I have now even with all that, then I’m quite certain anything you did is nothing in comparison. Like I said before. Jeez, you’re making me repeat myself, kid. My least favorite pastime.”

Peter’s eyes dropped back down to Morgan, unconsciously tightening his hold on her. Tony sighed.

“Everyone here has killed someone,” Tony added. “Far more than one, actually. Unless you’re moonlighting as a serial killer, I highly doubt anything you’ve done in comparison even makes the cut. Which — if you are a serial killer, by the way, let me know so I have a valid reason not to listen to Fury’s recommendations next time.”

That finally pulled a weak chuckle out of Peter, more air than sound, but it counted. “I’m not a serial killer,” he said.

“I’d say reassuring, but that’s exactly what a serial killer would say, so —”

At that, a full, startled laugh made its way out of Peter’s throat. Quick and uneven, but enough to draw a soft snuffle from the sleeping kid in his arms. He winced and adjusted his grip reflexively, gentler now. Morgan didn’t wake, though, just burrowed deeper against his hoodie with a contented little sigh.

“God, you’re terrible at this.” He still had no idea what, exactly, ‘this’ was. But oddly, it was far more reassuring than anything else. The bluntness of the conversation, the way Tony was unafraid to poke him with a serial killer comment despite the fact that he’d clearly clocked that Peter had a not-so-clean past — the bluntness was far more appreciated than softness would have been.

Tony spread his hands, unbothered. “Yeah, well, you get what you pay for. Emotional counseling isn’t exactly in the job description. And anyway, Brucie fell asleep on me when I tried to trauma dump on him, so you’re already one rung up the ladder.”

Peter snorted faintly, and Tony nodded his chin in his direction. “You might wanna take Morgan to her room now while she’s dead asleep. Speaking from experience, this is the best shot you’ve got of moving her without waking her. Otherwise you’re stuck there all night and your ass will go numb. No recovery from that.”

Peter shifted a little on the seat and grimaced. “Yeah, I think that ship’s already sailed.” His tailbone had lost circulation around twenty minutes ago. Did tailbones even have circulation? He’d have to look that up.

Still, he adjusted his grip under Morgan’s knees and carefully, carefully stood. Her head lolled a bit against his shoulder, but she didn’t stir. Those juice pops really did a number on her, clearly.

He moved slowly, careful not to jostle her as he stepped forward, keeping one hand cupped under her head. She barely weighed anything. Just a small, warm bundle of exhaustion clinging to his hoodie like a sea otter to driftwood. The hallway lights dimmed as he walked, reacting to their motion — a soft amber that just outlined the edges of her socks, one of which was halfway off her heel.

Her bedroom door was slightly ajar, as always, because she hated it fully shut; he’d learned as much in the lake house. Inside — courtesy of FRIDAY — the lights were off except for the faint glow of the rainbow nightlight projector in the corner, casting lazy spirals of colors on the ceiling. Blue-green swirls swam across the far wall. Reddish spirals nestled in the crook of her bookshelf. 

Her room looked exactly like what it was: a space with about three different clashing themes (superheroes, my little pony, and transformers, at least — maybe more) that had been joyfully sabotaged by a five-year-old. A pile of building blocks in one corner, half toppled. A plush unicorn laid belly-up beside a circuit board kit. Her art station was still covered in glitter glue and pipe cleaners. One of her dolls wore an Iron Man helmet.

Her bed was a mini fortress, guarded by a tangled army of stuffed animals and a pink sequined blanket that had a strange, fish-scales texture under his hand. Peter knelt down carefully beside it, easing her weight off his shoulder. She made a faint sound when he tried to lower her, clutching instinctively at his hoodie strings.

“Hey,” Peter whispered, voice low, near the crown of her head, not sure if it was just a reflex or if she’d woken up. “You’re okay.”

It took a moment, but her arms went loose. Her fingers relaxed. He gently guided them away, one at a time, untangling them from his neck. She didn’t wake, just turned her cheek into the pillow and let out a tiny snore.

He pulled the sequined blanket up, then reached for the thicker, softer knit one bunched near the foot of the bed. He laid it over her shoulders and tucked it in gently along her sides, hands moving on autopilot.

There was something familiar in the motion. Well, not exactly — but muscle memory pulled from somewhere he hadn’t touched in years — the way May used to do it, when he was small and coming down with the flu. The way she’d fuss with the edge of the blanket and check the room twice before leaving. A sort of silent ritual. A way of saying I love you without saying anything at all.

Peter hesitated. Let his hand rest just a second on the blanket’s edge. He wasn’t her brother. Obviously. And he sure as hell wasn’t her dad. But there was this thing inside him, sudden and aching — a tight knot behind his ribs — this stupid, fierce, impossible want to keep her safe. To make the world soft for her. To shoulder whatever storm was on its way and give her one more night of peace.

It was ridiculous. He knew that. She had Tony. She had Pepper. She had the Avengers, for fuck’s sake. She was probably, objectively, the most well-protected child on the planet.

Something twisted in his chest. Not a sharp twist — not guilt. Not grief, both of which he was intimately acquainted with. Just a strange, wide ache. A weightless thing. This useless, ridiculous swell of protectiveness, hot in his throat and sharp behind his eyes. Not responsibility, exactly. Just some feral, buried instinct with no name. Something he really hadn’t experienced before — not like this. He loved May and Ned and MJ, undoubtedly, and fiercely — but that all felt… different. He’d never cared for someone so young and… helpless? before. Helpless didn’t feel like the right word; Morgan was brilliant beyond her years, and could do many things that even some adults probably couldn’t.

It wasn’t even that she reminded him of himself, either, in some strange psychological twist or desire to ‘protect his inner child’ or whatever a shrink would probably say. She didn’t. She was bold and loud and full of sharp, brilliant questions and half-formed inventions. She wore mismatched socks on purpose and insisted on ketchup with her pancakes. She was nothing like him.

Maybe… the closest thing he could think of was that maybe this was how being an older sibling would’ve felt. He’d never had one, never had any cousins close enough in age to mimic one, and he’d never been one, but there was something to be said about looking at someone so young, asleep and vulnerable.

Peter blinked, slow. The spirals from the nightlight twisted softly along the walls, shifting her small form in and out of blues and reds and greens. Her hand had curled up near her cheek now, half-tucked under her jaw, and her mouth was slack in the gentle way that only little kids ever managed when they were truly, utterly asleep.

He didn’t know what this feeling was — just that it sat deeper than most of the others. Not perched on his shoulders like responsibility. Not clutched in his gut like fear or guilt. This one anchored itself in his chest, uninvited and absolute.

It was terrifying.

It was peaceful.

He reached forward and brushed a stray curl off her forehead.

Then froze, hand suspended. 

His fingers curled into his palm. He let the curl fall back. 

She was not his kid. Not his sister. Not his anything . He was her bodyguard .

He stood slowly, knees creaking, and gave the room one last glance. The projector cast a red-and-blue glow across her pillow, colors merging and shifting to create a warm violet hue. Morgan breathed evenly under the pile of blankets. Out cold.

Peter backed out of the room on instinct, pulling the door almost shut behind him. Not quite fully — enough that it was cracked the way she preferred. He stayed for another second in the hallway, staring at the thin slice of light. Then turned away, rubbing at his eyes with the heel of his palm.

When he returned to the common room, he was surprised to find Tony still there. He’d stood up, as though he had just planned on leaving, but Peter knew him well enough by now to know that the timing was hardly a coincidence — he’d been waiting for Peter to return. He was oddly touched by the motion.

“I’m hopping down to the lab,” Tony tilted his head towards the elevator. “You gonna come and play watchful gargoyle while I work?”

Peter hesitated for a moment before he shook his head. He caught the words for what they were — a blatant offer to join the man in the lab — and it was tempting, but he actually had work to do and couldn’t afford to be distracted. He’d come here for a job, and he kept forgetting that fact. Plus, he felt all strange and hollowed out, thrown completely off-kilter by the see-sawing events of the past few hours. He needed some alone time to recalibrate, to come to terms with what his near future would look like.

“I’ve got some files to go through,” he declined, instead of saying all of that. “ Do try to avoid blowing anything up, though. I’d hate to have to file another case report.”

At that, Tony grinned. “I make no promises, Agent Parker.”

