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You Are My Sunshine

Summary:

Tony Stark had always been a man of science and he always would be. It was his personal and fundamental belief that everything had an explanation. His eventual encounters with Norse gods, alien life, and sorcerers did kind of quake this a little bit, but still.

One thing that had always confounded him as the one thing that had no scientific explanation was fate. Murphy’s law, Finagle’s law, the butterfly effect, the domino effect, the snowball effect, and the wisest of all: “Shit happens.”

So how peculiar was it that one of the greatest things to ever happen to him began with a tray of champagne?

(In which Peter Parker is Tony's biological son)

Chapters 1-12: Pre-Iron Man
Chapters 13-???: Iron Man

Chapter 1: Chapter One

Chapter Text

Tony Stark had always been a man of science and he always would be. It was his personal and fundamental belief that everything had an explanation. His eventual encounters with Norse gods, alien life, and sorcerers did kind of quake this a little bit, but still.

One thing that had always confounded him as the one thing that had no scientific explanation was fate. Murphy’s law, Finagle’s law, the butterfly effect, the domino effect, the snowball effect, and the wisest of all: “Shit happens.”

For example, at age nine, Tony was playing with (that is, disassembling) toy robots and cars when he was told to get ready for the day. Almost brushing his teeth reminded him that he hadn’t eaten breakfast yet. Watching bacon sizzle in the pan reminded him that he’d left his jacket on a computer exhaust. Tossing his jacket into his room, atop all the disassembled pieces, reminded him to go check if his favorite T-shirt had been washed yet. Checking on his T-shirt, he passed by a window and saw snowfall. Seeing snowfall, he went back to his room to grab his jacket. Having forgotten about the disassembled toy pieces, he blindly grabbed his jacket and pierced his palm on a screw. Lo and behold, now he has a tiny scar on his palm.

The chain of events were not illogical, but there was no chemistry, no formula. The butterfly beat its wings, the domino tipped over, the snowball began to roll. Shit happened.

So how peculiar was it that one of the greatest things to ever happen to him began with a tray of champagne?

Tony was thirty years old and was at one of such a long, long list of charity balls that he had to remind himself just what charity it was for several times throughout the night. There were men in three-piece suits and women in long, flowing dresses. Alcohol was pouring from every bottle and he swore there was a band blasting music at every other corner.

Tony was doing what he typically did at these balls and galas: spacing out. Rhodey was going to be flying in soon and he wanted to treat him to an unnecessarily expensive dinner, but couldn’t decide which restaurant would be best. He was sipping on a glass of red wine and wondering if he had or hadn’t tasted its kind before. A woman in a deep-cut crimson dress was eyeballing him across the way and he couldn’t tell if there was a wedding ring on her finger or not. And, of course, plans. Plans for machines, plans for Stark Industries, plans of public speeches and award ceremonies, plans for this and that and whatever else.

Enter the tray of champagne, sudden and jarring, knocking over his shoulder and drenching his…geez, which one was this again? Armani? Dolce & Gabbana? Didn’t really matter, he guessed.

It had happened before and it would happen again. As per the norm, there are gasps and groans of sympathy, the clinking of glass hitting the floor, and a profuse stream of “Oh my god, Mr. Stark, I am so sorry! I am so, so sorry!”

Tony, meanwhile, just shook off the droplets that had trickled down his fingertips. “You’re fine. It’s fine. Just two thousand dollars, no worries.”

“I’m so sorry!” The waiter looked on the verge of tears, like he was staring a gun down the barrel. “I wasn’t looking, I wasn’t—I’m so sorry, Mr. Stark.”

“Yeah, yeah, I heard you. Hey, you got a manager I can talk to?” The sudden blueness of the poor guy’s face was worth it, and Tony laughed and clapped his shoulder with his champagne-sticky hand. “That was a joke. Point me to a bathroom, then find a place to put your head between your knees.”

He was directed to the bathroom while the guy was still struggling to breathe. He walked in and was struck with the realization that hey, he’d been in this place before and somehow not known it. He recognized the porcelain faucets and gold lining of the floor tiles. Not that he was marveling in the scenery. Nodding to the woman standing in the corner, he moved towards…the…

Tony looked back. Yeah. Woman. Definitely a woman. Short, slender. Smooth brown hair that fell to her shoulders, round green eyes. Perma-dimples and a little beauty mark on her chin. Like most of the female waiting staff, she was dressed in a black pencil skirt and white blouse. A little black ribbon was tied in her shirt collar.

While he was staring, she just nodded at him with her hands behind her back.

Tony clicked his tongue. “Hello.”

She did the same nod with a bit more sarcasm.

Tony pursed his lips and looked around the bathroom. There was no one in there but them. Urinals lined the wall. He was not lost.

He looked back at her with a grin that was only half-forced. “Are you my tour guide?”

“Your assistant.” She reached to the little gilded cart pressed against the wall, picked up a little bowl filled with pinkish little candies. “Mint?”

Lips still pursed in a half-forced smile, Tony pointedly plucked one from the bowl and tucked it away. Another rehearsed nod.

Tony pointed past her head. “I’m not to assume there’s a forty-odd man in the ladies’ room, am I?”

She shook her head. Her brown hair swayed around her shoulders. “There’s a lady in the ladies’ room.”

“That makes perfect sense.”

“Doesn’t it?” She mimicked his smile, but when he kept staring her down, she dropped it into a more halfhearted one. “Mens’ room attendees get better tips.”

Tony raised a brow. “Is that what you wrote under ‘why do you wish to work at this establishment’?”

“That’s what I told Craig when I told him why I wanted to take his shift tonight.”

“So what does Craig get?”

“A whole cheesecake from the kitchen.”

“That’s it?”

“You must not have tried it.”

Tony tipped his head in a Fair enough nod and turned for the sink. Quickly but smoothly, the woman reached over and turned on the faucet for him. Then, as Tony cut it off, waved his finger no-no, and turned on the other, she frowned.

“Cold water for champagne, hot water for red wine,” he told her. “Mark that down for future reference.”

She nodded with fake grace. “Is this coming out of my tip?”

“I figured I’d bend the curve and not give you one.” Tony let the warm water set its way in—took the cloth from her when she offered—even though it wasn’t going to do any good. This was just going to make it .01% less sticky for the rest of the evening. “How’s that working out for you, by the way? I’d think they’d be stiffing you, am I wrong?”

“Yes, actually. I’m doing pretty good. I think me just standing there actually ‘stiffs’ them.”

“That’s horrifying.”

“It’s a living.”

Tony snorted and she huffed a laugh. Having done all that he could, he shook the last bit of water off his sleeve and took the towel she handed outward to him. He “scrutinized” her work of folding it up after…and tossing it into the washbin without looking.

“Serving hors d’oeuvres must get an abysmal pay rate,” he told her. “If standing here and watching guys answer Mother Nature’s call is the better alternative, I mean.”

The woman raised her hands up in a “don’t ask me” way. Her dimples only deepened on her face. “I did my research. Turning on faucets and handing out mints gets about thirty cents more than handing out smoked salmon on crackers.”

“Ridiculous.”

“I know.”

“Ludicrous.”

“Right?”

“Unacceptable, so: I’ll tell you what.” Tony reaches into his breast pocket and picks out a twenty. He always liked to tip waiting staff at things like these; more than half of them were trying to make ends met. Lord knew this woman was pulling extra weight. “I’m going to give you Andrew Jackson for your trauma, and if you can manage to get your way into the kitchen and snag me some of that red wine, I’ll swap it for Ulysses S. Grant.”

She took it with her brows knit together in a contemplative look. “What about Ben Franklin?”

He tipped his head. “Throw in that cheesecake and have it be as good as you say, and I’ll see if I can set up a meeting between you two.”


 

Her name was Mary Fitzpatrick, she was twenty-six, and fit in with much of the other waiting staff: struggling to make ends meet in Queens.

Things had never really been great for her, though she more stated this than lamented about it. She’d been in foster care for practically her entire life, with a few good loving families, one or two money-seekers who dropped her just as soon as they’d picked her up, and most strangers who treated her well enough but weren’t willing to take her in for good. Her last family had even paid her way through community college, but after that, she was on her own.

At the very least, she had a good circle of friends who’d helped her to her feet more than once. Richard, in particular, she’d known for years now and knew she could rely on in a heartbeat. She’d thought for a long time that they might end up as more than friends, but now that Richard had taken a job on the other side of the continent, that had apparently gone out the window.

Again, she did not cry and wail this to him—and thank God for that, because Tony has had more than one woman break down and weep the cruelty of life to him. Tony usually tried to call up one of their friends, maybe suggest therapy, and let them be. Mary, however, had been toughened, not broken, by her troubles. She wasn’t cold and unfeeling, just accepting in a somber sort of way.

Tony listened without prying. He changed the subject subtly, more to make her feel better than for his own disinterest. Mary Fitzpatrick was not disinteresting, not in the slightest. Tony was not going to complain about his many encounters he’s had with women over the years, of course not. He was the instigator more often than not. But more often than not, those encounters were fleeting and almost business-like. Sure, they’d flirt and laugh and joke with him, but all with the underlying message that it was just for the aesthetic. Soon enough they’d be in bed, the next morning would come, and they would depart like strangers, so there was no point in the extra effort.

Mary, though, she was fun. Tony was having fun outside of drinking or craps or roulette or whatever else. This was the kind of fun he had with Rhodey and Obadiah. Light and happy, no worries, just laughs. Mary stole the wine and the cheesecake from the back and rendezvoused with him near the bar. They both ate a slice with their bare fingers, facing away from one another so as not to attract the “Why is Tony Stark talking to a waiting girl?” stares.

The two of them listened to the band and realized they were playing the same two songs back to back. Mary bet he couldn’t get them to play “Everybody” by the Backstreet Boys as if he wasn’t Tony Stark. It took until the trumpets blasted along to “Backstreet’s back, ALRIGHT!” for her to realize it had worked and she just about snorted wine out of her nose.

Happy found him, extremely unamused that Tony had shaken him off once again, and was more than a little confused when Tony slid half a cheesecake over to him and told him to go nuts. He did leave them be, though, probably thanks to the genuine smile on Tony’s face. After the wine is gone, Tony promised that he could name every alcohol and every mix behind the bar by taste and Mary made him prove it.

It was entirely possible that at least a little of the happiness came from the alcohol buzzing through his system, but Tony was positive that the rest was genuine. No, he didn’t love or fall in love with Mary. That wasn’t something that happened in the span of a few hours. He for sure grew a fondness for her, though. He would not at all minded seeing her again.

They laughed and joked and poked fun at each other while Tony’s naming every glass that’s slid their way—White Russian, Vodka Sunrise, Lime Rickey, Angel Face, rum and Coke with way too much Coke and not enough rum, please follow the guidelines Bill, you’re charging people for more than they’re getting.

What happened next was unsurprising, even though Tony wouldn’t be able to recall many details later. They got away from the crowd and the music, they were in the back of his car, they were stumbling into an elevator, Mary’s lips were smiling and laughing and then they were against his and so on, so forth.

Tony really would have liked to see her again, truly. He thought about that in the few moments before he fell asleep, with Mary’s hair ruffled up into a cloud and the city lights shining through the window. It would have been awkward, definitely. Certainly. Horribly. But they could move past that. He could have even hooked her up with a job if she wanted one. Maybe even introduce her to Rhodey. And hey, if at some point down the road they decided maybe a coffee date was in order, so be. If not, so be it. Mary was an awfully friendly woman and being her friend could be awful nice.

That was not how things went. Here was the beat of the butterfly’s wings, the tip of the domino, the roll of the snowball:

Tony prepared for this charity event in his Armani-or-whatever suit, hopped into his car, and made it fifteen minutes before getting a security alert from J.A.R.V.I.S. He turned around, expecting to find paparazzi in the front yard or a drone snapping pictures above the mansion roof, and it turned out to just be DUM-E sliding off-track and knocking over a tool cart. He shut DUM-E down for the night, decided that his suit was actually dark blue instead of black so he would need to change his tie, and did so. Around this time, Mary Fitzpatrick convinced Craig to let her take his spot as the men’s restroom’s attendee in exchange for a strawberry cheesecake. Craig took her spot as a waiter, but with every passing moment grew more and more nervous that someone would find out about the switch, and they’d both be fired. So nervous was he that he turned too fast with a tray of champagne and spilled it over the suit of Tony Stark.

This was one of those cases that Tony would return to when he thought of the unscientific nature of fate. He would also think about what might have happened if the following morning went a little more like they usually did. If they had awkward small talk and an awkward goodbye. If he’d had coffee and breakfast ready in the kitchen. If Mary had stayed around five minutes, one minute, three seconds longer. Or even if things went differently and he did offer that job to her, or that introduction to Rhodey, or that coffee date.

Instead, Mary woke up before him at seven o’clock in the morning with a bruising headache and Tony’s arm splayed over her back. Confused and disoriented, she sprung from the bad, rattling Tony awake with a groan. She looked at him and her and the bedroom, and through sleep-crusted eyes and a hell of a hangover of his own, Tony saw her put two and two together in her head.

Then she muttered “shit”, threw on all her clothes, and left before he’d even sat up in bed. He never saw her again.

This was the start of one of the greatest things to ever happen to Tony Stark.

Chapter 2: Chapter Two

Summary:

“It’s fine, but I actually have one other thing for you.” This ‘thing’ was a simple sheet of notepad paper scribbled on without elegance. She waved it between her fingers. “Richard Parker wants to speak to you. He won’t say what it’s about, but since he’s called three times in the last day, I think it’s urgent.”

Chapter Text

Mary Fitzpatrick faded from Tony’s memory soon enough after their one and only night together, as did most of the women who woke up in his bed. By the next day, he’d let go of her completely. In the years that followed, if he saw red wine or strawberry cheesecake or heard “Everybody” playing over the radio, he would fleetingly think of her and carry on.

He had every reason to believe that she would leave no impact on him for the rest of his life. Time went on. Months and years passed. He met other women on other nights at other parties. Once or twice he even struck up that semblance of fondness for them, but as with Mary, they didn’t last.

Tony met Virginia “Pepper” Potts in 2003, hired her as his personal assistant, and realized quickly that he’d struck gold. He’d had personal assistants before, but they’d never lasted, for various reasons. They asked too many questions, they slipped secrets to the press, they screwed up on paperwork one too many times, they just wanted to be associated with Tony Stark and made it clear, etc.

Pepper did not ask questions that didn’t need to be asked. She signed the confidentiality agreement and kept her lips sealed shut. It didn’t matter what she had to work with, how much or how fast, she always got her work done and had it done right. She knew that she was great at her job and that was why she did it. She wasn’t a stick in the mud. Well…not always. Once someone pushed her buttons too far, or openly undermined her skills, she put her foot down and made it clear she wasn’t taking it.