Peter didn’t elect to respond, rolling his eyes with a small, exasperated huff. He crossed to the far couch, snagging his tablet and half-drunk cup of coffee from the end table. The screen lit up with a fingerprint swipe, the confidential report files blinking patiently back at him. Surveillance logs, field updates, tech specs — all the usual, boring but necessary details of tracking down these stupid weapons dealers.

He didn’t open them right away, hesitant for some reason.

Behind him, the elevator gave a soft ding . He heard Tony’s retreating footsteps, then silence again. Peter sank into the couch, leaned his head back. Closed his eyes for a beat too long.

There was a part of him that wanted to go back, just to check one more time that Morgan was still breathing evenly, that her nightlight hadn’t shifted too far to the side, that the blanket hadn’t kicked off her feet. It was irrational, he knew that. Hell, FRIDAY would alert them the second her heart rate spiked, and her entire room was probably more monitored than most military bases. But still — still.

He sighed through his nose, opening his eyes as he finally tapped open the first report. Lines of text scrolled past. Data, mission parameters, timestamps. His eyes skimmed it, but none of it stuck. He tried to re-read it again. Then again, to no avail.

He’d barely even settled in for five minutes before FRIDAY spoke up, startling him out of his attempt at re-reading the same line for the seventh time.

“Mr. Parker, there is a visitor for you in the lobby.”

He frowned, already suspicious. “A visitor? For me ?”

“Yes. A May Parker is requesting your presence.”

Chapter Text

Peter had been hit by a train once. 

It was meant to be a routine SHIELD op — no more dangerous than messing with chemicals in his sad excuse of a lab. Fury had sent him to detain a guy that was creating underground drug concoctions; primarily hallucinogens, although he didn’t discriminate if the price was high enough.

Peter had been reckless — too reckless — and assumed his enhanced metabolism made him immune to whatever the man had cooked up in his witch pot. (Because yes, the guy had been brewing the drugs in an actual honest-to-god cauldron . The jokes wrote themselves.) He'd miscalculated. Badly. Either the drugs were somehow specifically tailored for people like him, or the guy had just gotten lucky; a one-in-a-million chemical fluke. Whatever the case, Peter had taken a faceful of some acidic-smelling spray and proceeded to — for lack of a better word — tweak out.

The details were hazy after that — writing the case report in coherent terms had been a nightmare — but he could remember the sensations: disorientation, abject terror, every sense going haywire. To this day, he didn't know whether the guy had deliberately led him onto the tracks, or whether that was just another manifestation of that good old Parker Luck. Either way, he’d only had half a second of lucidity — Spider-sense wailing, the tracks shuddering beneath him — before he turned and met the train head-on.

The impact had shattered seven of his ribs and pushed all of the breath from his lungs instantaneously, with all the force of a popped balloon. He’d been certain he was dead, experiencing the last vestiges of true consciousness; time warped in and out, memories spiraled behind his eyes, wind howled past his ears.

But then he’d drawn in one halting breath — if the shallow gasp could even be counted as such — followed by another. And then another. And another. Until he was breathing again, rasping through the blinding pain in his ribs and the blood pooled in his lungs. He’d crawled, one painstaking hand after the other, to a window, smashed it in and collapsed onto one of the seats before succumbing to unconsciousness.

It went without saying that he’d hoped never to experience that again. He didn’t often get what he wanted, though.

The sound of May’s name from FRIDAY’s speakers hit him like that train — confusion first, then a choking breathlessness, then pain in his chest so sharp it nearly blacked him out. And beneath it all, the same desperate, scrambling claw back to any semblance of reason.

“May?” he asked, voice barely above a whisper. Or maybe it only felt that way. Maybe it was just the ringing in his ears — not unlike the wind as the train bore down on him.

“Yes,” FRIDAY confirmed. “She is currently at the security desk and has asked to see you directly. She is quite adamant on the matter. Shall I let her through?”

“No!” The word came out far sharper and louder than he intended, and he winced, glancing down the hall towards Morgan’s room, hoping he hadn’t woken her up. He dragged a hand through his hair and paced the length of the now far-too-small room. “No, just… hold her there. Don’t let her up.”

This wasn’t how it was supposed to play out — not here, not now. He was unarmed, caught off guard in unfamiliar terrain. The sentiment sounded ridiculous; May was his aunt, and shouldn’t have felt like a threat, because she wasn’t . But Peter had long since learned that battlefields weren’t always marked by barbed wire and trenches, nor guns and uniforms. After all, it may as well have been one; just as treacherous — any conversation topic, every word spoken was a potential trigger, a minefield rigged to collapse everything he’d built to keep her safe and at a distance. And he wasn’t ready . He wasn’t prepared to defuse them. And when Peter wasn’t ready, people got hurt. He refused to let May become another casualty of his ineptitude.

“Understood,” FRIDAY responded, ever-calmly, not sounding the least bit judgemental. “Would you like to see the lobby feed?”

Peter hesitated. Every rational part of him screamed to shut it down, to pretend she hadn’t come at all and let security handle it. But the urge was too strong. Against his better judgment, he muttered, “Yeah. Pull it up.”

FRIDAY obeyed, and Peter felt like he’d been run over a second time when the holo-screen flickered to life.

May .

She looked just like he remembered, standing at the security desk with her coat pulled tight around her shoulders and her hair slightly windswept. No — not exactly like he remembered. Her hair was a little grayer at the temples, the fine lines around her mouth and eyes etched deeper. The worry lines in her forehead seemed more prominent than he’d ever seen. For a moment, he cursed how high-quality Tony created the cameras, because it was impossible to ignore how tired she looked, nor the fact that he knew he’d been a contributing factor.

He watched as his aunt shifted on her feet, glancing towards a nearby elevator as though she had contemplated just marching past and searching for him herself. Peter nearly laughed wetly at the thought, because it was so quintessentially May that he could vividly imagine it.

“She insists on seeing you,” FRIDAY said again, breaking through his train of thought. If Peter had been more mentally aware, he would have perhaps recognized that it sounded more like a nudge. “Shall I inform her you are available to meet? You don’t have anything on your schedule.”

Peter hesitated, torn between the aching familiarity of seeing May and the ironclad rule he’d made for himself: keep his distance. He was still reeling from everything — the talk with Tony, Morgan, and now, seeing May , here, where his past came back to haunt his present. It was too much. It was seeing Ned and MJ all over again, when he was still patching the rips in his mask from that encounter. It was too much, too soon — he couldn’t. He couldn’t. His emotion would seep through the seams, bleeding all over May, and she didn’t deserve that, not the unfathomable well of anger or self-recrimination that made itself a home in his diaphragm. She didn’t deserve the risk of it exploding, obliterating everything in his vicinity.

Finally, he forced the words out. “No. Tell her I’m not available.”

There was a long pause, and Peter wondered whether FRIDAY somehow hadn’t heard him, or was thinking through her response — except she was an AI, and could process requests faster than the human brain. Plus, she didn’t need to think on this — not when it was a direct command.

“As you wish,” FRIDAY responded eventually, and her tone was gentle.

On the screen, the guard relayed the message. Peter watched as May’s face fell, just slightly, before she caught herself and nodded. Her lips moved as she said something — probably “thank you” — and she hesitated, eyes flicking towards the elevator again. The guard must have caught the motion, because he shifted to the left to block her line of sight to it. At that, her shoulders slumped fully, and she turned away from the desk back towards the main doors.

Peter hesitated, then, glancing down the hall, then to the elevator. Morgan was asleep, and would be for a little while more. Tony was in the lab, and they were both guarded by a multi-million dollar AI armed with control of the entire Iron Man arsenal at her (metaphorical) fingertips. They would be alright for a few minutes, surely. Not to mention, he’d be right downstairs.

He’d already made his decision and had moved before he finished the thought.

By the time he reached the lobby, May stood motionless just outside the Tower, near the curb — arms crossed against the cold, breath visible in the chilly evening air.

Peter stayed in the shadows, back pressed against the edge of the hallway where neither the security guards — nor May — could see him. He wasn’t close enough to touch her, but he could hear her — the steady rhythm of her heartbeat, the soft sound of her breathing.

He closed his eyes and listened, letting the familiarity wash over him. It grounded him, and made him feel like he was home, even if only for a moment.