Despite Rhodey’s teasing, Obadiah’s sureness, and Happy’s indirect but not at all subtle questioning, Tony made a point not to pursue Pepper. Pepper was a beautiful woman and that couldn’t be denied, but time had taught him that “Don’t date in your workplace” was a rule to uphold. He hoped to keep Pepper with him for a good long while, but if he ended up having to cut her loose, that would be a lot easier without strings attached.

Pepper earned the responsibility of keeping up with Tony’s more…“personal” troubles, too. Not just keeping up with the slander and tabloids, but with the dozens of letters and phone calls he got on the daily from strangers with an agenda. More than once, she had to tell one of his former bedmates that no, Tony was not going to “buy their silence”, he wasn’t going to do them a favor, he wasn’t going to pay off their college loans or their new car or this and that. A lot of people who insisted that Tony had promised funding for their projects, most lying, others having taken his promise while Tony was falling over drunk. There’d even been a couple of woman claiming to have carried Tony’s children, but all of them had dropped it once it was made clear an investigation would ensue. The worst one was undoubtedly a woman who’d claimed to have Tony’s child, only for a quick history check to confirm that she’d never had a baby, ever.

This was where her patience was tested, but she made a point not to complain. She had many things to do every minute and the sooner she could shoo them all out the door, the better. Some of them weren’t even all that bad. Sometimes, if their intentions were good—a young entrepreneur seeking some advice, a bedmate only curious to see if their relationship would go further, and more than once just someone who wanted to thank Tony for his inspiration—Tony himself would take over and leave a word or two for them.

The Iraq War began in 2003, and with it yet another boom for Stark Industries, and worldwide reception polarized even more intensely.

Oh, just about everyone admired Tony Stark, and even if you didn’t, you knew him. You knew that he knew what he was doing and he did it well.

Quickly, though, there are peaceful protests, number after number of opinion pieces, and even the most “neutral” news coverages were leaning on one side or the other. Half—Well, more like seventy-five percent of the world adored Tony Stark as much as they always had. He was a visionary, the modern-day Da Vinci, the single greatest thing to happen to the United States. All he had to do was wink and the world fell to pieces.

That last quarter of the world despised him. Distrusted him. Were even scared of him. War sowed violence, and violence reaped death—and many, many people laid each and every death squarely at Tony’s feet.

Murderer.

Fear mongerer.

Baby killer.

The Merchant of Death.

So many times were they said that Pepper was told to just let it go. Slander and “opinion” had a fine line between them. Pepper herself was approached by reporters and journalists, most wanting to know Stark Industries’ next role in the war, or if Tony had ever said anything they hadn’t heard. Some had even had the nerve to ask how she could stand working for a man like Anthony Stark.

Tony, meanwhile, just smiled and waved. No number of protests was going to keep his face off the cover of Forbes or stop him from giving speeches at college graduation ceremonies all over the continent.

Pepper was at first perplexed and even a bit unsettled by how easily Tony took all this in. Tony was Stark Industries, and Stark Industries was Tony. To be blamed and dragged through the mud day in and day out, to see the war-torn images flashing across the television screens, she just didn’t get how he could still shrug it off. It took her a while to understand that, well, that was just what he did. Shrug it off. Oh, he would pioneer the projects and oversee the developments. That was his reason to live. As soon as it came to face that reason’s destruction, all he had to do was snip the cord and let it go. Out of sight, out of mind.

Not that Tony’s consciousness weighed light. He had plenty of long, sleepless night. One too many people pointing a finger in his face and demanding he face what he’d done to the world. Talk shows spoke his name more times a day than there were stars in the sky, and though he wasn’t one to listen into those, he couldn’t afford them forever.

One guest on one show—who was he? What show was it?—went on a rant against Stark Industries and hit many of the usual marks: Murder! Immoral! Greedy! Nothing from the usual.

Until he said that, accounting for any and every life lost to whatever bomb, missile, or firearm was manufactured by Stark Industries, Tony Stark was ranked among the world’s deadliest mass murderers.

Tony drank a lot that night.

Rhodey had his back, of course. He always did, he was Rhodey. Not only his closest friend, but a man whose blood likely ran red, white, and blue. His comfort could only go so far, though, especially when Tony could only see him face-to-face so often. Obie did the best job at getting his mind cleared, at least in moments.

“Just think of how many kids are sleeping safe tonight ‘cause of this,” he’d tell him with a clap on the shoulder. “Come on, Tony. What are we going to do, stop everything cold? Leave parents unemployed, people without money to pay rent? You should be feeling damn pleased about everything you’ve got going for you.”

Obie probably wasn’t the best at comfort, in hindsight, but he knew what he was doing. Of course he wasn’t going to ease all of Tony’s troubles, and that wasn’t his job. His job was to keep him functioning, and he’d been doing it well for more than ten years.

Tony’s life went on as it always did, rich, full of energy, always busy. All the while, Tony did not see the hurricane forming by the butterfly’s wings, the line of dominoes falling his way, the snowball rolling downhill right for him.


 

It was November 17, 2006, and Tony wasn’t in a particularly good mood. Development on the Jericho missile had slowed enough to have several board members antsy, necessitating a near-emergency meeting with more yelling and finger-pointing than he’d cared for. Traffic turned his forty-minute drive home into an hour-and-a-half drive. Also, he missed dinner.

He was more than a little happy to be returning to the haven of his mansion at the end of the day. Slamming the door on his Audi, he was at once greeted with J.A.R.V.I.S.’s ever-smooth voice. “Welcome home, sir.”

“Ciao,” he grunted in response.

He took the stairs up to the lounge and immediately found Pepper sitting on one of the couches. Still in her business attire, the typical pencil skirt and blazer, long blonde hair pulled back in a tight bun. She had her tablet in hand and was looking at it with some impatience.

(She may or may not have been playing Bejeweled on it.)

“Sincerest apologies for my tardiness,” Tony sighed, throwing his coat on the nearest surface. Pepper at once put the tablet away and resumed her posture, not that he could care any less. “In my defense, I was going to get you something at Zales to make it up to you, but the thought occurred that I don’t know what your birthstone is. February is theeeeee…?”

“Amethyst.”

Tony snapped his fingers. “Thought so.”

“And also, that would have made you even later.”

“Another excellent point.”

“I have everything else taken care of for the day, but I wanted to give you these myself—”

Tony raised a hand, causing her lips to purse. “I’m positive that what you’re about to say is incredibly important—”

“Possibly.”

“—but I do believe there should be Italian cuisine waiting for me somewhere. Please direct me.”

Pepper pointed her pen behind him, to the cardboard box on the counter. Tony went to get some napkins from the bar while Pepper gathered up the papers still sitting on the coffee table.

“Caltech still needs to know if you want to give the speech for their fall ceremony or not.”

“Yeah, sure.”

Pepper wrote a note. “You got a couple letters today, one from the Huffington Post, one from Time, and one from Miss Lucilia Chambers.”

“Lucilia Chambers?”

“You remember when Rhodey last visited and you got Chateau on the dress of the woman sitting next to you? She sent the cleaning bill.”

“Gotcha. You can—What is this?!”

The sudden alarm and borderline fury in his voice had Pepper snapping her neck up at once. Her pen froze against the paper. “What?”

Tony backed away from the greasy, still-warm cardboard box on the bar counter and pointed at it. He was appalled. Hurt.

“Hawaiian?!”

Relief and annoyance simultaneously flooded Pepper at the once. It was a sensation she was well familiar with when it came to Tony at that point. The “Stark Sensation”. “You said to surprise you.”

“Yes, not kill me!” With a forlorn sigh, Tony used his index and thumb to pinch the chunks of pineapple from the slices. As if pizza-cooked pineapple was one of the worst biohazardous materials known to mankind. “If only because I am starving, I will choke this down with whatever grace I can muster.”

“Am I fired?”

Tony pinched his fingers close together. This close.

Taking his first pineapple-free-but-still-tainted-forever slice out, Tony half-mumbled, “Toss the one from Huffington, leave the one from Time, and get Miss Chambers’ bill paid.”

Pepper nodded, and with a few more quick strokes of her pen, bent down to pick her purse up from the floor. Through a mouthful of pizza, Tony waved his hand at her. “Drive home safe. Really am sorry for the wait.”

“It’s fine, but I actually have one other thing for you.” This ‘thing’ was a simple sheet of notepad paper scribbled on without elegance. She waved it between her fingers. “Richard Parker wants to speak to you. He won’t say what it’s about, but since he’s called three times in the last day, I think it’s urgent.”

Richard Parker. Rich-ard Par-ker. He knew that name. How did he know that name, and how did he know that he knew that name? Something tickled at the back of his brain, but it was no good.

“Remind me who Richard Parker is?”

Pepper half-shrugged, helpless. “I don’t know myself, I thought that maybe you would. He’s probably just a journalist, or something. I can toss it if you want.”

“No, uh…Richard Parker, Richard Parker…Oh!” Tony snapped his fingers again and pointed at her. “Isn’t he a zoologist, or something? Hunter? Something to do with tigers?”

Pepper’s eyes narrowed, looked left, looked right. Her mouth opened, closed, and opened again. “Are you thinking of the tiger from Life of Pi?”

“…I am, aren’t I? Huh.” Tony waved at her again and went for another bite. “Leave it there; I’ll take care of it.”

“Will do. I’ll see you in the morning, Mr. Stark.”

Pepper left, Tony choked down a few more horrible slices of pizza, and he read the letter from Time requesting yet another interview. He made a plan to answer it in the morning, but for the time being, decided a long shower was in order.

He very nearly went to bed not too long after that, but one cursory glance at the coffee table while he was passing by had him spotting the notepad paper still present. Picking it up, all it says is Richard Parker’s name, followed by a string of numbers and a note reading Personal matter(?)

Tony could have very well just crumpled it up into the garbage bin, because Pepper was probably right. Richard Parker was probably just another journalist. Maybe another angry boyfriend of one of his past bedmates. Hell, even if it was another young soul looking for some word of inspiration from the Man of the Future, he doubted their life was depending on him.

Still, he somehow cannot shake that he knows who Richard Parker is, and because of that, pulled his phone out of his pocket and dialed the string of numbers. It rang three times before picking up.

“Hello?” It’s clearly a man speaking, probably around his age just from the sound of it.

“Hello, sorry to bother you. My name is Tony Stark and I was wondering if there was something you could help me with, or vice-versa. How are you doing this evening?”

He was fully expecting the length of stunned silence that followed, as well as the telltale sound of someone shuffling in a panic.

“I—uh—God—Hello! I, uh…Thank you so much for calling me back. It’s, um…It’s kind of late over here, sorry if I sound so tired. I really do appreciate you calling me back.”

“No problem. I’m getting a little droopy-eyed myself over here, so might I ask what you need? I’m assuming this is Parker, Richard.”

“Yes, sir, Mr. To—uh—Mr. Stark.” There was more shuffling on the other side. “Thank you so much for calling me, again. I’m sure you get tons of calls every day.”

“Tons of tons.” Tony checked his watch. Nine twenty-six.

“Right. Uhhhh…I…”

Silence followed without breaking, and Tony checked to see if he’d accidentally hung up on the guy. The call was still going.

“You still there, Rich?”

“Yes, sir. I…” The sigh Richard let out crackled against the receiver. “I really don’t know how else to put this, so I’m going to go out and ask, uh—Do you remember meeting a woman named Mary Fitzpatrick?”

It took two times of rolling her name through his head for Tony to remember, and he remembered well. He remembered the woman who swapped with “Craig” to be the men’s restroom’s attendee for the evening, the cheesecake, the band playing the Backstreet Boys, the look of dawning horror on her face as she realized what they had done at the end of the night.

A tiny little spark of excitement ignited in his chest, only to be instantly squashed under the weight of dread. He was probably dealing with an angry boyfriend. Even worse, he might have been dealing with another “buy my silence” scenario.

Wait, no. No, no. Mary didn’t strike him as that kind of person, even if he hadn’t seen her for years now. He realized then and there that this was how he knew Richard Parker—he was Mary’s friend, the one she thought she had a future of something more with. Another reason to ask why he was getting this call then and there.

“Yeah,” Tony replied, scratching his brow. “It’s been a good couple years—five?—but I remember her. Real nice. How is she? She still in Queens, is that where you’re calling from?”

Tony wondered if he was about to see Mary Fitzpatrick again, and wondered if he was excited about that or not. He still thought that maybe they had a shot at some kind of friendship. Mary had not been plaguing his mind, he hadn’t been seeing her every time he closed his eyes for the past few years. Not at all. Still, Mary had always seemed a good, kindly person to him, and he wouldn’t mind seeing how she was doing after so long.

Tony was wondering so much that he didn’t realize that Richard had once again gone silent as the wind until he listened in again. “Rich? Hey, are you breaking up on that side?”

“Mary…She—God, I still don’t know how to say this. Mary was—she died in a car accident. Last week. She’s—She’s gone.”

Shit.

Shit.

What was Tony even feeling then? Grief? Grief for a person he’d only ever known for not even ten hours, for a person whose middle name he didn’t even know? No, it couldn’t have been grief. He didn’t have the right to it.

Tony felt…disappointed. Not that he wouldn’t be able to see Mary again, but for Mary. He felt disappointed for her cleverness and quick wit, for her contagious laughter. She had to be, what, thirty-one? Thirty-one, the same age he’d been when they met, and now she was just…gone.

Mary had been young, and kind. Even though Tony was more than aware now that sometimes people just died, and sometimes they died young, and sometimes they died in car accidents, he was still reminded of just how unfair it was. He’d never even learned what Mary had wanted to do with her life, and now she wouldn’t get to do it.

God, how he wished there could be a scientific explanation for this, but there wasn’t. The answer was “Just because.”

On the other side of the line, Richard Parker—who had known Mary for much longer than he had and was feeling real, legitimate grief now as opposed to Tony’s disappointment—was listening to Tony’s silence.

“I’m sorry,” was what he came up with. “That is…She was a great lady, she really was. I’m sorry.”

Richard’s pause told him that it was not okay, but the poor guy was keeping his composure. “Thank you. I know you might not care, but—”

 

“No, no, no. Please. I’m sorry, really.”

“I just figured I’d call you and—No, I didn’t ‘figure’, there’s something…I’m sorry, I’m not trying to ramble, I just wanted you to know…”

“I’m thankful you did. Listen, uh, Richard…” Tony turned in circles, searching for paper, and decided to just use the one he already had. He clicked his pen despite his head still not being wrapped around just what was happening. “I don’t want to overstep any boundary, but why don’t you tell me an address? I’ll send a wreath over there as soon as I can. I know that probably sounds cheap, but—look, I don’t know what—”

“That’s not why I’m calling you, actually. I mean, that’s very kind of you, we’d really appreciate it, but—just…Listen. Mary left behind a…not really a will, more like a letter, just in case something happened to her.”

“Alright?”

“So, uh…Mary had—has—a son. His name is Peter.”