But the guilt was there, too, sharp and unrelenting — carving itself out a home in the familiar space between his ribs, nestled between the grief and love that he had grown so accustomed to in his nineteen years of life. It moved with him, folded into the lining of his lungs, making its presence known with every breath he took — a luxury that his parents and Ben could no longer afford.

Finally, May exhaled a soft, visible sigh and turned away. She started walking down the sidewalk, her steps slow and hesitant, looking for all the world like a soldier returning from a lost battle. Nothing to show for it all except for weary limbs and the weight of countless sacrifices made in vain.

It was better, Peter decided, than returning in a casket.

~ ~ ~

May didn’t get visitors often, these days. 

Over the course of the past few months, there’d been the delivery guy — a teenager with earbuds always jammed in, who never made eye contact — who dropped off groceries she ordered out of habit more than hunger. The neighbor from 12B had knocked to ask if she’d seen his cat (she hadn’t), and stayed an awkward five minutes longer than the conversation called for, clearly not knowing how to leave without seeming rude. And the landlord had shown up unannounced in the first week of the month to inspect a leak, apologizing three times in a row when she'd opened the door with red-rimmed eyes after crying over how much she missed Peter (again).

So it came as a surprise when she opened her door to find Ned Leeds fidgeting on her doorstep.

He looked older than she remembered, though not by much — broader in the shoulders, hair a little shorter than it had been towards the end of high school, wearing a hoodie that seemed damp from the misty air outside. And nervous, too. Fidgeting with the sleeves of his sweatshirt, shifting his weight from foot to foot, as though he had reconsidered even knocking in the first place.

“Ned.” May's voice caught on the familiar name. “God, it’s been a while. Come in, come in.”

“Hey, May.” He gave her a small, sheepish smile. “Sorry for just… showing up. I know it’s probably rude.”

“Nonsense. You’re always welcome.” She stepped aside to let him in, waving off his hesitation like she would swat away a fly. “You're lucky I just made tea — hope you still like chamomile.”

“I do.” His smile was a little tight around the edges, but his eyes were soft with familiar warmth. He stepped fully into the apartment and let the door click shut behind him. He didn’t say anything for a few seconds, just looked around — not with judgment over the mess of the space, but with a sort of gentle familiarity, like the room still felt like Peter-adjacent territory, even all these years later.

“I meant to stop by more often,” he said, after they’d settled into the living room — him on the edge of the couch, her curled in the armchair, both with steaming mugs in their hands. “I used to tell myself I’d come by every other week, like I used to. You know. Bring Nana’s lumpia. Pretend I wasn’t checking if there was… if there was news.”

May smiled faintly, cupping her mug and remembering those early months after Peter left for SHIELD — Ned had become an even more frequent visitor to her apartment, checking to see if Peter had left a message or sent a letter or… anything. Peter never did, but that didn't stop Ned from coming on the same schedule, without fail, for two years straight. “You didn’t pretend very well.”

“I really didn’t,” Ned admitted, with a dry laugh. “You never called me out on it, though.”

“You needed hope,” she said softly. So did I. “Who was I to take it away from you?”

They both fell quiet for a moment. The radiator let out a distant clunk, and wind brushed softly against the windows.

“I saw him,” Ned said abruptly, eyes still on the tea in his hands. “A week ago. MJ and I ran into him in the city.”

The breath seized in May’s chest. “Where? How?” she asked, hoping irrationally that Peter had sought them out somehow, had “run in” to them as an engineered excuse to see them. Because if he had… if he had, that might mean he was one step closer to the Peter she once knew.

Ned shook his head, as if he’d anticipated her assumption. “He didn’t… it wasn’t on purpose,” he denied. “We were on our way back from a bookstore in Midtown. MJ wanted this out-of-print poetry collection, and I — well, I was just tagging along, like always. We were crossing the street and I looked up and there he was.” He rubbed a hand over his face. "I guess I — I mean, I didn't actually think about blurting his name out, but I did. And then I thought maybe it wasn't him because he was so… stiff, and I could only actually see half of his face, but then he turned around and looked at me and I knew it was him for sure."

May swallowed. “What did he… did he say anything?” She felt a little bad asking, like she was trying to search for Peter through Ned, but this was the first time she’d heard Peter’s words in at least a year or two — even if they were by proxy, through someone else’s mouth. And she knew that Ned wanted to share this with somebody who still missed Peter as much as he did.

Ned nodded, then blinked rapidly. “He — I mean, he said our names, in greeting, I guess. But he…” his shoulders slumped. “His tone was all flat. And he called MJ by MJ, and she,” he cringed. “Corrected it to Michelle. And I wanted to backtrack on that because I just wanted to talk to Peter, not fight or prove a point, but he got even stiffer and his eyes were all blank and he —” He shook his head, like he didn’t want to continue. May swallowed, but stood from her armchair and moved to sit down next to him, wrapping an arm around his shoulders like she used to do for Peter. Ned leaned into the contact gratefully; he’d always been as tactile as Peter had been, seeking comfort through touch.

“What did he say after that?” she prompted, throat dry. Ned shook his head again.

“None of us got the chance to say anything, actually. I, uh — I hadn’t seen it before, which I don’t know how I missed it the first time around, but Tony Stark was behind him. With his daughter, I think. And he said ‘Agent Parker’ and Peter seemed to… I don’t know. I mean, he was expressionless before, but his spine kind of straightened and he got all alert.” His tongue darted out to wet his lips, and he gnawed half-heartedly on his lower lip as he considered his next words. “I was kind of just gaping,” he admitted. “I mean, seeing Peter and then seeing Tony Stark , and him calling Peter ‘agent’ … I froze.” He shook his head, a third time. “MJ didn’t, though. She was all like ‘agent’? And Peter said something about SHIELD and, uh… bills, I think. And then MJ said something about breakfast outings and Peter shot back something about assassination attempts and bodyguarding and I could barely keep up with any of it. And before I could even… I mean, I have so many questions for him, I’ve had questions for years, but I just froze and didn’t even get to ask any of them or even — or even do anything until Tony Stark called him back and then he was gone .”

He sounded devastated, and upset with himself, and May knew she could sympathize. She knew more about the situation than Ned ever had, but she still had countless questions she would ask Peter if — when, it had to be when — she saw him again.

She had never told Ned or MJ the extent of what Fury told her — and even that wasn’t much — mostly because she didn’t want to put that burden on them, the perpetual fear for Peter’s safety. Another part of her was terrified — terrified because she had no idea the legalities of the situation, the unprecedented territory of allowing her enhanced thirteen year old to join a private intelligence organization. She was certain that Nick Fury had some sort of loophole, some way to justify the legality of it, but she was less concerned for her own fate than she was Peter’s. 

Hell, she hadn’t actually even known he was enhanced until Fury had told her that night — likely as a tactic or reason to get her to agree. Nevertheless, it had done its job, because May knew the stigma against enhanced people, and it changed her entire perspective on the matter.

If it ever got out that Peter was recruited because he was enhanced, or because he’d committed a crime that even Fury refused to tell her about… she feared what the government would do to him. They didn’t have a stellar track record with enhanced individuals in the first place, and even less so with underage ones. If Peter had committed a crime — no matter how big — he would have gotten leniency as a thirteen year old. A normal thirteen year old. But people were afraid of enhanced individuals. And even though May wasn’t, because this was Peter they were talking about, she knew that that singular fact would bump any punishment to at least the adult level — if not worse .

Allowing Peter to work for SHIELD was, objectively, a terrible decision — but at least May had enough confidence that he would be protected there; legally and otherwise. She had no such guarantees from the government, and she didn’t even know what it was that Peter had done. She knew it was destroying him from the inside, that he refused to tell her apart from the fact that Fury was helping him with it. She didn’t know whether it had to do with illegal trades, or drugs, or weaponry, or trafficking — none of those seemed anything like Peter, and she couldn’t imagine how he could have gotten involved in any of it; but the fact of the matter was that he had. He had done something, and Fury had guaranteed his protection as an agent under SHIELD, and May had no other guarantees of such a thing. So Peter had gone.

Ned and MJ didn’t know any of that. There were too many unknowns, too many questions in the face of legalities — too much for two fourteen year olds to worry about.

But now Peter was an adult, and Ned was an adult… Some of the issues remained, but they already knew, now, that he worked for SHIELD, and any issues that arose from Peter’s status as a minor were now irrelevant. So there was no more reason for her to withhold what little she did know.