“Oh.” Normally this kind of thing would tick him off to no end, wanting favors after only one evening of knowing him, but this wasn’t “wanting favors.” Was it weird to ask for? Maybe, probably. Still—Tony wasn’t a parent, he didn’t know the first thing about being one, but he could understand that your child was your priority. Mary herself had said she’d never been in a good financial place. It might have sounded selfish, but she had a son and she knew that Tony Stark could help him if anything ever happened to her. That wasn’t selfish to him. “I got you. I’ll…How about I call you about this tomorrow? I can set up a trust fund for the kid, if that’s what she wanted. Or did she have something else? Just tell me, I’ll take care of it.”

“I—I mean, alright, but are you understanding me?”

“Yeah, I’m understanding you. Just let me know what you need. And, uh…I guess I’ll be upfront, too. I’m assuming you’re his father? You’re Peter’s dad?”

“You are…not understanding me. You can set up the trust fund if you want, or I’ll call you tomorrow and you can do something else, but that’s not what I’m calling for.”

“Alright. What, then?”

“I just want you to know that I’m not trying to ask anything of you. Mary wasn’t trying to ask anything of you, she just—this is what was written in the letter, we’re just trying to take care of it—”

“Rich. Buddy. You have got to talk to me.”

“Alright. Alright.” Richard took a deep breath. Then another. “Mary wanted us to call you because you’re Peter’s father.

Chapter 3: Chapter Three

Summary:

Once he was in the bathroom, he snapped the door shut, sat down on the floor, and buried his face in his hands.

Tony Stark had a son, and his name was Peter Benjamin Fitzpatrick.

Chapter Text

“Mr. Stark?”

The sound of his name was what pulled Tony back into the present. There were many eyes watching him, eyes on young, expectant faces. Behind them, the Arc Reactor was pulsing with energy, casting all of them in an electric blue light. The floor was beneath his feet and the ceiling was above his head. He was in the present. Needed to focus.

Putting on his classic half-smile, Tony walked closer to the group, looking them all over. High school students, all of them, and most holding the typical oh-my-God-it’s-Tony-Stark-I’m-in-the-same-room-as-Tony-Stark look of suppressed awe.

“Sorry, just admiring the view.” Tony tapped against the side of the machine he stood before, more specifically his reflection. This earned him a few good chuckles from the kids. “What was that?”

“I was hoping you could tell the students more about the Arc Reactor yourself,” the teacher, Mr. Johnson—Johnston? Jonson?—told him. He was also holding the oh-my-God-it’s-Tony-Stark-I’m-in-the-same-room-as-Tony-Stark look.

“Of course. The energy generated from the Arc Reactor is clean, reliable, and completely replaces any and all need for nuclear power. No waste, no worry. All those sparks and flashes you see in there is energy in its rawest form. If any of you ever wanted to see a star up close, here it is.”

The students nodded along, but the words were like glue in his mouth. Halfway through, he realized that there was no way he was going to be able to keep this up. He couldn’t do this, not now.

“Now, I could tell you all the details, but the last thing I need is one of you using that information to best me ten years from now, right? So here’s what we’re going to do.” Tony snapped and waved at the nearest worker to them. “We’re going to let you guys have a behind-the-scenes of the behind-the-scenes tour. I’m sure Doctor Benson will guide you all well. Don’t wait up for me.”

Doctor Benson, whose name was actually Benton (as confirmed by his ID around his neck), nodded despite clearly being unprepared for such a responsibility. He waved the children forward, and they all went none the wiser. Benton’s tour-guide-impersonating voice and their footsteps faded away, though Tony knew that at least one of them was watching him head for the bathroom. That was why he kept his hands in his pockets and his posture casual as he stepped away.

Once he was in the bathroom, he snapped the door shut, sat down on the floor, and buried his face in his hands.

Tony Stark had a son, and his name was Peter Benjamin Fitzpatrick.

He didn’t even fully remember how his conversation with Richard had gone after he’d been told. There were a lot of uh’s and um’s, and he knew that he was supposed to call Richard later that day. After that he went to bed but didn’t fall asleep. He’d been working on autopilot for hours.

Tony should have known this was going to happen, shouldn’t he? He had always been very mindful about taking precautions during his many encounters with women over the years, but he’d been drunk for a good number of said encounters, and once or twice he’d let it slip his mind. That one night with Mary was nothing but the memory of a dream now, hazy and blurred.

He just never had the idea that it would actually happen, that he would be a father and have a child. “Tony Stark” and “father” were not terms that went together. Hell, “Tony Stark’s father” was already a phrase that left a sour taste in his mouth as it was.

Howard Stark now had a grandson.

Shit.

Tony was at one of those very rare instances in his life where he had no idea what to do next. Most definitely, he’d set the kid up with a trust fund and college savings. That was just common courtesy and plain sense. Besides that, though, he was at a loss. He didn’t even know if the poor kid had anyone to take care of him now; Richard hadn’t really brought it up. If he did, great, but if he didn’t, was it on Tony to find someone to take care of him?

Did the kid even understand what was happening, did he know that Tony was his father?

When was his birthday?

What did he look like?

Damn. Tony hadn’t even met the kid and he was running laps around his head.

Tony hadn’t. even. met. the kid.

He was probably going to soon.

Someone knocked on the door, and Tony was fully prepared to either ignore them or snap at them to just go away and leave him be. It wasn’t one of the students, though, or the many scientists in the building.

“Tony?” Obie’s voice was muffled from the other side. “Hey, come on. What’s up?”

Tony reached up and unlocked the door without bothering to stand. He knew he looked like a child but couldn’t be bothered to care. Obie walked in, three-piece suit and all business, and saw Tony sitting on the bathroom floor with his elbows on his knees.

“What are you doing?”

“Well, I am not sitting on the bathroom floor, I’ll tell you that.”

Obie rolled his eyes and locked the door behind him. “Alright, I get it. Sit tight and I’ll get something over here as soon as we can manage.” Already, he was pulling his phone from his pocket. “There’s a deli not too far from here. Soup or sandwich?”

“I’m not hungover.”

“Ibuprofen, then. I’ll call someone to come take a look at you.”

“I’m not sick.”

“Well, whatever you do, don’t tell me what’s wrong. Let me sit here and guess for the next three hours.” It was a playful jab, really, but the unamused glare Obie got in response had his brows furrowing. With a sigh, he propped himself up against the sink counter and crossed his arms. Tony wasn’t even looking at him. “Seriously, Tony. That Time reporter’s going to be here in an hour. You want to cancel, or not?”

Tony ran a hand down the side of his face. Hell, if there was anyone he could trust with this kind of secret, it was either Obie or Rhodey. Obviously the latter wasn’t an option at the moment.

Tony could tell him, he just didn’t know how to. Obie was watching him and he had no idea where to begin.

“Alright.” Tony propped his wrists on his knees again. Took a deep breath. Forced his mind to get its pieces back together. “Here’s the deal. A couple of years ago, I met this woman. Her name was Mary Fitzpatrick.”

“Okay, I got you. What does she want? Money? Student loans? A fancy apartment?”

“No.”

“Hit me. We’ve dealt with this stuff before, we can knock this out by lunch. What are you in here moping for?”

“She’s dead, Obie!”

Obie blinked once, twice, three times. “What?”

“She died. Car accident. Last week.”

Obie leaned a little heavier against the counter. A hand reached up and scratched at his beard, ran down his neck. “Alright, uh…Is it her family, then? Just tell me what’s going on and we’ll figure something out. Look, this sounds harsh, but you don’t owe her anything, alright? It was one night, wasn’t it? Don’t feel obligated—”

“It’s not about money, Obie!” Tony’s voice snapped loud enough to ring off the tile walls. He reined himself back in. Obie was staring him down hard. “It’s not about money, alright? That’s not the problem.”

“What, then?” Obie waved his hands around, searching. “You have to tell me or I can’t do anything.”

“She had a…kid.”

A sigh, short and frustrated, huffed through Obie’s nose. “Ah, geez. Alright. I know this is probably bothering you and you think you need to do something, but like I said, you owe nothing. I get it, it’s a kid, you want to do something, but you don’t have to support a kid that isn’t even yours—”

“Obie! It isn’t about the money, how many times—?

“Alright, alright! Does the kid want to meet you, or something? Does he want to go to Disneyworld?”

Every word cut into Tony deeper and deeper, because he wasn’t ‘the kid’, he was Mary’s. He was real, not just a problem to figure out. Mary was a real, living person, and this real, living child was her child, he was—“He is mine.”

“What?”

“He’s mine. It’s my kid. It’s my s—” Something hot and lumpy glued itself in Tony’s throat. He had to swallow it down and spit the words out. “He’s my son.”

Obie’s reaction was about what he was expecting: ten seconds of not understanding, followed by five seconds of finally understanding, followed by a single, low “What?”

“Yeah. Her friend called me last night, said she had this letter, or whatever—in case anything ever happened to her. She didn’t want me to support him, she didn’t want any favors, she just wanted me to know. Well, now I know. And now you know. Congrats.”

“Alright. Alright, alright, alright.” Obie put his hands on his hips and walked in a slow, uneven circle around the bathroom. Tony just watched him with one brow raised. Already Obie’s mind was trying to figure out their next move. “Alright. Alright.”

“You don’t sound alright.”

Obie “zipped” Tony’s lips shut, thought for a few more seconds, and unzipped them. “I’m going to ask you. What are you going to do next?”

“I mean—” Tony waved his arms around, unsure of what else to do with them. Obie nodded for him to go on but that just made him move a little faster. Finally, he managed to get his tongue untangled. “The funeral is at the end of the week. I figured showing up and, you know, paying my respects is the least that I can do. Just…that would be decent.”

“No.”

“I—what?”

“Tony. You’re really good at thinking, so I’m going to have to ask you to do that for just a second. What do you think is going to happen if Tony Stark shows up at that funeral? I’ll tell you: that chapel or graveyard or whatever is going to be completely swarmed with paparazzi trying to snap pictures and ask questions. One thing is going to lead to another, and people are going to figure out why you’re there and who Mary Fitz-something was to you.”

Obie’s gaze lacked any sympathy, just the no-nonsense stoniness of a businessman at work. Tony could appreciate that, having logic to balance out the whirlwind of emotions running through his head, but it also kind of unnerved him. He was taking this a little too quickly. Even now, Tony could tell he was turning all of this into formulas and equations. Crunching numbers.

Sadly, though, Obie had a point, as usual. The idea of not showing up to the funeral of the…the mother of his child was just as worrying as the idea of actually doing it. Mary would definitely have people there who she cared for and who cared for her, and were grieving the loss of such a great person. They were going to be there to say their final goodbyes and comfort one another.

So, for such a time to be plagued by snapping cameras, strangers leering around every corner, and “Mr. Stark! Mr. Stark!” crying through the air…

That would be bad. Very bad.

“What will you even tell them, Tony? ‘Oh, she had my kid after we hooked up at a party a couple years ago—”

Obie, I get it!”

“Good. Now, what about the kid? What do you want to do about him?”

“I’m…” Tony had to think about it for just one second longer, but maybe his mind was already made up. As if he had some part of his mind on standby in case the rest of it was in shock. “I’m going to set up a trust. I know that much. Just…You know, support him in general.”

“How do you know he’s yours, anyway?” Obie’s brows were now furrowed so deeply they’d formed into one hard line across his forehead. “You done a test yet?”

“I’m going to, but I already know.”

“How?”

Tony sniffed. “Gut feeling, mostly. Mary didn’t want anything else but for me to know. That’s pretty much all the proof I need.”

“That’s not proof, that’s trust. And with all due respect, you might want to reevaluate it.”

“If the test comes back negative, you have my full and earnest permission to say ‘I told you so’.”

Obie gave him one last withered look before finally stopping his pacing. The conversation was winding down, but it sure as hell didn’t feel like that to Tony. He was still thinking a mile a minute. Trying to stop for even a second just made his mind swell like balloon until he had to let it out again.

“Who else knows?” Obie asked, a fair enough question.

“Me, you, Richard Parker, and I’m going to cross my fingers and say the kid. Maybe a few of Mary’s friends, we didn’t really get to that. Any other questions?”

“One more. How are you going to keep this a secret? ‘Cause I know for a fact we don’t want the public knowing about this.”

Another brutal truth. Peter was probably…four, five? The poor kid had just lost his mother, a pain that no child should ever have to endure, definitely not at that age. The last thing he needed was strangers hassling him every day and night. The whole world would be talking about him. He would see his face on television screens and magazine covers.

It wouldn’t matter how much anyone tried to protect him from it, he wouldn’t be able to escape. For years and years and years after that, the words “Tony Stark’s son” would be branded across his forehead for all to see. Any semblance of privacy would be done for. Camera flashes would follow everywhere he went.

Tony was pretty sure he could trust Richard to keep the secret, and Obie, of course. After that, there was going to be a problem. The kid was going to be a problem. He would have no idea why he needed to keep such a secret.

The kid, the kid, the kid. He kept referring to him as that in his mind, but Peter was his kid. His son. Tony hadn’t even scratched the surface of this whole situation.

“I’m going to go meet him.”

He’d said it aloud before he could even stop it. He surprised himself with his confidence. Obie was surprised, too, albeit in a way that teetered more towards bafflement. He may not have even caught what Tony had just said.

Before Obie could say “What,” Tony finally pulled himself up to his feet, tugged his shirt sleeves straight. He really did need to pull himself together, no matter how confusing this all was. Putting his head between his knees and panicking nonstop about it wasn’t going to help anyone, certainly not himself and certainly not Peter.

“I’ll cancel everything for the rest of the week, say I have to go visit a family friend. I’ll get to see what he needs and how he’s doing. I’m going to meet him.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“Except I do.”

“He still might not be yours.”

“Except he is.” Tony held his hand up, already tired of this conversation that hadn’t even gone on for five minutes. It wasn’t that Obie wasn’t making sense, but this wasn’t really his problem. It wasn’t his place to be calling the shots. “You don’t have to come with me. As a matter of fact, feel free to act as though we’ve never had this conversation.”

“Oh, I’m coming. I have to keep all of this from falling to pieces.”

“Happy to hear it.” Tony clapped him on the shoulder, but of course Obie only answered with an eye roll. His attempt at fake casualness was only slightly helping, but hey, it was something. He just had to keep it up for the next couple hours. Days. Years? “We’ll fly out tomorrow. Bring something to read. Queens is a long fly over.”

Chapter 4: Chapter Four

Summary:

Tony tried not to wonder too long in fear of getting himself into a downwards spiral again, but some things he couldn’t help. He wondered if Peter had allergies he should know about, or any other medical conditions. He wondered how he was dealing without his mother around and only her friends to take care of him. He worried, for a minute, if three strangers showing up out of the blue and lingering around his home was going to scare him. He tried several times to imagine what Peter looked like, but he always came up short. Brown hair was the only thing he could settle on. He’d find out soon, he guessed.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

The third person to learn the news was Happy, who responded with a low, and very caught-off-guard “Oh.”

“Yeah. I’m asking you to come along with me, just in case I need you around. If not, feel free to take the week off. Go to Hawaii.”

“No, sir, I’ll come.” Happy cleared his throat and folded his hands together. It might have actually looked professional if he weren’t having to twist in the driver’s seat to half-face Tony. “That’s my job.”

“You have good work ethic, Hap. You’ll need to meet us at the airport at seven tomorrow morning. Bring enough clothes to last the week, something to do on the plane, and a positive attitude. ‘Kay?”

Happy kept his face carefully neutral at that last comment. “Yes, sir.”

“Fantastic.” Tony swung his door open. “I don’t need to tell you not to tell anyone, do I?”

“My lips are sealed. Won’t tell a soul.”

“Good man. See you at three.”

The limousine rolled away as soon as he stepped out. Following his talk with Obie—and that interview with Time, which he thought went well even if he’d had the exact same one a thousand times before—Tony found himself dealing a lot better with the…everything. The storm clouds were finally starting to clear.

He’d already called Richard again, a conversation that was hardly any less awkward than the first. Tony, Obie, and Happy would be flying in at around twelve, after which they’d make a discreet ride over to the apartment complex. Peter, Richard, Richard’s brother Ben and his girlfriend May would all be there, as they’d been for a while now. That was really going to be the hardest part, that short distance between the car and the apartment door. He’d be home free after that.

For now, Tony had to keep going as if nothing was the matter. As of that moment, he was heading into Stark Industries Headquarters to see how development on the Jericho project was going. That board meeting the day before had given him the idea that maybe an extra step needed to be taken.

After this, he had a luncheon to go to, and he would be free to go home and pack his things after that. Maybe he’d be able to have a good night’s sleep.

Pepper was awaiting him past the door, which gave him pause. It hadn’t even occurred to him whether he should tell Pepper or not. He was pretty sure he’d be able to trust her to keep the secret, but he wondered if she even needed to be bothered with it or not. Technically it was part of her job to assist him with personal matters, but he wondered if this would be a little too much. There were personal matters and then there were personal matters.

“They’re waiting for you inside,” she told him as he approached. “Miss Chambers’ bill has been taken care of.”

“Thank you kindly.”

“Have you talked with Mr. Parker already? Is there anything I need to do?”

“Yes to the first, no to the second.” One second flat, and Tony’s mind was already telling him, lie, lie, lie. He could lie. Lying was easy. “Turns out, I do, in fact, know who Richard Parker is. He is a friend of a friend from MIT who is currently going through a personal crisis with which I may be of assistance.”

“Alright.” It was hard to tell if Pepper was incredulous or not. “Who is it?”

“Benjamin Fitzpatrick.” Eh, he could do better, but it would work. He still didn’t know if he’d ever be telling her otherwise. “I can’t really go into it because it’s not my story to give, but just so you know, I am going to be flying out to New York tomorrow morning. I’ll be back at the end of the week at the latest. I need everything until then cancelled, and feel free to call me if you run into any troubles on that.”

Pepper had already started typing away on her tablet before he was even finished. “Will do. If you come home early, could you let me know as soon as you do?”

“Of course. Also, when you’re doing this, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t give specifics. Just tell them I’m visiting a family friend and leave it at that.”

Pepper nodded again. Her coppery blonde ponytail bounced about. “Understood. Anything else I should know?”

He really did consider just backtracking and telling her the truth. Not there, not in public, but maybe aside. He did trust Pepper. He knew she’d keep this and any of her judgements to herself, so he couldn’t say why he was so intimidated about telling her. Hell, she’d probably already figured he had a child somewhere at this point.

He’d tell her when it all blew over, he decided. Once he came back, he’d apologize and give her the actual reasoning, and they would move on from there. He’d probably need the help of Pepper Potts to do what he wanted to for Peter.

“Nope.” Tony turned away and went half-marching down the hall. He turned his head one last time to call, “I’m leaving you in charge of the mansion. No parties!”


 The flight to Queens took almost five hours and was a dismally boring affair. Happy sat reading in his seat, Obie alternated between working on his laptop and popping a question or two at Tony (“What’s his name again?” “How old is he?” “Are you sure about this?”), and Tony mostly just snacked on his omelet breakfast, drank champagne, and looked out the window.

Tucked beneath his seat was a present he’d asked Happy to pick up if he could. He could have given the k—his kid a thousand dollars’ worth of candy, really, but he didn’t want to overdo it. Happy had gotten some kind of Star Wars toy, he didn’t know. It was already wrapped and topped with a bow courtesy of Happy himself. Did Peter even like Star Wars? He could only hope.

Tony tried not to wonder too long in fear of getting himself into a downwards spiral again, but some things he couldn’t help. He wondered if Peter had allergies he should know about, or any other medical conditions. He wondered how he was dealing without his mother around and only her friends to take care of him. He worried, for a minute, if three strangers showing up out of the blue and lingering around his home was going to scare him. He tried several times to imagine what Peter looked like, but he always came up short. Brown hair was the only thing he could settle on. He’d find out soon, he guessed.

More than anything, though, he wondered what was going to happen after this was over. He was going to see Peter because he felt that that was what he was supposed to do, even if it was just once, even if it was just for a week. Even as young as he was, Peter deserved to have some level of understanding of what was going on. He might not even know or care who Tony Stark was, but he deserved to know that he was his father. Tony was not good at comforting—he really wasn’t—but he’d like to give at least a few words of comfort to the poor ki—his poor kid!

After that, though…Tony had to admit he had no game plan. He didn’t know how he was going to say goodbye. He didn’t know how they could ensure that Peter didn’t tell his friends or their parents who his father was. The kid (screw it) might try to contact him later, and he had no clue how he was going to handle that. Peter also wasn’t going to be a five-year-old forever. Ten years down the road, Tony would have a teenager with a much better understanding of what had happened and a lot of questions.

Tony would have to cross that bridge when he got to it. That was all he could settle on.

They touched down in the LaGuardia Airport a little after twelve, with an almost twenty-minute drive to the apartment after. There were no cars following after them, not yet, anyway. They’d come in unnoticed as far as Tony could tell. Up front, Happy drove the rented car (just a BMW, just to avoid attention) without a word. Obie…Honestly, Obie looked more and more like he didn’t want to be doing this and just wanted to turn the car around and go home.

Three minutes before their final stop, Obie practically threw down the newspaper he was reading and turned to him. Tony, once again staring out the window, actually jumped.

“You don’t have to do this,” Obie told him yet again. He was insisting now. “Look, you don’t even know this Rich guy, it’s not like you’re going to be hurting his feelings. Just tell him you’ve changed your mind and you’re just going to set up a trust fund.”

“No offense, Obie, but why would I say ‘no’ five minutes after we left and say ‘yes’ three minutes before we’re there?”

“Tony. Come on.”

“I once again emphasize you don’t have to be here. You want to go to the Noguchi Museum? Go right ahead, I’ll buy you in. Pick me up something from the gift store. I am going in, and I’m going to meet Peter, whether or not you come along.”

Obie let out a long, low, gruff sigh. The hand on his knee clenched into a fist and let go again. “Nope. Let’s do this.”

“By the way, can I just say that your undying support is really helping me out in this trying time?”

“Give me a break, Tony.”

“From what? Does this whole situation offend you? I’m sorry I hurt your feelings. I truly am.”

“This ‘whole situation’ is one snapshot away from becoming the cover on every tabloid in every convenience store in America.” Obie put a hand on his shoulder, but it was stiff and not at all warm. Something angry sparked in Tony’s chest, but he didn’t know what it was, and he had to stifle it down. “I’m really not trying to be cruel or come off like I don’t care, alright? But we can’t both be thinking emotionally right now. You can scream and cry and wallow in self-pity however much you want, but I have to keep it together and make sure this whole thing doesn’t collapse like a house of cards. In my opinion, we shouldn’t be here at all. There’s no reason to be. But this is what you want, so we’re going to do it, and I will accept my responsibility of keeping the peace.”

That spark flared up again, and again Tony could not tell why. He should have been thanking Obie for this, no? He was making sense, someone had to be Tony’s mediator right now. At the same time, though, Tony felt that that “sensibility” was teetering awfully close into “apathy” territory. He didn’t need Obie to stay still so he could cry on his shoulder, but this wasn’t just a PR issue to sweep under the rug as quickly as they could.

As it was, that was when Happy said, “Here we are.”

The building was like every other apartment complex in Queens. Tall, brick, sandwiched between other buildings much like it. Inside that building, Tony’s son was waiting to meet him. Probably.

“Give me a minute,” Happy said, and stepped out way too fast to be casual.

Obie and Tony watched him duck inside the building, and then all they could do was wait. Just as Tony gave himself kudos for not being nervous, he got nervous. Not horribly, there was no sinking stomach or sweaty palms. Suddenly, though, he found himself unable to stop from tapping his foot or twisting his cufflinks.

Obie saw his fidgeting and sighed for what was hopefully the final time. “It’ll be over before you know it. Don’t worry too much.”

“Thanks,” Tony replied without a hint of thankfulness.

Happy came back out faster than expected and got back into his seat. Once in, he twisted around with an expression way too serious. You’d think they were going into a battlefield and not an apartment in Queens.

“People are walking around everywhere in there,” he told them gravely. “They’ve got security cameras, too.”

So Tony wasn’t wrong, this was going to be the hardest thing to do. Ah, well, let it not be said they came unprepared.

He held a hand out to Obie. “Cough it up.”


 Walking around with a doctor-style face mask was really convenient when you were as famous as Tony Stark. Once he put it on, donned a ballcap, and shrugged off his blazer, he looked like any other random passerby. If anyone glanced his way, all he had to do was cough like he was carrying the plague, and they would carry on.

It wasn’t a wonderful entrance, pretending to be a stranger with a bad cold, but it worked. No one talked to them or glanced their way. Obie didn’t even need a mask to go unnoticed. The only person they exchanged words with, period, was the receptionist. Happy did all the talking for them, and that was that.

The lobby became the elevator, the elevator became a hallway, and the hallway became a door with 303 in plated metal numbers.

One door, and that was it. This was happening. Tony took a breath and knocked.

No answer. He knocked again.

No answer. He kno—the door opened, and he pulled his hand back.

The man standing in the doorway couldn’t have been any older than Tony himself. Very tall, very much on the lanky side, not very intimidating at all. His eyes were round and as youthful as the tousle of dark curls on his head—he would have looked young if it weren’t for his strong jaw and the stubble across his chin.

He didn’t seem to understand why they were there at first, but Tony saw the lightbulb go off behind his eyes soon enough. Voice hardly above a whisper, he asked, “Mr. Stark?”

With a glance either way down the hall, Tony lifted up the mask just so.

The guy swallowed and nodded at the same time. “Right. Come in, come in.”

The three of them hustled inside quickly. The guy walked with an awkward balance, but Tony chalked that up to nervousness or fatigue. The rest of the apartment gave credence to the latter. It wasn’t horrible, really. Very quaint, as far as Queens apartments went. Beige walls, leather furniture, a little kitchen with white cabinets and cupboards. But there were papers spread over the tables, coffee cups left unattended every which way. The pull-out couch in the middle of the room hadn’t been made up yet, so it was just a tousle of sheets and blankets. There was a strange poster on one wall and a simple clock on another.

Tony didn’t see any framed photos on the walls as they came in. He didn’t know if that was good or not. He hadn’t seen Peter yet and he wasn’t sure if he was ready to see Mary’s face, alive and smiling but now gone forever. The only sign of there being a child at all was a single toy car tossed beneath the coffee table.

“Thank you so, so much for coming,” the man said again. Even his voice carried an odd youthfulness to it Tony hadn’t picked up on the phone. As he very awkwardly locked the door and maneuvered around them, Tony saw his unstable walk once more, and only then saw the walking stick he was holding. He was sprightly, for what it was worth. “I’m sorry this place is such a mess. We’ve had a lot to do, not too much time to do it.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Tony dismissed. A throw pillow had fallen from the couch, and Tony picked it up for no real reason. Obie had his hands in his pockets and was meandering silently. Happy was looking this way and that, as if for hidden cameras or even bombs. “Parker, Richard?”

“Flesh, in the.” Richard put on a shaky smile and extended a hand towards him. Tony shook it and felt the slight tremor in the fingers. “We really are grateful you came all this way, Mr. Stark. Really, really. Can I get you some coffee? Tea?”

“Coffee will be just perfect.”

Richard turned to Obie and Happy—“No thanks” and “With Splenda, please” respectively—and hobbled into the kitchen. He paused once to toss the pullout couch back and sloppily toss the cushions back on. As he moved, his pant leg fluttered up for just a moment, and Tony got his answer to his question. Richard’s right foot wore a tennis shoe and when the fabric lifted, Tony saw the telltale, stainless metal of a prosthetic.

“It’s going to take just a minute,” Richard said as he scooped grounds into the coffeemaker.

“That’s fine,” Tony answered, and realized that he was officially at a loss for words. That wasn’t normal for him. He didn’t like it. There was an eerie tension in his shoulders, as if he expected Peter to jump out from the shadows and surprise him. He didn’t even see any toys, though, let alone the child himself. Clearing his throat, he tried to say, “So what exactly—?”

“Where is the kid?” Obie asked.

Richard blinked as he pressed the button on the coffeemaker, as if he’d forgotten it was four people in the room instead of two. Happy didn’t look very comfortable, either. He stood in front of the messily-made couch as if debating whether to sit down or not.

“He’s in his room.” Richard nodded past Tony to the little hallway behind him. “May and Ben are talking to him, shouldn’t take too much longer.”

Obie nodded, but was only just beginning his rundown of the situation. “This letter Mary left behind, where is it?”

Richard blinked again. “It’s over here—I’ll get it—”

“Don’t worry about it.” Tony waved his hand dismissively, but sent Obie a pointed look. He didn’t want to immediately get into the business side of things. That wasn’t an icebreaker, that was an ice…fortifier. “We’ll get into that later.”

Obie’s jaw clenched. “I think we should really start talking about it now.”

“Nah. We have all the time in the world, trust me.” He couldn’t stop the sharpness in his voice as he finished. They weren’t doing this anymore. “I, for one, would like to thank you for calling. Very courteous of you.”

Tony regretted it as soon as he said it, because Richard obviously picked up the tension. He just busied himself with getting whatever coffee mugs were still clean from the cupboard. His hands were still shaking just so.

“No problem at all,” Richard replied a bit too quietly. “It’s what she wanted, so we had to…do it…Uh, if you want to take a seat, feel welcome to.”

Happy graciously sat down, but while Tony was awkwardly coming forward, he heard a door behind him creak open. Enter Ben Parker.

It was very easy to see how he and his brother were related. Ben was clearly the elder one, in his forties just by a glance, with a frame that seemed to dwarf his brother’s. Otherwise, though, they were one and the same. Tousled dark hair, stubble across a strong jaw, round eyes. The hair at his temples was getting some premature silver.

Ben stood in the archway and crossed his arms over his chest. He didn’t seem to be trying to glower down at Tony, but the height difference between them gave to that effect. “Mr. Stark.”

Tony gave him a nod, not sure of what else to do. “Mr. Parker.”