She sighed and set her mug down on the coffee table. “I knew he worked for SHIELD,” she admitted, and Ned turned to stare at her. "Nick Fury showed up at our apartment one night and told me Peter had gotten involved in something… something big. Something dangerous. Something that might have gotten him arrested or worse if it went public. He promised that if Peter worked for SHIELD, he would be under their full protection, and that it was the only way to keep him safe from… consequences.” She paused. “He didn’t say what kind.”

Ned sat very still beside her.

"I was about ready to kick him out," her mouth twitched a little in a smile. "I didn't exactly take well to a very powerful man coming into my apartment and essentially holding a threat over my thirteen year old nephew. I wanted to fight for him. But Peter didn't want me to." She grimaced. "He begged me, practically. It was the most desperate I'd seen him in years — the most emotion I'd seen from him since Ben passed." She inhaled, deep and slow, preparing herself for her next words.

“This isn’t really my secret to tell, but it’s part of the explanation, and you deserve at least that much, after all these years. Peter is… enhanced.” She heard Ned draw in a sharp breath next to her. “I don’t know how or when, or the exact timeline, but that’s a key factor in all of this — in why SHIELD recruited him, in how he potentially got involved in something dangerous… and you know how the government can be about enhanced individuals, especially if they’re deemed unstable or dangerous criminals.”

Ned stayed silent. His hand gripped the fabric of his jeans, knuckles white. “Why… why are you telling me this now?”

May sighed. “You’ve stayed loyal to Peter for five years. You deserve to know at least as much as I do.” She shrugged. “And now that he’s an adult, all of the legal issues that came from his status as a minor are no longer an issue. And I figure that if five years have passed, whatever it is that Peter did… well, Fury must have kept his word to keep him protected.” She fixed her eyes on the coffee table, at the swirls of steam hovering above the mug. “As for why I didn’t tell you before — it was partially due to the minor thing, but also because I didn’t want to put all that concern for Peter’s well-being on your shoulders. Not when you should have been focusing on growing up and high school and everything else.” Her mouth twisted in a faint smile. “Besides, I was kind of worried that if you knew too much you’d try to hack SHIELD’s files.”

Ned’s face flushed, the tips of his ears blooming red. “You know about the hacking?” he asked, meekly.

May laughed, the first real laugh in a long while. “Ned, you and Peter were never subtle about that.”

Ned ducked his head, blush crawling down the back of his neck. But he stayed silent, soaking it all in, so May waited, drumming a constant pattern against the flat of her palm. At last, Ned raised his head again.

“Well,” he tugged at a loose thread on his hoodie. “That… I mean, that explains a lot, I guess. Thank you for letting me know.” He raised his eyes fully to meet hers, hesitating. “Can I… I mean, can I tell MJ? What you said?”

May blinked. “Of course,” she reassured, and watched as his shoulders slumped in relief. She hesitated, not certain whether to ask, but deciding she may as well. “Is she… was she busy, today?”

Ned caught on to her true meaning, and he ducked his head once more. “I… no. No, not really. She didn’t want me to come, actually, she said she’s done trying to chase Peter around or figure him out, but — I —” He shook his head. “She says he made his choice, and she’s not going to keep letting it hurt her. Or us. And I get that, but… Peter and I were friends since we were five. That was eight years, so i feel like I owe him at least that much before I —”

“Ned,” May turned and placed her hands on his shoulders. “I say this not as Peter’s aunt, but as someone who cares about you, too. You don’t… you shouldn’t have to arrange your life around his, after everything. You deserve to be able to… to move on.” The words hurt her throat as much as shards of glass would have, but she forced herself to say them. She loved Ned, too, and had known him for almost as long as she’d taken care of Peter. She loved Ned’s loyalty — and for Peter’s sake, she appreciated it immeasurably. But for Ned’s sake, if it hadn’t been Peter causing all of this… she knew she would have told him that sometimes people change, and there was nothing he can do about it, and that it wasn’t his fault. She would have encouraged him long ago to let him go.

Ned stayed silent for a long moment, staring blankly at the oak swirls on the coffee table.

“What would you say as Peter’s aunt?” he asked, quietly. May swallowed down the lump in her throat and blinked back the burning in her eyes.

“That I will always wait for him,” she admitted. “I can’t give up on him.”

“Neither can I.” Ned shook his head. “I don’t — I don’t think MJ really can, either. But she’s angry. Like, really angry.” He let out a breath that was almost a weak laugh. “I think she wants to march right up to Avengers Tower and demand to see Peter and pull a full explanation from him. Or shake some sense into him, or something.”

“The Tower?” May echoed, blankly. Ned blinked at her.

“I — yeah, I mean, I…” he rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. “I tracked him by hacking the security cameras on the street after we ran into him. And I kept watching as he went in and out of the Tower. I’m pretty sure he lives there full-time right now as Tony Stark’s bodyguard.”

May was only half-listening, Ned’s previous sentence sparking an idea. March right up to Avengers Tower and demand to see Peter. The idea lit up her mind like vibrant fireworks, hope blooming in the corner of her mind labeled “Peter” — an area that had been closed off and dark for far too long. 

“Ned,” May announced. “MJ might be onto something.”

~ ~ ~

Come the morning after May’s visit, the feeling of guilt in Peter’s gut hadn’t dissipated; if anything, it had only grown more potent, given the extra time to brood with no outlet.

He had stayed outside long past the moment where May had disappeared into the distance, only slipping back into the Tower when the chill from the wind cut through his relatively thin hoodie. Tony had still been in the lab, and Morgan was fast asleep, leaving him no distractions from his own thoughts.

The early hours passed in a blur, mind flitting between memories of his childhood, the night his uncle had died, and the heartbroken expression May’s face had assumed when the security guards had turned her away.

Needless to say, he hadn’t slept that night.

When morning rolled around, Morgan’s energy filled the space with an admittedly jarring contrast to his own subdued state. (Not that that was a particularly difficult endeavor, even on a normal day.)

“Petey!” she chirped, tugging on his sleeve as he passed through the kitchen. “You’re coming with us, right? For the playdate? Daddy said you’re coming!”

Peter blinked at her blankly. Truth be told, he had no idea that there had even been a playdate planned — which felt like something he should have known, given his bodyguard duties and all. Uncharacteristically, he couldn’t really find it in himself to care, not when most of his frontal lobe was still dedicated to thoughts of his aunt and his laundry list of character faults and mistakes.

He forced a smile, though it felt thin. “A playdate, huh?” he asked, and hoped that the five-year-old wasn’t good at discerning fake-cheerful as opposed to true-cheerful tones of voice. Not that his attempt was anything short of downright pathetic, at the moment. “With who?”

“Lily,” Morgan chirped. The name didn’t ring any bells, and Peter lifted his gaze to Tony, who stood next to the kitchen island, watching him with a peculiar expression on his face.

When their eyes met, the man seemed to snap out of it. “No need to have a conniption over being caught off-guard, kid.” Tony waved his hand. “This one was unplanned.”

Peter narrowed his eyes slightly and tilted his head, remembering Fury’s comment about the man’s idiosyncrasies. Apparently, this was one of them.

“Is an unplanned one really the best idea?” he asked, though without any bite to his tone. It was more a token argument than anything else; after all, Tony was one of the most paranoid people he’d ever met (outside of himself and Fury), so if he didn’t seem to be protesting the idea, it was likely fine.

Tony grimaced but waved his hand again. “It’s been long enough, we can’t keep her away from her friends forever,” he pointed out. “Besides, an unplanned one is probably better than a planned one, anyways. Leaves less room for pre-existing knowledge. FRI’s run a background check on the kid’s parents, and Morgan’s been over there before. They live only ten minutes from the Tower. Hap always sits outside in his car; or sometimes Rhodey, if he’s free. I think Rhodey’s called dibs today.”

Peter gave it no more than a few seconds of additional thought before shrugging in concedence. He wasn’t entirely sure why Tony sounded like he was trying to convince Peter of the safety of this endeavor — it was more than likely he was also trying to convince himself.

The next thirty minutes passed by at a sluggish pace for Peter — attempting to keep up with Morgan’s incessant chatter, all while dodging Tony’s suspicious gaze, mind still caught up in thoughts about May, and what she would be doing today. The very last thing he wanted to deal with was the billionaire asking him if he was okay (or something along those lines), so he elected to trail slightly behind the two until they exited the Tower on the way to Lily’s apartment.