Ben and Richard shared one of those silent but conversational looks that only siblings could share. Tony guessed Ben “said” something along the lines of You sure about this? There was no way of telling. There was an uncomfortable stretch of silence only broken by the gurgling of coffee into the pot.

Ben ran a hand down the side of his face and glanced back to the room behind him. Not a moment later, a woman who could only be May stepped in looking about as all-business as her partner. Quite a beautiful woman, with unruly auburn hair framing high cheekbones, but though Tony could tell she was the kind to usually radiate warmth, that was not the case then. Even in denim jeans and a polka-dot blouse, she somehow managed to daunt him. Happy himself shifted on the couch.

May, much like Ben before her, swept the room with her eyes. She couldn’t be blamed for her wariness. They were three strangers as far as she was concerned. She knew who Tony Stark was, she just didn’t…know Tony Stark.

Obie impatiently spoke up. “Is he in there?”

Blinking once, May put on a smile that dripped with sarcasm. “May Reilly, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“It really is,” Tony cut in before tension could rise any more. He crossed over to her in one stride, sticking out a hand. “Tony Stark.”

“Yeah, I know.” Despite her words, her face relaxed just so, and she shook his hand. Ben did the same once they were done with a quick awkward-but-friendly smile.

Richard hobbled over with three mugs in one hand and his walking stick in the other. Happy looked on, impressed, while Obie looked on, confused.

“Red one is for you.” Happy plucked the mug away with very careful fingers, and Richard went to the others. “Striped one for you, Mr. Stark.”

The coffee was black as night, not the way he preferred, but probably the way he needed. Tony took it with a quick thanks, a fast swig, and a barely-suppressed wince of pain.

May balked. “What the hell, Rich? We agreed that I get at least one cup from every pot we make. Do I just sit here and waste away now?”

Richard very dramatically extended the last mug over to her. “Indeed, which is why I have this.”

“You’re too good for me, Rich. Pretend I didn’t say anything.” May took the mug and drank so much so quickly that Tony passed Ben a silent look of What the hell? Ben’s look answered She’s made of steel, man, I don’t know. “God bless you, baby boy.”

“Good save.”

Tony chuckled at the good-natured ribbing between the two, then realized he’d gone a good long while without saying a thing. So he cleared his throat and spoke.

“Were you two friends of Mary’s, too?”

Alright, you should have stayed quiet, mood-killer.

His immediate regret must have showed on his face, because Ben laughed. May gave a smile, too, albeit laced with a more prominent sadness. She tried to hide it behind the lip of her mug.

“Since we were kids.” Ben went to get his own coffee out of the kitchen, lightly nudging his brother out of the way to do so. Richard complied with a joking whine. “Mary was always bouncing around foster homes, but we kept in touch. Went to the same community college.”

“For two years,” Richard cut in, “until he joined his band.”

Tony hummed. “Do tell.”

“Don’t,” Ben begged. “Please.”

Richard ignored him. “They played one concert and split up due to ‘artistic differences’.”

“It was more complicated than that.”

May chimed in with a “They got into a Godzilla versus King Kong fight that got too out of hand”, making Ben sigh in humiliated defeat.

Tony raised his mug. “Godzilla.”

Ben raised his. “Thank you!”

May turned and pointed to the wall beside her, where the poster was. Tony thought maybe it was a beach view at first, but now that he looked at it, he realized that he literally had no clue in his mind what it was. Colors and shapes were slashed across the paper in the most chaotic display imaginable.

“Mary designed that for their big debut.” May winked at Happy. “You’ve been staring for a while. You like it?”

Happy blinked. Clearly he thought he’d go invisible for the rest of his stay. He replied in an embarrassed mumble. “I thought it was an autostereogram.”

May, Ben, and Richard answered all together, at the same time, in perfect unison. “That’s what we said.”

Tony smiled again and took another burning swig of coffee. He felt more at ease already, but one look at Obie was all it took to raise his hackles again. Obie wasn’t glaring at him or anyone else, but he looked so impatient, he seemed to suck the sunlight from the windows. Like a customer five seconds away from asking to speak to the manager. Him typing into his phone only made him look worse.

Tony ignored him, because again, he was just done with Obie’s attitude about the whole situation. However, he was reminded of what exactly they were all here for. There were six people in the small apartment when there should have been seven.

“So, uh…” Tony looked around for somewhere to set his mug. It probably wasn’t nice to put it on a bookshelf, but there were already two more there, so. Whatever. “Is he still in his room?”

Thankfully, the room did not swell with tension as much as he thought it would. Obie looked a touch bit relieved, even. May gulped down the rest of her coffee, Ben stood straight from where he was leaning against the sink, and Richard started wiping down the island as if the not-even-six-year-old would be offended if he came out to an unclean kitchen.

“Just a second.” Ben nodded at Tony as he stepped past him. Footsteps faded down the hall, the door squeaked open again, and Tony heard Ben’s voice speaking softly but unintelligibly.

Tony put his hands in his pockets and didn’t force so much as wave away the growing anxiety. Not even thirty seconds, and he’d be meeting his kid. It wasn’t the end of the world, he’d seen this coming for a day now. A full twenty-four hours to be prepared. He could go on talkshows before thousands of viewers and conduct interviews to be printed for millions. This was a teeny tiny misadventure, if anything.

His phone buzzed in his pocket, and he pulled it out without thinking.

From: Obie

If Richard, Happy, May weren’t still present, Tony would have dropped his jaw, raised his arms, and barked “Are you serious?!” As it was, he didn’t even spare Obie a glance as he opened the message. As far as the others were concerned, he was checking on business.

Just remember we don’t know anything until the test results get in, okay?

Tony snapped his phone shut and tucked it away. He wasn’t sure if that was supposed to be reassuring or disconcerting, and he wasn’t sure which he felt. He was still pretty confident that yes, this was his kid. Mostly because of what he’d said before, that Mary wouldn’t bother just telling him if he wasn’t. Partly because of hope, because, well, this was going to be a very awkward turnout if Peter wasn’t even his, wasn’t it?

Regardless, they technically had no proof until those results came in. Legally speaking or otherwise.

One set of footsteps became two sets, one much lighter than the other. Ben said something soft and reassuring. Tony could almost hear a countdown with each step forward.

He could also almost hear Obie’s voice, until we get the rest results in.

Doesn’t matter either way, Tony thought. We’ll figure it out later. For now, just be civil and friendly. He’s a kid, even if he’s not yours. So just—

Peter stepped into view.

—yeah, no, he’s mine. That’s definitely my kid.

 

Notes:

Whoo, boy...This scene was hard to nail down. Let me know what you guys think! :) Next chapter is going to focus on Mary's life, and we'll get back into the present after.

Chapter 5: Chapter Five

Summary:

There was no past, present, or future for them. They were ships that passed in the night. Years from now she’d look back and say “Man, I can’t believe I actually had a one night stand with Tony Stark,” then she’d carry on.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Mary Fitzpatrick didn’t believe in fate, not really.

Oh, she was a fan of good fortune and romance and any time life decided to smile her way. She did think it was funny to look to the past and say, “Wow, how funny is it that doing X led to Y?” But cosmic-level destiny, no, she didn’t believe in any of that. Things happened because things happened, not because the entire course of time was already composed and they were all just playing to the beat.

Others did, that was fine. It just wasn’t a fundamental truth she held.

Though she had to admit that when she woke up in the same bed as Tony Stark, twenty-third richest man in the world, CEO of Stark Industries, the Modern-Day Da Vinci, the Merchant of Death, she had some questions.

Mary remembered what happened, for the most part. She’d asked to take Craig’s place in the men’s bathroom, Stark walked in, they talked, she stole the cheesecake and the wine, they laughed, they joked, they left, they got into a car, they showed up here…Yeah, she could piece together what had happened well enough.

(There was a distant, flickering memory of “Everybody” by the Backstreet Boys being played on trumpets. She couldn’t explain that.)

Once she had gotten a hold of her bearings, standing in a hotel room she didn’t recognize, naked except for a sheet around her body, Stark (also naked) wiping the sleep from his eyes, regret swallowed her up quick and deep, and she bolted without another word.

Mary would regret it later. Not the leaving part, but the extreme lack of grace with which she did it. She could have at least said goodbye, or give an excuse for leaving, or whatever. “Shit” wasn’t a good replacement for “Adieu.”

Mary felt sick as she dashed out of the room. She felt sick when she was in the elevator. She felt sick when she walked out of the LaGuardia Plaza Hotel. She felt so sick in the cab she hailed down that she asked the driver to pull over so she could dry heave.

He was nice about it. Gave her water. Cool guy.

It wasn’t the idea of spending a night with Tony Stark that had her so ill. Hell, that was the dream of almost every woman in America, wasn’t it? He’d been very nice, too. Fun. As charming as she would have thought. As “talented” as she would have thought.

It was that she’d spent a night with anyone, period. Mary wasn’t a virgin—ba-dum-tish—but she’d never had a one night stand before. She didn’t judge anyone for what they did in their bedrooms, but that just wasn’t her. She had to know the person, she had to care about them. She knew zilch about Stark. If something happened to him, and it was on the news tomorrow morning, she wouldn’t be weeping in grief. She liked him, yeah. Loved him? Absolutely not.

Mary knew, not too deep down, that part of it was just because he wasn’t Richard. It would never be Richard.

The worst thing was, she couldn’t really blame anyone besides herself. They’d both been equally falling-off-their-feet drunk. She’d chugged red wine after tequila after Lime Rickey all on her own accord. Even before then, she had been flirting just as much as he had. She saw his lazy grin and the way he leaned in to talk to her and she took it, encouraged it.

Stark was a nice person, though. She didn’t know if he was good, but he was nice. If she didn’t want to talk, he didn’t push it, and if she did, he encouraged it. Dimly she remembered gentle touches and genuine smiles.

But…come on. There was no past, present, or future for them. They were ships that passed in the night. Years from now she’d look back and say “Man, I can’t believe I actually had a one night stand with Tony Stark,” then she’d carry on.

For now, though, she would go back to her poor little apartment and tuck away the hundred-and-twenty dollars Stark had given her in the little shoebox in her closet. Her boss would call her to say—surprise, surprise—she was fired. Not great, not bad. She had two other jobs anyway. In fact, not thirty minutes after she got home, she would have another one to go to.

It was one night. That was the end of it.


 Apparently not.

Mary was pregnant.

The thought had only occurred to her once, very fleetingly, while she was filling coffee cups at the Melodia Diner. Fleetingly because she was fairly sure they had used protection. She didn’t remember for the life of her, but come on. Surely Stark had wined and dined enough women in his life to take precautions for his public image. Besides, it was one night, and she probably wasn’t even on her cycle yet. What were the odds?

SPECTACULAR, apparently.

First it was an upset stomach in the morning that she’d chalked up to late-night snacking. Then it was a constant, unending fatigue no matter how much she slept. Being five days late for her period was the final straw that made her buy an over-the-counter test.

Mary wasn’t really one to imagine the future often, but she was like most people, having once or twice thought about the milestones in her life. As a kid, she’d fantasized about prom night. After (not) doing that, graduation. After that, having her first child. In hindsight, she’d probably fallen into the Hollywood trap. Like, okay, she knew that giving birth wasn’t going to be a clean and pretty dream where all she had to do was scream and cry a few times. Still, she thought that when the moment she held that little pink plus sign in her hands, she’d be sitting with her partner, laughing in pure euphoria, hugging and almost crying that it was finally happening.

Nope. Mary held that little pink plus sign in a bathroom the size of a closet, wearing a Han Shot First! T-shirt and bumblebee pajama bottoms with a bit of omelet still on her lip, and the first thing she said was “Oh, come on!”

She still didn’t believe in fate, but now she was pregnant with Tony Stark’s kid. So.

It took a while for the weight to sink in. She remembered all the way back in Sex Ed in one of the many “If You Have Sex You Will Get Pregnant and Die” lectures that a lot of girls just kind of “ignored” their pregnancy. As in, if they didn’t think about it, it would just “go away.”

Mary did that without intending to, and realized as such when she was washing dishes at the Pepper Mill. It wasn’t a horrible Armageddon nine months on the horizon, but she was going to have a kid. There was a life growing inside of her—Ugh, that was so weird—and that life would become a baby and that baby would become a kid and that kid would become an adult. She had nine months to make doctor’s appointments, get a new wardrobe, set up a couple for adoption…This was really happening, but she didn’t need this.

She didn’t need to wake up every hour of the night to rock her baby to sleep.

She didn’t need to worry about check-ups and appointments and making sure the kid got the Flintstone gummies they needed.

She didn’t need to worry about sticky hands and a runny nose and vomit on her shoulders.

(Just to be clear, Mary did not in any way, shape, or form dislike children but the simple fact of the matter was that she was not good with them.)

She’d decided at the end of the day that adoption was what she was going to do. She could have terminated it, but that just wasn’t something Mary wanted to do. She could do this, she’d been through worse. Hell, she could even get maternity leave, huh?

One thing was for certain, though: she would need help.


 

May was shocked when she was told, though in her defense, she’d thought Mary was talking about getting a pet, not having a baby. (“I call my cat my baby all the time, Mary! It’s normal!”) After the initial “Really? Really, really?” wore off, though, she was more than supportive. Heck, maybe even too much. Immediately she was talking about helping her buy new clothes and pick baby names. Even when Mary made it clear she didn’t intend to keep the child, she made it clear Mary only needed to call for her to come running. She only asked once who the father was and accepted the answer that it was just “a guy at a party.”

Ben was understanding right off the back. Of course he was, he seemed too good to be true sometimes. He didn’t ask who the father was, only if he was going to be supporting. He nodded when Mary told him he didn’t know and she wanted to keep it that way. He asked if she felt well, if she wanted to see a doctor. He even offered her help if she didn’t think she’d be able to afford the things to come. God bless Ben Parker, really.

Richard was…

Richard was confused.

“How?”

Sitting across from him, Mary pursed her lips together. “I ate some bad takeout.”

“I—” Richard’s Adam’s apple bobbed hard in his throat. He looked unnaturally pale and his eyes were blinking hard. Even his metal foot was beginning to twitch beneath the table. You’d think it was his kid, the way he was acting. “I mean…Who did…Who was…Who? Who. I’m asking who.”

“Just a guy I met at a party.” The way Richard’s neck snaked back just so had Mary reaching for her tea. Just for the record, Mary had never been a coffee drinker, so her choice in chamomile had nothing to do with May’s insistence of coffee being a no-no pregnancy food. “Sorry, let me make it more romantic. So there I was, a mere maiden of six-and-twenty, standing among shining lights and drinking the most effervescent of drinks—”

“Fitz.”

“I’ve got nothing, Rich. He was drunk, I was drunk, a stork showed up at my window.”

“I…Okay…Uh…Okay, just—Uh. Okay. Alright.”

Mary reached across the table and pressed a finger against his forehead. Since childhood—probably since the guy was fresh out of the womb, for goodness’ sake—Richard always became a broken record when he got nervous or didn’t know how to handle things. In high school, she’d taken to touching his forehead like a reset button, or resetting the needle.

It worked like a charm, as always. Richard took a deep breath, deflated just a bit, and leveled his voice. “How pregnant are you?”

“...Yes.”

“No, I mean—How far along?”

“Oh. Uh…about a month, give or take? I know it’s hard to—” Mary gestured to her belly, still flat as ever. “—tell.”

“Okay. So—the guy at the party, does he know? Are you two going to…I don’t know, do this together?”

An inexplicable, childish, immature flash of anger took Mary over before she could even help it. She tried to cool it, but it was too late. All she could do was barely wrangle her voice from snapping when she said, “No, we are not ‘together.’”

“I was just asking,” Richard defended, and she knew it was a reasonable question. Sensible, but she was still…hurt. Like the fact that he even thought she’d be with a guy she just met just because…just because… “What are you going to do?”

“Adoption. Just—I can’t have a baby. Not now.”

“Do you want to meet them after? Like, open or closed? Either’s fine! Just—asking.”

“I don’t know. I only figured out, like, a week ago.”

“I could help,” Richard offered. He didn’t even sound sure. “Foster care is an option—I mean, you know that’s an option…”

Mary’s jaw clenched despite herself. Of course foster care was an option, but it wasn’t one she’d considered. Actually, it wasn’t an option, it was a possibility. If she put the child up for adoption, foster care would probably come down the line.

Mary had been in the St. Judas Children’s Home for the first five years of her life. Her caretakers were men and women who were friendly, loving, and perfect parent stand-ins but always carried the impermanent title of employee. Her pseudo-siblings came from broken families where their parents became the monsters under the bed. If Billy’s Daddy or April’s Mommy showed up, they had to lock the doors, cover the windows, and all go into the back room until they were gone. Mary loved that home and everyone in it, but she got too attached, and her first time in a “proper” house was a nightmare. She didn’t like the new bed in the new house. It didn’t matter how many smiles she got or how many apple pies the neighbors brought over, she always felt like she’d been kidnapped. The silver lining was that her new parents—Diane and Leonard, she remembered—let her visit the Home often.

After that, it was home after home, bouncing around the state of New York. Beatrice and Matthew lived too far from the Home to visit but encouraged her to write letters often. Samantha and Vincent promised to send the letters and never did. Fiona and Walter returned her three days later like a library book because she “wasn’t the right fit.”

It was a cold, unfeeling, hassle of a life only mitigated by the presence of Ben, Richard, and May, who never let her go no matter how far she went and only waited for her to move back closer to home. Her fourth home, Edith and Gerald, actually took her to therapy when they realized that little Mary wasn’t just sad sometimes, no, she was always upset and always would be until someone listened. That had helped her a lot.

She didn’t think the foster system was all that terrible, though. Flawed? Yes. Hell yes. Evil? No, not really. There were bad people in it just like there were bad people in the rest of the world, and hey, she’d known plenty of people who found loving families who took them in as their own.

They got lucky.

She didn’t know if she wanted to risk her kid not getting lucky.

“Fitz?”

Richard’s worried poke at her wrist tugged her back down to earth, alongside a jerk of her hand that splatters tea down her wrist. It’s still scalding hot, and both she and Richard scramble for napkins.

“Here, here, here—”

“I’ve got it, I—”

“Okay, just…be careful.”

“A tea burn isn’t going to hurt the baby, Rich,” Mary half-chuckled. Then she realized she’d said the word ‘baby’ aloud for the first time and stopped. “Anyway…I wanted you to know, since it’s going to be going on for a while now.”

 

“Of course. I, uh…Thank you for telling me.”

“As if I’d be able to hide it,” huffed Mary.

“Um…” Richard’s throat bobbed once more, plain as day, and he smiled. A wide, sweet smile as fake as plastic. “Congrats, I guess.”

Oh, how Mary wished she knew what was happening in his brain. She wondered if he was actually angry about this. Did she…want him to be angry about this? If he felt even an ounce of illness about this situation, she couldn’t know if she’d be upset or now. This was her decision, not his. Maybe it was the worry of a friend, maybe he was…jealous. Jealous of the guy at the party—Tony Stark.

Well, he couldn’t be jealous. He’d had years. More than ten years to get his feelings in order and it took her getting knocked up for an epiphany to come around? Oh, come on. That was bullshit. Why would she, in any way, take his feelings into account before hopping into bed with someone else? That was nonsense.

But jealousy meant something.

It would mean that he felt something, anything, for her, and she might have very well been desperate for anything. Sure, it would mean he’d never done anything about it. Now that he lived all the way across the continent, this meeting on a simple visit on a weekend off, it still wouldn’t work. Mary didn’t want to leave Queens and didn’t want to live in Los Angeles. She didn’t want to hear his voice on phones and computer screens.

Who was she even kidding?

She’d had years.

“Thanks,” Mary said, as much as it hurt. She lifted up her tea. “Mazel tov!”


 

Being pregnant sucked and Mary didn’t care if that went against the dreams of every girl fantasizing about glowing skin and people rubbing their swollen bellies. It sucked.

Some parts weren’t so bad, especially with the Parker-Reilly trio behind her. May helped her out with the new wardrobe, mostly. Balancing out her diet also wasn’t that horrible, and any cravings were solved by the 7/11 a few blocks down from her apartment. Morning sickness only hits her twice, thank goodness. It’s messy but it’s quick. And yeah, her skin and hair do pick up some shine. She also didn’t become a puddle of hormones, thank goodness.

But. Ugh. Literally everything else.

She had to go to the bathroom every two seconds. Her feet ached and she couldn’t find the right way to sleep in her bed at night. She got to keep her job at Melodia’s and the Pepper Mill, but hoo, boy, if waitressing wasn’t easier without a big pillow strapped to your front. The questions—“How far along are you?” or “Do you know if it’s going to be a boy or a girl?”—don’t really bother her so much as the fact that they came from strangers. They were nice, though, and she answered kindly. Until a woman just reached out and rubbed her belly without permission. She shut that down fast.

Mary spent more time at Ben and May’s apartment than her own. They made a point to be supportive without walking on eggshells around her. For the most part. May still kind of fretted over her sleep schedule and diet. More than once Ben had to pull her away so Mary could eat her bread-and-butter pickles in peace, thank you very much.

Richard kept in touch just as much as he usually did, but he seemed to actively avoid bringing up the pregnancy at all. Even when Mary did it herself, she immediately took note in the shortness in his responses. The periods at the ends of his messages. Any time that jealous-or-not question popped up, she shoved it back down at once.

Richard visited when he could, which wasn’t terribly often. The Los Angeles Medical Center kept him as busy as a medical center could, and Mary was understanding. Being a physical therapist was a time-consuming job, LA was a time-consuming city. Still, she couldn’t lie and say it didn’t bother her that she saw him infrequently enough for her belly to swell in-between visits.

Mary saw the way he refused to look at her belly and didn’t say anything about it.

She couldn’t worry about Richard anymore. The ship had sailed and she was done waving her handkerchief. She had other things to worry about.

For example, her child’s father was Tony Stark.

Well, okay, that wasn’t too bad of a problem. She just had to keep her lips sealed tight about it. She was not going to spend the rest of her life known as The Woman Who Had Tony Stark’s Kid. So it would just be a secret, forever and ever, unless the kid one day decided he wanted answers. The name “Tony Stark” alone was starting to lose its weight the more she thought about it. Sure, she sometimes felt a pang she couldn’t name when she saw his face on TV, on tabloids. Mary had dealt with worse, she could deal with this.

The bigger issue was that Mary was…starting to reconsider the adoption angle.


 

After she decided she didn’t want to put her child into foster care, she figured it was time to find a couple that would adopt them. There were plenty, of course. Hell, she saw advertisements in the newspaper for them. After that, though, Mary started to entertain the idea of keeping the baby. Entertaining soon became considering.

Alright. Call her a softie. Mary liked the idea of having a kid. Not the dirty diapers or temper tantrums, but the good parts. Everything had good parts and bad parts, and children were no different. Mary liked the idea of hearing the word “Mommy”, bubble baths, the first day of Kindergarten, Christmas mornings, birthday parties…She was getting a little too much into the idea. In a good way.

Sometimes she saw babies at the diner, or on the street. She didn’t care if it made her a weak-hearted daydreamer—she felt a little part of herself warm up when they giggled at their parents, or kissed their cheeks. The pure adoration in their children’s and parents’ eyes alike was enough to make just the slightest part of her melt.

“I think I want to keep the baby.”

Why did she have to tell May first? May, of all people. Of course May lit up like a firecracker. To Kill a Mockingbird just barely managed not to go flying out of her fingertips.

“Really?! Really, really?”

Mary lifted up her foot and pressed it to May’s belly, warding her away before her jubilee got too hot to handle. “Yeeup. I think so.”

“I—Well, SHIT, Mary! You could have made up your mind sooner!” May jabbed a hand at Mary’s belly, five months along and covered in a blanket. “We—You’ve got to get a cradle! You need a nursery! A college fund! There’s going to be a whole new person on this planet in FOUR MONTHS.”

“M’kay, coffee time.” Ben materialized out of heavenly nowhere and gently led his girlfriend away. She was still vibrating. “Good on you, Mary. We’ll help you figure everything out.”

May chugged down her coffee in record time and returned much more composed. Sitting back down across from Mary, she told her, “Alright. You come up with any names yet?”

Mary folded her book shut and hummed. “Maybe? Luke is a cute name.”

“Yeah, I like that!”

“Leia is also cute.”

“Oh, go figure.” May shook her head and leaned back. Ben took a seat down beside her. “It’s not my decision, but I will physically stop your hand from making their middle name Skywalker.”

“What about ‘Solo’?”

“Mary.”

“Chill! If it’s a girl, I was thinking Kirsten, Elizabeth, Rose, Lucy, Laura, Tara, or Emma. For a boy, I was thinking, Steven, Jack, Lee, Joey, Simon, Benjamin—”

Ben all but threw his coffee mug up into the air and cackled. His joy didn’t stop even as May drove her elbow into his stomach. One of them was the upmost satisfaction, the other was betrayed hurt.

Mary held up her hands before she got a bag of Lays thrown at her head. “I just like the way it sounds!”

“So do I,” agreed Ben, and he got another elbow-drive for his trouble.

“I won’t forget this,” warned May. She jabbed a finger right at Mary’s nose. “For the rest of your natural life, Mary Fitzpatrick, I will not forget if you do this.”

“If it makes you feel any better, I was thinking of naming my future cat May!”

That did get her the bag of Lays. Thrown.

May began to go into detail about everything they needed to do. Getting a room set up and baby-proofed was number-one priority, and Ben offered to sit down with her and catalog everything they’d need. They could even get a baby shower thrown together real quick, and invite all her friends from work. Once, just once, and only after they were alone did Ben only-curiously ask what she would put as the father’s name on the birth certificate. Mary told him that she wouldn’t write anything if she didn’t have to.

So yeah. This was happening.


 

Richard showed up the weekend after Ben told him she was keeping the baby. It was like seeing a switch flip off, and Mary couldn’t explain it.

They decided to buy a disassembled baby crib just to get it to fit in the car. May and Mary went on a toy-and-clothes shopping spree while Ben and Richard looked around at bigger items like cradles and changing stations. Mary’s room would have to couple as the nursery until she could save up enough time and money for another move.

They spent hours getting everything together. Richard took it upon himself to build the crib, and it was such a tedious process that they all applauded once it was done. Then he flipped it over, and realized he’d somehow managed to build a perfect cage. They didn’t let up on it for hours. He didn’t fade from tomato-red humiliation for hours.

Mary finally caved into curiosity and confirmed that yes, it was going to be a boy. Yes, she was pretty sure she liked the name Benjamin enough to name him that. They all threw themselves a little party at a bar not too far away, all of them sipping cocktails—virgin, virgin, virgin Mary made clear to every appalled look she got—and having good, genuine fun. May couldn’t decide if she was happy at the news or infuriated that her boyfriend’s name won. Mary asking her to be “Aunt May” kept her pretty satisfied after that, and if Ben got a little teary-eyed after hearing “What about you? Uncle Ben?” Well…They didn’t rib him too much on it.

Richard accidentally tripped a guy with his leg, and an endless stream of apologies followed that no amount of “resetting him” could fix. The guy barked at him to get his peg-leg out of his way. He then left when the very pregnant woman stood to her feet with the look of death on her face.

After that, it seemed like every other weekend, Richard was making his way to Queens to help. Even if it was just little things, like driving her to an appointment or even just fixing a lightbulb. Mary wasn’t complaining, but she wasn’t not complaining. She was both grateful and perplexed and she decided to just not talk about it. She missed Richard dearly and took whatever time with him she had.

“So,” Richard said as they walked down the block one day. Mary was seven months along now, waddling more than walking, but she tried to be out and about for at least an hour a day. It helped more than hurt her sore feet. Richard was the perfect partner, because he also had trouble—Okay, no. Bad Mary. Selfish thought. “Benjamin, huh?”

Mary let out a low, rumbling growl of a sigh. Richard laughed. “Did he brag about it, or did Mary rage to you?”

“Both at the same time. Not a nice sound, gotta tell you.”

“Maybe I should name him Reilly, too. Just to make it even.”

Richard’s head snaked back in fake hurt. “Well, then his name better be Richard Reilly Benjamin Fitzpatrick, because I-I am not getting left out of this. I will protest!”

Mary threw her hands up. “Okay, when one of you guys has a daughter, her name better be Mary Mary Parker-Mary. In recompense for all this pressure!”

“I was already going to name my kid after you!” He waited a good ten seconds to explain, “I’m going to name my son Fitz.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“You love me.”

“Not anymore.” Mary kicked a rock down the pavement. It kind of helped get rid of the lump in her throat. Kind of. “I was thinking ‘Peter’.”

Richard considered it well. Let it bounce around his head for a bit. “Peter’s a good name. Richard is better, but Peter’s a good name.”

“Peter Not-Richard Fitzpatrick.”

“I’ll take it.”

Mary snorted, and they were quiet for a stretch after that. The sunset was bouncing orange off all the windows around them. Not a bad day in Queens, not at all. A perfect seventy-two degrees, just the right temperature to be out and about. For a second, Mary thought about holding her son’s hand down the pavement. It was a nice thought.

“Hey, can I ask a completely off-topic question?” she asked.

“Sure.”

“Waffles or pancakes?”

“Pancakes, Mary. For the last time!”

“You’re factually wrong and I will write a thesis one day.” With that ice-breaker out of the way, Mary went on. “Can I ask another completely off-topic question?”

“Chocolate beats vanilla. I will fight you on this, pregnant o-or otherwise.”

“Why did you go to LA?”

Richard’s face did that thing it always did when he was caught off-guard. His lips pursed, his eyes blinked, his brows knit together—they still walked side-by-side, but he gave her a confused glance as they went on. “Because they asked?”

“Yeah, but didn’t Queens Medical Center also ask? I’m just saying, if you got, like, five people killed at work, all you would have to do is walk over and we could go get drinks.”