“You good?” Tony’s voice cut through his semi-daze, and Peter blinked, realizing he’d been staring blankly at the sidewalk rather than watching where he was going.

Well. So much for that plan.

“Yeah,” Peter replied brusquely, offering no further explanation, forcing himself to straighten his spine and stride ahead like normal. Tony didn’t seem convinced, but whatever. Peter didn’t need his concern; he’d be back to normal within the day, anyways.

The man in question didn’t respond verbally, but Peter caught the way he adjusted his — frankly, terrible — disguise; tugging the rim of his baseball cap lower over his eyes. Between the cap, square sunglasses, and zip-up hoodie, the billionaire truly looked like a poorly disguised stereotypical spy. It was not a good look on him. In fact, it was exactly the kind of thing someone like Tony Stark would wear, thinking he was blending in.

Morgan, on the other hand, seemed perfectly unbothered — looking just like any other little girl, skipping along and clinging to Peter’s fingers as they walked. They’d agreed to have him hold Morgan’s hand rather than Tony; more accurately, Peter had suggested it, knowing that it would draw a whole lot less attention for a teenager to be holding a little girl’s hand, rather than a hooded, poorly disguised grown man. Tony had grumbled at the description but had conceded without any real argument, so Peter took that to mean he was correct in his assessment. In any event, he’d pointed out that it would draw less attention to them — and he’d been right.

Despite his distracted state of mind, his Spider-sense remained in perfect working order, and he felt nothing other than a few tiny prickles (in other words, the usual) as they walked.

“I get to introduce you to Lily,” Morgan chirped, tugging on his wrist. “She has a cat and her name is Pebbles. Last time she let us dress her up in a princess outfit!”

Peter heard Tony’s unabashed snort from where he now walked half a step in front of them, and he shot a look at the back of the man’s head.

“A princess outfit, hm?” Peter said slowly. Morgan nodded emphatically.

“I wish we had a Pebbles,” she pouted. “But Daddy doesn’t want a cat.”

“You should put the princess outfit on him instead, then,” Peter suggested, watching as her entire face lit up at the suggestion. Tony spun around and pointed a finger in their direction.

“You,” he started, looking at Peter. “are a bad influence, Agent Parker.”

Peter shrugged. “It would be more inconspicuous than the whole ‘definitely not Tony Stark’ look you have going on right now.”

“I’d like to see you do better,” Tony grumbled, half a second before he remembered who he was talking to. Peter arched a single eyebrow and didn’t even grace that particular statement with a response.

“I could do princess makeup on you, too,” Peter shrugged once more. “ That would be a disguise.”

Ignoring Tony’s sputtering, he glanced around, gaze sweeping over the few pedestrians in their immediate vicinity, along with a quick look towards the adjacent buildings. Even though his Spider-sense was quiet, it was a habit Fury had ingrained in him; a warning regarding the reliance on his senses. Peter, personally, thought it was a bit paranoid — his senses hadn’t failed him yet, after all — but trying to argue with Fury was a useless endeavor. When his cursory sweep revealed nothing out of the ordinary (as anticipated), he shot a sideways glance towards Tony, whose face still held an aggrieved expression.

“You do not know how to do princess makeup,” the man eventually said, though in all honesty, it came out as more of a question than a definitive statement; as though he had just remembered that Peter did know how to braid hair, so it really wouldn’t be that far off the mark. Peter snorted.

“Don’t I?” he asked rhetorically. Morgan tugged on his sleeve excitedly.

“Do it on me! Do it on me!” she cheered.

“Okay,” Peter agreed readily, gaze sweeping over the nearby pedestrians once more. (Had he been paying attention, he would have caught the almost comical bug-eyed look Tony shot in his direction at his acquiescence.) Morgan, for her part, cheered loudly and jumped, forcing Peter to take most of her weight on his arm, leaning backwards so he didn’t fall face-first into the pavement.

The walk wasn’t long — likely made even shorter by his distracted mental state — and before he knew it, they’d already reached Lily’s apartment and exchanged pleasantries with her parents. Well, more accurately, Tony had exchanged pleasantries, Morgan had run off with a little girl (presumably Lily), and Peter had hung back in the stairwell, hands shoved in his pockets as he stared at a patch of flaking paint on the adjoining wall.

“Okay, what gives?” Tony appeared next to him. Years of practice prevented Peter from startling, but it was a near thing. “You’ve been spaced out all morning.”

“Says who?” Peter asked, in an admittedly weak attempt at a rebuttal, turning and making his way back down the stairs in an attempt to avoid this conversation. Tony snorted aloud from behind him.

“See, that was suspicious right there. No snarky comeback? No scathing retort? You can lie and deflect better than that, kid.”

For all his irritation on the matter, Peter had to admit the man was right. Fury would have called him out within seconds; frankly, Peter was surprised Tony had lasted as long as he had. Ugh . Since when had Tony Stark joined the list of people who could read his mannerisms? For years, that list had been restricted to May, Ned, and MJ — and in the most recent ones, only Fury. The thought of his aunt and friends — former friends — only deepened his scowl.

“Maybe you should mind your own business,” he snapped back as they reached the sidewalk. Tony peered at him through narrowed eyes, but he didn't look annoyed, as Peter had been going for. Rather, he looked concerned .

“That’s more like it.” He pointed a finger in Peter’s direction. “But something is still bothering you.”

Peter stayed silent and stalked ahead in an attempt to avoid the inevitable direction this conversation seemed to be headed in. It was his fault, really — he’d known since the morning that if he didn’t reorient himself, Tony would be on his case about it. He was frankly surprised he’d lasted as long as he had, though that was likely because of Morgan’s presence. Unfortunately, his head was too full of what-ifs and should-haves to contribute much to a conversation, much less keep up his usual mask of indifference.

He managed to stay half a step ahead of Tony until they reached a crosswalk — the red light forced Peter to stop and allowed the man to catch up to him, huffing a bit. Peter had no qualms about jaywalking, except this particular intersection was a fairly busy one, and he would have been flattened by a car (or several cars) if he had attempted it. Though at this point, that might have been the preferable option.

A car whizzed by less than a foot away, and Peter felt his Spidey-sense tingle, ramping up more than it had in the last few hours. He didn’t move from his position, crossing his arms as he felt Tony come to a stop beside him. He pointedly ignored the look the billionaire sent in his direction, eyes focused on the red light, praying that it would turn green sooner rather than later.

He half-expected Tony to be angry or annoyed at Peter’s attempts at dodging the line of questioning, but to his surprise, the man didn’t say anything for a few moments. Peter felt his pulse rate pick up the longer they stood in silence, hairs standing on end as though the quiet itself was dangerous — or whatever Tony would say next.

Out of habit, his eyes flicked over the few pedestrians on the sidewalk nearby (the block seemed emptier than usual), to the cars whizzing past, then back to the still-red stoplight. All the while, his anxiety ramped higher and higher, stress building as he heard Tony let out a sigh before he inhaled — a signal that he was about to speak.

Five things happened in rapid succession.

The light turned green.

Tony opened his mouth. “Kid —”

Peter’s eyes finished their habitual sweep; the last round, over the rooftops of the adjacent buildings. The unnatural glint of sunlight off of a piece of metal caught his attention. Sniper , his instincts screamed.

He realized the incessant anxiety had been the byproduct of his screaming Spider-sense, not normal apprehension.

A rifle went off.

“ Get down !” Peter shouted, moving before he’d even finished the first syllable. The crack of the gunshot echoed in his ears, eerily reminiscent of the night Ben had died. It felt like it was playing out in slow motion, like everything had frozen for a single moment — a moment long enough for Peter to relive the worst mistake of his life, with just enough time to make it again. He remembered reaching for Ben’s shirt, tugging, trying to pull him out of the bullet’s path — to no avail. There was no time, not here and now, no ability to duck out of the way of the trajectory of the shell, no way to escape reliving his failures yet again. (He thought, ironically, maybe he was the modern-day Sisyphus, forced to fail for eternity for cheating death.)

Peter did the one and only thing he could do in the moment: throw himself in the trajectory of the bullet instead.