“You’re very considerate.” The two of them sidestepped a passing couple. Richard put a hand on her shoulder as they did so, something he’d been doing much more as of late. It was hard to blame him. Even she thought she was going to tip over like a bowling pin sometimes. “I just wanted to live in LA, Fitz. I don’t know what else to say.”

“Say what’s in LA that isn’t here. Was it the casinos? Did you want to pass by the Hollywood sign every day? Did you go for Disneyland? There is no shame in admitting that you went for Disneyland.”

It would have been so easy to let her voice get sharp, but Mary was careful. Not careful enough for Richard’s smile not to gain some fakeness, but careful. “I think it was Disneyland and just…It not being Queens. We talked about it through college, didn’t we? That one day we’d just toss a coin and live somewhere that wasn’t New York.”

“Yeah, but I was thinking, like…Omaha.”

“Omaha?”

“Omaha!”

“I—You’re right. You’re so very—just completely correct. LA over Omaha. What the hell was I thinking?”

It was just a joke, of course it was, except it kind of wasn’t. The Omaha part was a joke, but Mary didn’t say—just as she hadn’t said for months and months now—that she’d thought they had meant together. She thought that was a given. When they talked about getting a condo by the ocean, or a cabin in the mountains, or even just becoming one of those hippie road-wanderers with no direction, there was an understanding of together. Who just sat down with their friends to talk about them being separated in the future? “Hey, Fitz, in a few years from now, we’re going to live thousands of miles apart and probably only see each other when we’re lucky, and we’ll slowly fade from each other’s lives and only live on as fond memories. Let’s talk about this and laugh!”

“What is it?” Richard just gingerly nudged his elbow against hers. “You, uh…You got that trying-not-to-be-pissed face on.”

“I’m not pissed.”

“I know, but—”

“I’m not trying to not be pissed, either.”

“Okay, you say that, but your—I mean, your tone just…”

“Okay, Rich, how many times are you going to press the pregnant lady’s buttons and still act coy, huh?”

“Alright, alright. I got it. I got you.”

They were going to have to talk about this at some point, Mary knew. They’d been putting it off long enough.

When was the first time she realized they were going to have to talk about something? It certainly wasn’t when they first met, Richard hadn’t impressed her. Not to be mean, but he was two years younger, a short thing who couldn’t keep eye contact and stuttered like a scratched CD.

Maybe it was after that, when Mary (and to be fair, just about every girl in their high school) thought, “Hey, Richard may have just gotten hit with the good end of the puberty stick.” Or even after that, after he asked her to prom, and she said no only because she wasn’t interested in standing around or awkwardly dancing, and then he asked Patricia Lennon instead and that made her very annoyed for some reason.

Heck, it might have even been after that, when she was running like a maniac to his hospital room. Not when she saw his cloth-swaddled stump for the first time, hell no, but maybe when she saw him eating Jell-O despite the remains of his leg being lifted up in the air in a sling and she thought He’s stronger than I thought he was. And also, more drugged.

Time, time, time. She was always asking for more time when she had all in the world that she needed. Richard left for LA, Mary slept with Tony Stark, now she was pregnant, and this was going to be how their lives went. Even if they hadn’t really run out of time, it sure did feel like that. Maybe this was fate. Bullshit, that was.

Mary didn’t get to wallow in her self-pity very long. The slight cramp she’d felt in her stomach all morning suddenly swelled up. She had to stop, and Richard stopped right along with her.

“You good?” he asked.

“Yep. I’m good.”

She was. For seven minutes, then the pain swelled again.

“Do you want to stop?” Richard asked her. He’d already pulled her bag from her hand and slung it across his own shoulder. “Let’s find a place to sit down, okay?”

“No, I’m fine. We just need to turn around. I think I might be having contractions.”

“Alright.”

Richard gently turned her around, and they continued back in the direction of her apartment. He kept her bag the whole way there, without once struggling with his leg. It took about halfway back for another swell of pain to come, and she just huffed and walked through it.

While she brushed a strand of hair from her face, Mary paused. Stopped. Frowned.

“Did I say that I was having contractions?”

Richard blinked. “Wait, did you?”

“Yeah, did I?”

Both of them looked down at her belly.

Mary pushed Richard forward with just a sigh. “Let’s swing by and get my overnight bag.”

“Cool,” Richard wheezed. “Cool, cool, cool.”


 

The short version of the story was that Peter Benjamin (“May I’m still round over here can you please not slap me.”) Fitzpatrick was born on August 10, 2001, about two months early at the Queens Hospital Center.

The long version of the story was that Richard rocketed her to the Queens Hospital Center and they arrived when her contractions were six minutes apart and not terribly strong. They explained everything to the workers inside, and there was some paperwork and waiting before Mary was allowed to change into a gown. They went ahead and set up a room for her. Ben and May arrived together. Mary realized that it was actually going to take a while for the baby to actually arrive, so they passed time playing a game of Uno. Ben fell asleep in the corner of the room. Then it was time for the baby to come, and everyone was shooed out save Mary (Duh with a capital D). There was an epidural, a lot of pushing, sweating, grunting, and then she had a son. Being early, there were many procedures to go through, and she waited a bit too long to actually hold him.

Finally he was passed over to her, a tiny pink little thing with a few wisps of brown hair and hands just barely bigger than her own fingertips. Those hands claw and swipe around before finding purchase on her thumb, and she kept them there. Mary didn’t weep with joy, but she felt some tears welling up in her eyes. Happy, relieved tears. This-is-my-son tears.

May and Ben very nearly maul each other to hold him first. May won, so they settled on a one-to-one score. And oh, did May coo and fuss and giggle at every little sound Peter made. After that, the nurses insisted on setting Peter up the incubator, weakness to germs and all that. Ben and Richard huddle around the glass and watch him.

Mary fell asleep and woke up, saw her son, fell asleep again. Woke up, saw Richard sleeping in the corner chair, and smiled.

She was finally handed the birth certificate. As she’d said she would, she left the name of Peter’s father blank.

Notes:

Hoo, boy...Let me know what you all think of this one. Not sure if it's too much or too little or whatever else. UO_O I wanted to offer a little more to Mary before we let her go for good--we'll probably see a little more of her in the future, but consider this Mary's focus chapter.

Thank you all for your support! I greatly appreciate each and every comment, view, and kudos!!

Chapter 6: Chapter Six

Summary:

Richard was coming toward him with two letters, one opened and one not. He extended them out to Tony.

“Just in case you wanted to read it,” he said.

Tony took them, and looked over to Obie. He was still absorbed in helping out Ben with the paperwork. Happy kept sipping coffee. In the back, he heard something thump against a carpeted floor.

Tony sat down on the armchair next to the couch and lifted the opened letter first. The writing was clear but quick.

Chapter Text

Peter took after his mother most obviously. They shared the roundness to their eyes, the smooth brown hair with a slight curl to it. Even as young as he was, Tony could see the beginnings of laugh lines in his cheeks, the telltale sign of a kid who smiled very often. Not Mary’s dimples, but very close.

His likeness to Tony was the non-obvious sort, which somehow was more effective. Same nose. Same face shape. Same—did Peter have his ears? He probably had his ears. The only thing that looked him right in the face, the one big blinking neon sign of YOUR KID, YOUR KID, CHECK IT OUT, was the brown hue of Peter’s eyes. Tony remembered well that Mary’s eyes had been a dark forest green. Peter’s eyes were his and his alone.

He. was. tiny. Tony didn’t know if he literally was or if he was average for a five-year-old and he was just imagining it, but Peter seemed so very small to him. He held Ben’s hand above his but it felt like Ben could have taken the kid’s whole arm into his palm alone.

Peter was small, and young, and real. Very real.

The way he looked at Tony was not warm. There was no drop of instant love in his eyes. Just curiosity and an abundance of wariness. He was brave enough to keep his big, big eyes trained at Tony’s face, but he kept his hand firmly in Ben’s. He was uncomfortable. Maybe even more so than Tony was.

Which made sense, because…Stranger. Three strangers, in fact, but it just so happened that one of them was his father. ‘You know, Peter, your father. The thing all your friends have but you don’t. A person that loves you unconditionally and tucks you to bed and kisses you goodnight. You’ve just never met him before because he didn’t know you existed!’

Tony didn’t know if the others were watching him. He was fully focused on watching Peter, the real, living Peter. The kid started to rock on the heels of his tiny sneakers. A little hand reached up to scratch his nose.

Someone had to take the first step forward, Tony figured, and it wasn’t going to be the five-year-old. With one glance up at Ben, who replied with an all-too-understanding nod, Tony knelt down to Peter’s height. The boy’s hand fell back to his side. If he pulled back from Tony, it was hard to tell.

Up close, the big brown eyes are almost too…cute to look at. Cute. Adorable. The kid was incredibly adorable. He couldn’t deny that.

“Well, you got my looks, so congratulations,” Tony joked. Peter didn’t so much as giggle back. Ah, well. Tony extended his hand outwards, open and upward. “Hey, Peter. It’s nice to meet you.”

Peter obediently shook his hand. Tony definitely wasn’t imagining it. The kid’s hand was smaller than his own palm.

Peter finally spoke in a voice that was just as tiny as he was. “It’s nice to meet you, too.”

Then he looked up at Ben, a big question mark on his face, and he got a nod back. Before Tony could even think about what that was for, Peter had leaned forward and wrapped his short little arms around Tony’s neck and squeezed.

It was not nice.

It was horrible.

It was awkward, stiff, and maybe even a little scared. It was clear as day that Peter didn’t really want to do this, he just thought he had to. Tony felt every bit of reluctance in his first-ever hug with his own son, and all he could do was pat him on the back in return. Behind him, he heard a coffee cup clink onto a surface. Someone sniffed.

Peter pulled back after only a couple of seconds. He didn’t take Ben’s hand again, only twiddled his own together. He was looking Tony up and down, and Tony got the acute feeling that the kid was a lot smarter than his age let on. Five years old, but so clearly analyzing and estimating Tony’s every action and move. He was a stranger, but he was his father, so it was up to him to decide whether to trust him or not—LIKE him or not.

“You’ve got strong arms.” Tony almost, almost, almost reached out to squeeze Peter’s arm just so, but restrained himself at the last second. “Bet all the other kids at school know not to mess with you, huh?”

Peter didn’t answer, just shook his head. Kid language for “I don’t get the joke but I know it’s a joke so I’ll go along with it.” Ben chuckled and rustled Peter’s hair. At once, a little bit of tension eased out of Peter.

“More like he goes on the monkeybars for hours on end,” Ben teased. “Peter’s going to be super buff when he gets older, aren’t you?”

This time, Peter nodded. Still didn’t say anything.

Tony really wished he had some kind of coach with him right then. He had no idea if he was trying too hard, not enough, or not at all. He was expecting a lukewarm impression at best, but now he feared he was making Peter uncomfortable. Whether or not this would be their only time together, it would be their first time together, and Tony didn’t want to ruin it.

So, Tony stood up and walked over to Happy’s side of the couch. He and Obie were both observing in that very uncomfortable way of trying not to stare but doing it anyway. Regardless, Happy handed him the wrapped package without question. The purple paper sparkled even under the fluorescent light in the ceiling—the teeniest-tiniest spark of intrigue lit up in Peter’s face.

“I was going to keep this for myself, but I think it’s a little too good for me.” Tony eased the box down at Peter’s feet. “Have at it.”

Peter blinked at him. Peter blinked at Ben. Peter blinked at May, and May cheered, “Go ahead, Peter!” So Peter finally tore off the bow and ripped the paper to pieces.

The second it was uncovered, a miniature version of R2D2 in cardboard casing, another punch of anxiety took Tony right in the stomach. He’d forgotten what it even was. He’d forgotten that he’d forgotten. So there was a very real possibility that Peter was not in any way, shape, or form a fan of a movie series that had started twenty-five years ago. But he’d gotten him a gift for it.

Tony steeled himself for the disappointment in Peter’s face. In his head, he already docked himself another fifty ‘First Impression’ points. Doubled with an awkward introduction and never seeing the boy a day before in his life, he was probably at an even -1,000 now.

But then—but then!—Peter’s face lit up. He was trying to be composed, that was easy to see, but he just couldn’t stop a smile from curling his lips. He picked up the box and spun it around angle-by-angle. He was so enamored he wasn’t even looking at Tony anymore.

Tony allowed himself a smile, too. It was easy enough, considering the pure joy radiating off the kid. “I had my fingers crossed you liked Star Wars.”

May let out a long, amazed gasp and crossed the room to them. Though her arms were crossed, she was all smiles as she came up beside Peter. She’d built up no immunity to his grin. “Peter loves Star Wars!”

Peter nodded so much the curl in his hair bounced around. He was still twisting the box around to see every tiny detail. If Tony didn’t know any better, he’d say he was trying to read the Spanish translation at the bottom.

Ben nudged Peter just slightly with his knuckles. “You should thank him.”

Peter tore his gaze away to meet Tony’s again. There was still wariness, but the eagerness to get this toy out of the box as soon as possible easily overwhelmed it. “Thank you, Mr. Stark.”

Alright. First Impression Score: -990.

“Can I go play with it?”

-995, then.

May’s and Ben’s faces both fell. One glance at each other and one glance at Tony, they prepared themselves for a gentle ‘no, Peter, that’s rude.’ But Tony just waved his hand, still grinning. “Go for it, space ranger. Tear her to pieces.”

Peter left the room a good two minutes after he’d entered it. His eager footsteps faded away to the back. May followed a moment later. Probably, she was helping him with all the plastic and cardboard.

Two brothers, two business partners, and a bodyguard-slash-chauffeur were left behind with their coffee cups and awkward postures. Ben’s fingers scratching at his stubble, scritch-scritch-scritch, were as loud as stereo speakers. Tony, meanwhile, stood back to his feet and finally took off the ballcap he was still donning.

“I think that went well,” he joked futilely.

Happy always took his job very seriously, to the point where not doing something to help or protect Tony sometimes made him antsy. So, having sat still on the couch for a good fifteen minutes now, he offered a very sincere, “I think it did.” Obie just raised his eyebrows once and said nothing.

Richard crossed over, again with two mugs in one hand. Ben struggled to take it from him as he spoke, “He’s just really—shy, I promise. He doesn’t really—Ben, the green one’s mine—understand what’s going on, so he just, uh, nods along and does what he—because I put extra sugar in it!—what he’s told. He doesn’t get why—I mean, this is just what I think, and I could be wrong, but I don’t think he gets why you’re here.”

“You can imagine it’s been kind of rough on him.” Ben finally grabs the World’s #1 (MARY) mug when Richard lifts his walking stick in warning. “He’s a trooper, but he can only bend so far.”

Hearing that, and seeing Mary’s name written in Sharpie on the mug, and standing in the home she and her son lived in, another pang of sadness takes Tony right in the chest. He’d realized it before, but he realized again that Peter had lost his mother. Not just that, but his one parent. Peter’s very first memories were probably based on his mother’s face, and he’d never be seeing it again.