He wasn’t certain his endeavor had been successful, not until pain exploded in his side, and he made contact with Tony, yanking him down to the ground behind a parked car.

"Stay down!" Peter hissed, pressing his body against the pavement as his side throbbed with white-hot agony. The coppery tang of blood filled his senses, and he clenched his teeth, forcing himself to stay focused. He couldn’t afford to let Tony notice, not yet. Not until his job was done. He mentally thanked past-Peter for electing to wear a black hoodie and pants today; it meant the blood wouldn’t be noticed if he moved quickly.

“FRI, get me a read on —” Tony started, making a move to partially stand up, exposing himself (like an idiot ).

“Stay down ,” Peter barked out again, yanking on the man’s arm with a little more force than was probably necessary. In his defense, did the billionaire want to get shot in the fucking head?

“Kid, what the hell —”

“Sniper. West corner,” Peter muttered. “Don’t move. Just keep their focus.”

Tony’s eyes narrowed in his direction, and Peter knew he only had a narrow window of time before the man caught onto something being wrong.

“I’ll circle around and —” Peter started, moving to stand up, but this time it was Tony who cut him off, yanking him back down by his wrist. Peter barely managed to hold back a hiss of pain as the sudden movement jostled his gunshot wound.

“Are you insane?” Tony hissed. “You’re not going anywhere. FRIDAY’s got help en route —”

“That won’t get here in time,” Peter hissed back. Urgency thrummed in his chest — this was a lead, this was important . If he could catch the sniper before they got away, maybe he could finally put a stop to this. It would keep the Starks safe, get justice for Ben, and get these weapons off the street. Or at least stop them from further populating, by cutting off the source.

“Doesn’t matter. We wait,” Tony said, and Peter could tell by his tone that there was no room for argument. He clenched his jaw, pain spiking through his skull with the force, knowing that if he waited any longer, the sniper could get away, or even get a better shot. He had to move now . He was stronger than Tony; theoretically, he could yank himself free and make a break for it. But Tony was gripping his arm so tightly that he was afraid if he tried, the force of his pull would yank Tony with him, pulling him out from behind the cover of the car and placing him as a clear target of the sniper.

“Fine,” he muttered, lowering his head in an outward show of deference. “You’re right.”

Tony blinked, clearly startled by Peter’s words. “What?”

“We wait for backup,” Peter parroted, flashing a strained smile. “You’re the boss, yeah?”

Tony’s eyes narrowed at that, looking incredibly suspicious. “Parker, I swear to god —”

Peter cut him off, letting out a theatrical half-grunt, half-groan. Tony’s gaze sharpened, and his spine stiffened.

“What’s wrong?”

Peter shook his head in response. “Nothing, just a leg cramp. Jumped too fast,” he muttered, sliding down the side of the car in a show of stretching out his leg. The movement pulled his arm out of Tony’s white-knuckled grip — the moment he’d been waiting for. The second he was free, he jumped into action, springing up and sprinting towards a nearby alley opening. He half-expected to be riddled with bullets during the few seconds he was out in the open, but by some miracle made it to his target unscathed.

Well. Except for the oozing bullet wound embedded in his side.

In any event, it was better him than Tony; given the angle of the shot and the position they’d been in when it was fired, the bullet would have hit the man’s heart. The entire thing reeked of professionalism, in a manner that made it all the more important that Peter catch whoever was behind it all.

He heard Tony shout something behind him, but he was too busy scanning the rooftops and trying to catch sight or sound of the shooter to pay attention to what was being said. He grunted in frustration when he couldn’t see anything; he needed a higher vantage point.

Glancing around, he spared a few seconds to check for cameras or bystanders — and, finding none, launched himself onto a nearby wall. He nearly slipped, fingers slick with blood, but regained his balance, clambering up the bricks with as much speed as he could manage. Tony had surely noticed the blood he’d left behind by now, and Peter was not so foolish as to believe the billionaire would do the smart thing and stay put, so his options were limited regarding how much time he had. Really, one would think that a genius would perhaps not run straight towards a sniper whose target was him — except, well, apparently Tony Stark didn’t really follow the rules of common sense.

Peter hauled himself up onto the rooftop, pulse pounding in his ears as his head started to feel woozy. The sniper's perch was empty, just as he'd feared. The rifle was gone — the only trace there’d been a shooter at all being a faint scuff mark near the ledge. And, again, the throbbing wound in his side.

“Dammit,” Peter hissed to himself, resisting the urge to drive his knuckles into the brick next to him. He peered over the side, hoping for a glimpse of the escaping assailant, but the streets below were bustling with cars and pedestrians, none of whom appeared suspicious. And all of whom appeared to be still going about their day, despite the gunshot fired mere moments earlier. Typical New Yorkers.

Just as he was about to resign himself to yet another loss, he heard the faint but unmistakable click of a deadbolt locking, echoing from somewhere below. His head snapped towards the building's stairwell access door, which stood shut. Whoever the sniper was, they must have retreated into the building, locking doors behind them as they went. For any normal person pursuing them, it would be a hindrance, but to Peter and his enhanced strength, it was more annoyance than anything.

Peter tilted his head, leaning over the side of the building to assess his strategy. If he tried to break down all of the doors and chase the sniper down into the building, it would be loud and obvious, and he’d give away the fact that he was enhanced as well as the element of surprise. Not to mention, if they heard him in pursuit, they might escape on any of the floors of the building — leaving through the windows if they got particularly desperate. Whereas if he intercepted them on the ground floor, he might be able to make it quick and efficient. Which, given his blood loss and the woozy state of his mind, was the best option. He didn’t think he really had enough blood left in him for a long-term chase.

Climbing over the roof’s edge, Peter glanced down the side of the building, and his gaze settled on a narrow alley with a rear door partially obscured by a dumpster. It had to be his best bet. The sniper wouldn’t risk a street-level escape out of the main door unless they had no other choice.

Steeling himself, he swung over the edge and began his descent — more of a controlled fall rather than actually climbing down. Every jolt and twist of his body sent sharp pangs of pain through his side, but he grit his teeth, willing himself to push through it. He had to get this guy.

Reaching the alleyway, he crouched low, scanning for signs of movement. The door remained shut, but his enhanced hearing picked up faint shuffling sounds inside. Tilting his head, he closed his eyes and focused, honing in on the heartbeat and footsteps. It wasn’t a set he’d heard before. The footsteps were somewhat uneven and clunky — military-grade combat boots, most likely, accompanied by a long-term leg injury, if he had to guess. Likely why he was a sniper and not a field agent. The racing of his heart supported that theory — strong, so not necessarily someone unfit, but someone who was not accustomed to running for long periods of time. Perhaps even a smoker, too, if the telltale rasp from his lungs was anything to go by. More than likely his suspect was a man, then — military experience, limp on the left leg, muscular but not particularly agile, and a smoker.

Peter edged closer, careful to keep his steps light, and pressed his ear to the door. The noise was clearer now — footsteps, deliberate and cautious, moving further towards his location.

He reached for the door handle, twisting it slowly. Locked. Of course. Who wouldn’t lock their back door from the outside in a dingy alley in New York City? He pressed his hand against the metal, testing its give. It wasn’t particularly sturdy — he could force it open if he needed to, but that would definitely make noise.

A flicker of motion caught his eye — a shadow passing across a narrow window further down the alley. (And that was dumb — who put a window facing an alley? Practically begging for a burglary. Not that it mattered much in an abandoned building.) Peter crouched lower, inching along the wall until he was beneath it. Rising slightly, he peeked through the glass, catching a glimpse of a figure in dark clothing moving swiftly towards the building's interior staircase. The rifle was slung across their back. From the momentary glance, he could tell his auditory assessment proved mostly correct — the build was definitely that of a man, white, from what he could tell, dressed in all black tactical gear.

“ Peter !” Tony’s voice called out, from somewhere nearby. With a start, he realized he was near the location the shooting had occurred, and thus somewhere near the man himself.

Goddamnit, Stark.

Inside, footsteps picked up speed, heading in the opposite direction, now. The sniper had heard the call, too, and was changing tact.

Peter felt his frustration boil over. He was bleeding, injured, and decidedly running out of time. But he couldn’t let this lead slip away. Not again, goddamnit. Ignoring the pounding in his skull and the spreading agony in his side, he made his decision.

He stepped back to the door, aimed a well-placed kick at the lock, and winced as the resulting crash echoed down the alley.

So much for subtlety.

The door flew open, slamming against the wall inside. Peter surged forward, pain flaring with every movement, but he couldn’t afford to stop now. The shooter was already halfway up the staircase, taking the steps two at a time despite his limp. Peter stumbled after him, gripping the rail for support as his legs threatened to give out beneath him. 

Woah , he thought as he listed to the side. He must have lost more blood than he’d originally assumed — usually, he would have at least a little bit longer before he was on the verge of passing out.

“Stop!” he called, voice hoarse and raw. He wasn’t sure if it was the blood loss or pure desperation that made him think that yelling, of all things, would work.

Predictably, the man did not stop. 

Instead, he reached the next landing and shoved a door open with his shoulder, disappearing inside. Peter swore under his breath, forcing his legs to move faster. The stairs blurred, and the edges of his vision went dark as dizziness threatened to fully overtake him. He reached the landing and leaned heavily against the wall, breath coming in sharp gasps. The open door swung on its hinges, leading into what looked like an empty office space — dusty desks, overturned chairs, and no sign of life.

Cautiously, he stepped inside, listening intently. His senses were fading in and out, now — his ears rang and the copper tang of blood invaded his nose, hindering his ability to hone in on his target. The building was eerily silent, save for the faint hum of the city outside. He edged forward, keeping to the shadows, and scanned the room for movement. His Spider-sense buzzed faintly — enough to warn him that he was not in a safe place, but not strong enough to pinpoint the exact location of the danger.

Helpful , he thought wryly.

A faint creak behind him and the spike from his now-dulled senses was all the warning he got.

Peter spun just in time to see the butt of the sniper's rifle swinging towards his head. He ducked, but not fast enough — the weapon clipped the side of his temple, sending him sprawling to the floor. Pain exploded in his skull, and for a moment, the room tilted wildly once again. He heard the man curse, his footsteps retreating toward the window.

“No, you don’t,” Peter ground out, forcing himself to his feet. His legs wobbled, body violently protesting the movement, but he pushed forward. He lunged, grabbing the man’s ankle just as he was halfway out the window. The shooter stumbled, rifle clattering to the ground, but he twisted around and kicked Peter hard in the chest. The force sent him sprawling again, gasping as the hit landed on his solar plexus, knocking the air from his lungs.

The sniper didn’t waste a second. He scrambled through the window, landing on the fire escape below with a loud clang . By the time Peter rolled over and dragged himself to the window — still gasping — the man was already back on the street, figure growing smaller and smaller as he disappeared into the rest of the everyday civilians.

Peter slumped against the window frame, vision swimming. His side burned, his head throbbed, and every breath felt like it took more effort than it should. He’d failed. Again. And now, with the blood loss catching up to him, he wasn’t sure he could even make it back down the stairs, nor that he’d be able to find Tony.

Just as he had the thought, his knees buckled fully, and he sank to the floor, pressing his back against the wall. The edges of the world were growing distinctly hazy, and the sounds of the city below had faded into an indistinct, dull roar.

Closing his eyes, he rested his temple against the blissfully cool floorboards, ignoring the tiny spikes of splinters embedding themselves in his hair and forearms.

What had he been so worried about?

It must have been something, something important, something…

Sleep , his thoughts whispered. Maybe they weren’t even his thoughts. He didn’t even really know who ‘he’ was anymore.

Sleep did sound appealing, though.

“Peter!”

Huh. Peter. That sounded right. He was Peter.

The person yelling… he couldn’t quite remember who they were, but they were loud. And really obnoxious.

Hands were on his shoulders, jostling him, and he groaned, cracking one eyelid open. He tried to grumble something like ‘go away’ or ‘let me sleep’ but what came out was a pathetic jumble of uncoordinated syllables. His eyes slipped shut once more; this time not of his own volition.

Peter’s last thought before passing out was that the person yelling his name sounded like May. Except no — that couldn’t be right. This was a man, one with short ruffled hair and a goatee; but the concern was so similar…

He didn’t have any more thoughts after that.

Chapter Text

“I told you, I’m fine.”

“You passed out .”

“For thirty seconds,” Peter snapped, trying to sit up. Tony shoved him back down with a firm hand.

“A minute and forty-three seconds, actually. And Happy had to haul your ass back to the Tower.”

“He didn’t haul me anywhere,” Peter corrected. “I climbed into the car myself.”

“Stumbled is more like it. And that’s not the point, kid. You have a goddamn hole in your side,” Tony shot back, tone sharp. 

Peter glared at him. “It’ll heal.”

Tony glared back. “Until it doesn’t.”

Peter rolled his eyes. “That doesn’t even make sense. That’s a cyclical argument.”

“Your logic doesn’t make sense,” Tony countered, a vein in his temple jumping. “You always assume it’ll heal. One day, it won’t. Or you’ll put yourself in a situation where it can’t.”

“I know my limits, okay?” Peter’s voice raised in conjunction with his level of irritation. It wasn’t technically a lie. He did know his own limits; how much his body could take. Whether he followed that knowledge was another argument entirely.

Tony’s nostrils flared, and for some strange reason, Peter had the feeling that he somehow knew what the unspoken implication had been. Which was, frankly, a little disturbing, because Peter knew his expression hadn’t given anything away — and as far as he knew, Tony Stark didn’t have powers of telepathy. But he was staring at Peter as though he did. As if he were intimately familiar with the train of thought running through his mind.

Luckily — or unluckily — he didn’t call him on it. Instead, Tony closed his eyes and blew out a long, steadying breath. “Why would you jump in front of it?”

Peter stared at him incredulously, then laughed. “I’m literally your bodyguard. That is the entire point of me being here.” 

And, frankly, it was the first time he’d actually been useful the whole time he was here, instead of standing around awkwardly in family gatherings he wasn’t really a part of. It was kind of a relief to be able to do something. Even if the ‘something’ in question was getting shot. Ah, well. Wouldn’t be the first or last time he was used for target practice.

The man’s mouth tugged down at the corners. “Wouldn’t have signed off on it if I knew you’d take it so literally.”

“Fury doesn’t really ask for input,” Peter replied, waving a dismissive hand. “He just assigns missions. If it wasn’t me, it would’ve been someone else.”

Tony’s lips pressed into a thin line, his telltale sign that Peter had hit a nerve. Peter squinted at him suspiciously.

“You wouldn’t care if it was someone else, would you? It’s just me you have the problem with.” The realization hit as he spoke. The billionaire glanced away briefly — just long enough to confirm Peter’s suspicion — before looking back at him warily.

“It’s creepy how you deduce things, y’know.”

Peter ignored him and pushed himself up onto his elbows. “This is my job . I’m your bodyguard. End of story.”

Tony’s nose twitched, like he had smelled something particularly rancid. “You’re nineteen, kid. You shouldn’t be anyone’s bodyguard. Least of all mine.”

“I’m not a kid,” Peter snapped, automatically. The moniker had lost its sting with the repetition, but his irritation came back full-force at the implication it now carried once more. “And I’m enhanced. I can take it.”

The billionaire blew out a frustrated breath, and dragged a hand through his hair. “That doesn’t — christ, Pete, there should be a better way to keep everyone safe rather than throwing yourself in the line of fire! You’re not disposable.”

Peter stared at him blankly for a beat or two. Then he laughed. He wasn’t quite sure why. Maybe because he’d spent so long in situations where his only purpose was to place himself in the line of fire. Maybe because the one time he hadn’t placed himself in the line of fire, Ben had died. Maybe because Peter had killed the shooter when, really, it should have been him. Maybe because Tony didn’t know what the hell he was talking about, and the irony of the situation was too much for even Peter to hold in.

As it was, Tony looked at him, horrified. Peter realized that maybe laughing disbelievingly was not the proper response to such a statement. Societally speaking, anyways. He tried to fix the situation, sobering and shaking his head firmly.

“I know,” he said, because he knew he wasn’t disposable, not like that. His skillset, his enhancements; they weren’t able to be replicated in such a way. He knew as much. But he also knew that it wasn’t what the billionaire meant. That didn’t mean that he had to specify his train of thought.

Tony’s reaction was immediate. He grabbed Peter’s shoulders with a grip that was surprisingly firm. He jerked back on instinct, but the grip held him still. Tony’s eyes pierced his, with an intensity that pushed past all his barriers and left him scrambling to put them back up. Everything was happening too damn fast, and what the hell was happening, really —

“Peter,” Tony said, firmly, gaze searching. “You’re not disposable. You . Not your powers, not your job, not your enhancements — you .” He jabbed a finger against Peter’s sternum to punctuate the word. “Do you understand that?”

Peter stared at him, momentarily stunned into silence, jaw hinged slightly ajar. He couldn’t even muster a witty comeback. How the hell had Stark seen through him like that? He was sure he hadn’t said any of it out loud. Or had he? He didn’t dare to ask, because asking would be confirming. (Hell, maybe Tony did have secret telepathic abilities at the rate things were playing out here.)

Tony’s face twitched, and he looked more devastated than Peter had ever seen him, which really didn’t make sense for the situation at hand. In fact, it didn’t make sense at all, because Tony was the type of man to be far more prone to anger as a knee-jerk reaction when faced with an emotionally volatile situation rather than sadness. If Peter had murdered his puppy in front of him, the billionaire was far more likely to drop-kick him into the nearest wall rather than break down into tears.

But Tony wasn’t done speaking, clearly sensing Peter’s confusion.

“I know because I was you.” He jammed the finger at Peter’s sternum again. “I didn’t think I was anything beyond my tech, my money, or what I could do. But I learned. The hard way. And I’m not letting you make the same damn mistakes.” He ran a hand through his hair. “Jeez, kid, this was what I was trying to get at last night. Y’know, that whole heart-to-heart thing we had? Did you absorb any of it? Or am I going to have to repeat myself a third time?”

Peter stared at him, because in no imaginable reality did he ever think this would happen. Nor did he predict for it to happen now. Or ever. Did the sniper put some hallucinogens in that bullet? He doubted it, but that was a far more reasonable explanation than the truth. 

Before he could make sense of it all, though, reality hit him in a wave — rolling in in the form of pain radiating from his side. Ben. The sniper. His job .

You’re just a bodyguard , the voice in his head reminded him.

Peter pulled back, walls going up as quickly as Tony had broken them down. “No, I heard you,” he snapped back. “But — what, you’re insinuating I jumped in front of the bullet because I don’t think I’m redeemable , or something?”

“Didn’t you?” Tony snapped right back. 

This time, Peter didn’t outwardly react, mask as firmly secured as it was the first day of this mission. “You’re not my therapist,” he responded coolly. “Or my medic. This is my job . I didn’t ask for your opinion.”

He started to stand, to make a dignified exit and put an end to this ridiculous argument. Frankly, to put an end to all of it. Maybe if he walked out, Stark would finally treat him like the bodyguard that he was, and not… whatever he’d been treating him as before all this. 

“You’re not walking out of my Tower with a goddamn bullet wound in you. Sit back down, Parker.”

“You don’t give me orders,” Peter shot back, stubbornly. “And it’s not a bullet wound.” He added on, for good measure, because semantics were important in such petty arguments. He’d thought it was a rifle, at first, but it had turned out that it was some kind of modified alien-gun type of weapon, just like the one that had been used on Ben — which explained why he’d lost so much blood in such a short period of time.

Tony’s mouth pressed into a thin line. “Walking out of this Tower would be abandoning your post,” he ground out. “Which is against your orders. Sit. Down.”

Peter glared at him. He was right, and Peter hated that he was right. He really hated that he was right.

He sat.

Tony seemed to relax now that Peter wasn’t trying to leave, and his expression took on one that was softer, more pained. Less demanding.

The billionaire studied him for a long moment, expression unreadable but lined with something Peter didn’t have the energy to decipher. Or just didn’t have the energy to process.

“I don’t care about you abandoning your post,” Tony said at last, his voice quieter but no less firm. Peter already knew that, of course. He just hadn’t pointed it out because he really didn’t want to have this conversation. “I care about you, kid.”

Peter shook his head, the denial sharp and immediate, leaving his lips before he even thought about it. “No.”

God, he should have walked out when he had the chance. Why did he listen? He didn’t take orders from Stark. Besides, the likelihood of an assassination attempt like thirty minutes after the first one was miniscule, at best. Now was the best time to leave.

“ No ?” Tony echoed, eyebrows shooting up his forehead. “You don’t exactly get to dictate who I decide to care about.”

“No,” Peter repeated, firmer this time, as if doubling down would make him believe it, too. Just a bodyguard, he reminded himself. Clearly he needed to remind Stark of that, too. His head had started to swim, and he blinked rapidly, trying to clear the haziness that crept in. “Nope. Nada. Nein. Whatever language gets the point across. Not me. You don’t get to pick that. It’s — it's a bad idea. A bad path.”

Tony laughed, short and brittle. “Guess we are rehashing this, then, huh? Fine. Clearly you don’t pick up on hints, even obvious ones, so I’ll just have to say it until you believe it.”

“Good luck with that,” Peter muttered.

He scowled. “Kid, trust me, I’ve walked every bad path there is. Stumbled, tripped, crawled through some of them. I know the difference by now.” Peter shook his head again, but Tony wasn’t done. “Difficult? Sure. You’ve been a pain in my ass from day one. And now you’re bleeding all over my floor and pretending you’re fine. I’ll give you credit — you’re damn good at it. The pain in my ass part, to be clear, not the pretending you’re fine bit.”

Rude. 

He stepped forward, moving into Peter’s space again. “But I hate to break it to you, kid — I practically wrote that playbook. I know every trick up your sleeve. I lived and breathed that lifestyle for decades. You don’t have me beat there. Difficult? Yes. Pepper deserves a medal of honor for putting up with me. But bad?” Tony shook his head. “Not a chance.”

Peter kept his face blank, even as Tony pressed a hand to his chest, firm but not rough, forcing him back onto the couch. Peter could have resisted, probably should have, but his side throbbed like hell, and the room spun just enough to make him think better of it. Besides, flinging Tony across the room in retaliation — despite how annoying he was sometimes — wasn’t actually something he wanted to do. Especially not if he felt like avoiding Fury’s wrath. Or Morgan’s, and god knows Peter didn’t need a crying five-year-old on his hands.

“You’re an asshole,” Peter bit out, the words raw and jagged between his teeth. He wasn’t dignifying any of that with an actual response.

“Yeah, well, you’re a little shit. Match made in heaven,” Tony drawled, turning his attention back to the first aid kit.

Peter scrunched his face in disgust. “I don’t appreciate the imagery that evokes.”

Tony snorted, digging through the kit and shooting him a pointed look. “Wouldn’t be in this position if you didn’t decide to get yourself shot.”

“My fucking bad,” Peter grumbled. “For doing my fucking job. ”

Tony didn’t even look up this time. “I’m instituting a swear jar. You curse too much. Not good for young developing minds.”

Peter’s glare could’ve curdled milk. Which would have been more effective if the billionaire had the decency to look at him. “You swear more than me.”

Tony waved him off dismissively. “I’m a billionaire. I can afford it.”

“You’re an asshole,” Peter muttered again, letting his head drop back against the couch cushions. It was just as true as it had been the first time he said it, and now he felt marginally better for reiterating.

“Swear jar,” Tony deadpanned, not missing a beat.

“Fuck you,” Peter replied automatically, almost reflexively. Okay, so maybe he had issues with authority. Sue him. If he was going to rack up debt, he might as well go all in.

“Pepper’s job,” Tony said, off-handedly, and Peter choked on a surprised laugh. The billionaire worked in silence for a few more moments before letting out another muffled curse. Peter raised his head from the cushion to peer at him, debating the merits of bringing up the swear jar joke, but refrained when he saw the man’s expression.

Tony frowned down at his side. “You’re still bleeding,” he said. “I need to call Cho.”

"This isn't even the worst experience with a bullet I've had," Peter mumbled offhandedly, glancing down apathetically to the wound. It was, indeed, still bleeding — though sluggishly. He wasn’t all too concerned. He’d survived worse. He endeavored to avoid the SHIELD hospital by any means necessary.

"Dare I ask what counts as your worst experience with a bullet?" Tony asked, wryly. Peter should have said no. He really, really should have said no. Unfortunately, his brain-to-mouth filter notably lacked in its usual capabilities, and his inside thoughts became outside thoughts .