Tony remembered the grief, the all-consuming bitter rage, that had taken over him when his parents had died. Well, no, ‘remembered’ was past tense. He still felt it at times, albeit the pain had dulled to wasp stings over the years. It still hurt, but time had made it a little easier. Plus, Tony had been an adult when he’d lost them. So even if he’d doubled over when he heard the news and sobbed into his hands like a broken little child, he wasn’t a child. He understood what was happening. Howard had died knowing his son was a disappointment, Maria had died knowing her husband and son would never make amends, and both had died instantly in a random crash on a random road.

It was just another one of fate’s inexplicable dice-rolls. Howard had probably seen a deer, or turned too hard, or something or another. Tony understood what had happened and what he’d lost.

Peter, though…he probably still wondered if the light stayed on when he closed the fridge. He probably still thought hearts were heart-shaped. How could he even begin to understand what was happening to him now? Perhaps he knew what death was—Tony himself had been five years old and grieving his goldfish Alberto when his mother had given him the “death is when you fall asleep and don’t wake up because you go to heaven, it happens because it happens” talk—but still…He could understand what death meant while not understanding why Mommy wasn’t going to come back.

The cherry on this cake with Your life is falling apart! written in icing was that the man who Peter sometimes saw on the TV was a real person and also his father. Tony was seriously starting to reconsider whether he should have come at all.

His thoughts were spiraling faster than a tornado, and Tony knew it. He started to wander around the sparse living room as if there was anything he hadn’t seen yet.

“How far along are we in the ‘planning’ stage? I’m guessing everything was left to him.”

Ben nodded. “Mary left behind a will in case anything like this happened—besides the letter, I mean.”

Tony tipped back the last of his coffee, grains and all. Hopefully the caffeine would punch him in the face any minute now. “I don’t suppose she said what she wanted for him? Who, I mean.”

Ben scratched at his cheek again, scritch-scritch. Richard’s gulp from his coffee was accompanied with his eyes suddenly finding interest in the carpet beneath them. Well, at least they’d staved off the awkward silence of dread for this long.

“Mary sai—wrote that she was okay with me and May taking him in.” Ben’s pinky tapped against the mug. “If we want to. We’re still talking about it.”

Tony figured as much. The way she’d talked about them alone let Tony know Mary would trust May and Ben with her life and Peter’s. That didn’t mean asking them to take over in the event that she no longer could would be easy. Mary wasn’t wrong for asking, they wouldn’t be wrong for saying no.

Obie finally stood up to his feet and tugged at his cufflinks. Tony didn’t even know what to expect of him anymore. He’d been quiet this whole time, and he hadn’t been looking at him. He was relaxed (finally) and tucked his hands into his pockets. For some reason, he seemed very large in the New York apartment. Happy, now alone to sip coffee on the couch, seemed small by comparison.

“How old is he?” Obie asked.

Richard and Ben both blinked once. They didn’t say it, but Tony doubted they even knew who Obie was. It wasn’t that Obadiah Stane wasn’t an important person—former business partner of Howard Stark, CEO of Stark Industries before Tony inherited the title—but nowadays people usually only recognized him from the news. Tony didn’t think that was fair, but Obie had never really loved interviews and flashing cameras. He took part in them, just didn’t love them.

Richard answered first, with a blink of ‘oh hey yeah I know this guy.’ “He’s five. Five and a quarter, technically, uh—his birthday is August 10th.”

“M’kay. So he’s got about thirteen years before he has full access to whatever Miss Mary left behind for him.” Obie pulled his hands out to fold his arms, but his stance was not unkind. His gaze had even softened up a touch. “He’s going to need a custodian until then. Have you decided on that part yet?”

“She did ask us to do that.” Ben motioned his coffee cup near the square kitchen. The table pressed against the wall, accompanied by two mismatched chairs, was covered in a layer of papers, pens, and manila folders. “We’re working on that right now. Just about fried our brains out last night.”

Obie let out a “pah!” and clapped his hands together. “Let me help you out with that. You’ve gotta be careful about these things. Come on.”

Ben followed him with a nod of thanks. Obie sat himself down, hunched over the papers, and picked up a pen at once. Tony couldn’t hear what he was explaining to Ben, but gratitude covered him like a safety blanket. Maybe seeing the kid was, well, a kid and not a breathing threat to Tony’s public image had turned Obie’s mind in the right direction.

Happy’s impatience peaked again with “He seems like a sweet kid.” Then his lips sealed together as if Gorilla-Glued.

“Oh, yeah!” Richard swung his walking stick forward with expert grace. Finally starting to relax, and good on him for it. “I swear, he’s just—you know, he’s just shy. But he’s sweet. And smart. God, he is so smart. I—I kid you not, he’s beaten me at checkers more than I’d like to admit.”

Tony mouthed to Happy, He’s got my brain. Happy nodded.

Richard was still moving around to the kitchen island, not too far from Obie and Ben, but ignoring them in favor of searching for something. “I’m not sure if it, uh, matters or anything, but just in case you wanted to know—like I said, maybe not important—he has mild allergies to almonds and hazelnuts. And, uh, he uses reading glasses. Just for reading, not, like, all the time…He’s pretty much caught up on everything medical-wise. Vaccinations and all that, I mean.”

Tony nodded and nodded and nodded some more while he wondered if this was important after all. He wasn’t complaining about learning these facts. No harm to it. Maybe if he needed to pay for EpiPens or broken glasses or—

Tony was really overthinking this, wasn’t he?

There was a small bookshelf towards the back corner, beneath the window. It was mostly books and movies—a hardback copy of Where the Wild Things Are was propped against the case for Pulp Fiction—and a succulent in a little pot. Beside that there was a leather photo album. M & P is scrawled across the front in gold leaf.

Tony lifted up the front of the book before he could help it.

He didn’t look past the front page, but it was enough, more than enough. There were three photographs on the page, all together with no mind about chronological order. The first was Mary, with color in her cheeks and very much alive. She was laying down in a hospital bed, but despite that and the strands of sweaty hair sticking to her forehead, she was smiling. The camera was held to show the glass box in front of her—inside that box is Peter, and holy shit if Tony thought he was tiny before. Newborn Peter is so little it hurt like a stab to his heart. Wires were wrapped around his pink nose and his pink chest, held in place by cloth stickers.

Despite her son being the personification of fragility itself, Mary is smiling. Not just smiling, but a crooked smile with an upturned face and a finger pointed at Peter as if declaring, “Hell yeah, I made this.”

The next picture is both of them in a park, Central for all Tony knew. Peter was old enough to stand on two red sneakers. His hair had become a mop of unruly brown curls. Neither of them were looking at the camera, they might not have even known about it. Mary was kneeling behind Peter so he could be between her knees and lean against her shoulder. She was holding a paper bag in one hand and was extending a palm of crumbs toward four pigeons, one caught as a blur mid-flight. Her mouth was open to instruct Peter, and he was listening, but he had so many crumbs in his balled-up hand that they were spilling between his fingers.

The final picture was another candid shot, and very dark save for the grainy, bluish glow of a television out of view. It illuminated Mary and Peter on the same couch that Happy sat on at that moment. They weren’t happy. They were peaceful. Mary was in pajamas, her hair was messy. Munching on popcorn. One arm lazily draped around Peter’s body. Peter was hardly any younger than what Tony had seen of him a few minutes ago. His head was propped against his mother’s thigh. Both of them were watching the TV with their full attention, no other care in the world.

“Mr. Stark?”

Tony heard his name but didn’t turn away immediately. The last photo could have been taken last week, for all he knew. It was taken on a couch he stood not four feet away from. He couldn’t say exactly why that upset him so much.

Richard was coming toward him with two letters, one opened and one not. He extended them out to Tony.

“Just in case you wanted to read it,” he said.

Tony took them, and looked over to Obie. He was still absorbed in helping out Ben with the paperwork. Happy kept sipping coffee. In the back, he heard something thump against a carpeted floor.

Tony sat down on the armchair next to the couch and lifted the opened letter first. The writing was clear but quick.

Parker, Reilly, Richard, & Whoever Else They Deem Important Enough to Read This

This letter will be taken out of my safe deposit box in the event that I die. I know a written letter is pretty predictable, but I have a reason for this, trust me. I don’t like writing this, either. I don’t like acknowledging that I could die younger than I think I will, but it’s better to face it and be uncomfortable than not and leave a mess behind me.

Most of this is in a will I’ve already left with my attorney, but some things need to be said here, and from me. Everything property and money-wise has already been settled, but if something ever happens to me, Peter is the number one priority, but you already know that.

I’ve been thinking a lot lately, and that’s why I’m writing this. I don’t know why, but I’ve been worrying and guilting feeling very guilty lately. You may never even read this later, because maybe I’ll actually face up to things by then and I’ll pull this out of the box. But maybe I won’t, so I’ll get to it.

If something happens to me—again, already in the will—I’m trusting you three to take care of Peter. Not necessarily “take care” of him, though. There are no two people I’d trust more to take care of him than Reilly and Parker, and no one person than Rich, but I’m not going to ask that of you guys because I know that’s probably the hugest thing to ask anyone to do. So if you guys want, go for it. You’ll know everything he’s going to need. If not, find someone else who does. I trust that with you, too. I also don’t like imagining someone besides me caring for him, but I don’t think any parent who loves their kid does. The best I can do is make sure he has the best.

Whatever you decide, please, please, please don’t abandon him. It doesn’t matter if Peter is 5 or 7 or 16 when you’re reading this, I know for a fact you’ll still be one of his constants, the way I am was. Everyone needs constants. If you decide that someone else should care for him, please just visit him and talk to him and make sure he knows you’re there. It was only through you guys that my time going from home to home wasn’t the loneliest nightmare in the world. I’m going to ask that you do the same for him.

There’s something else that I need to let you guys know that isn’t in that will. If I’d already told you this myself, you wouldn’t be reading this at all.

I’m just going to write it: Peter’s father is Tony Stark.

We met at that charity ball I was supposed to be waitressing at and seven months later I had Peter. I’m absolutely positive about this. Please just accept that yeah, I slept with Tony Stark and he’s Peter’s dad. I’m not going into paragraphs begging you to believe me.

(You are, however, very much allowed to be impressed.)

Tony snorted despite himself. Happy glanced over at him, but said nothing.

Again, you wouldn’t be reading this if I’d already figured this out myself. But you are reading this, and that means I haven’t told you and/or I haven’t told him.

I didn’t tell you guys because I think I’m pretending that it didn’t matter. I get that having Tony Stark’s kid sounds like a big friggin’ deal, but I didn’t think so. But I still hid it from you guys, so sorry for contradicting myself. If you’d even believed me, I wouldn’t want you guys thinking about that every single time you look at me or Peter. Calling him “that guy at the party” is embarrassing enough. I’m really not trying to be mean here, but you guys are human and humans are judgmental by nature.

The reason I didn’t tell Stark is between him and me. Maybe he’ll tell you, but there’s going to be another letter in this box. It’ll say “For T.S.—DON’T OPEN UNLESS THAT’S YOU!” I’m trusting you guys to follow that instruction. If you’re disappointed that I’m not telling you, I’m sorry. Maybe he’ll tell you. Maybe not.

I’m asking you guys to please get in contact with Stark and let him know. Why I didn’t tell him sooner will still be between him and me, but if I don’t get around to it at all, I’m afraid that’s what I’m begging you guys to do. Do whatever it takes to get through to him. Call him, fly to LA, whatever. Don’t ask him to pay off Peter’s college savings, don’t ask him to pay some kind of post-mortem child support, just let him know he’s Peter’s father and leave it at that. Everything after that is in his hands.

I have no idea how to end this letter, I’ll be honest. Please just follow what I’ve written. I love you guys so, so, so much and I know you’ll do what’s right for Peter. Look after him and make sure he doesn’t forget his Mom loves him.

—Mary Fitzpatrick, in case that wasn’t clear

There was an odd dryness to Tony’s throat when he finished the letter, but it definitely wasn’t the warning sign of tears. He folded the letter at last and glanced up just in time to see Happy flick his gaze away from him. Tony felt like an intruder reading that letter, but Richard wanted him to, he supposed.

That left the other letter, and sure enough, there the print was: For T.S.—DON’T OPEN UNLESS THAT’S YOU! Well, that was him. So Tony slid his thumb under the seal and pulled the paper out.

Stark,

He read that three times like he didn’t even recognize his own name.

The only reason you’ll be reading this is if I haven’t grown the balls to face you myself. So now that you are, and I haven’t, I’m sorry. I’m very, very sorry, but I need to get to that in a second.

Either Richard, Reilly, or Parker (or someone else they trust) has gotten into contact with you and has let you know that you’re Peter’s father. You’ve probably gotten this letter after they’ve sent it to you. This will be the first time you’ll have heard from me in a while. I know that what I’m doing/have done is super shitty and again, I’m very sorry.

If you don’t believe me, I don’t blame you. I guess you don’t HAVE to believe me, but I just have to beg you to. Take a paternity test if you feel you need to. I just want to make it clear, first of all, that I am not not not not not asking any favors of you. I know you’re Peter’s father, but he’s also a stranger you’re only just now hearing about and I’m not expecting you to support or even see him. *I* am a stranger to you and I really do not think I have any right or reason to demand anything from you.

I’m letting you know that you’re Peter’s father because you should know that you’re Peter’s father. If you’re wondering why the hell I didn’t tell you sooner, I’m going to explain the best that I can and sound like the world’s worst human being while doing it.

First of all, I didn’t think you’d believe me. I’m positive—I don’t mean this as an insult, you can even take it as a compliment if you want—that you’ve been with a lot of women before. I’m also sure this isn’t the first time you’ve heard that you have a kid. You might already have a kid via one night stand, for all I know. My point is that I didn’t think you would believe a word I’d said. If you did, and you thought I was going to demand half your money and all of Stark Industries as child support, I wouldn’t have blamed you for being wary.

Second of all, and this is where I’m really going to sound shitty, I didn’t think you’d care. I didn’t know you for very long, but I liked you a lot. I don’t wish to assume things, but I would say you’re a lot better than the perfect playboy the media says you are. You were funny and nice and I knew there were things you cared about, but Peter might not have been one of them. It’s not about biting off more than you can chew so much as eating more than you can keep down. A child is hard work on top of the mountain of hard work you already have.

(This last point really, really, really needs to stay with you. Please don’t tell Rich or anyone else, please.)

Third of all, I regret what happened to a degree. I love Peter to death and back. I’m not joking, he’s the best thing that ever happened to me. I wouldn’t trade him for the world. But I can’t lie to myself and say that I was in a completely perfect state of mind when we were together. I’d missed my last pay on rent, I had to sell my car, and I had realized but not accepted that me and Rich weren’t going to happen. I switched with Craig because I was desperate—it was stupid, and I got fired, and I’m sure I got Craig in trouble and made a lot of people uncomfortable, however funny you and I thought it was. I’d never had a one-night stand before. I’ve never gotten THAT drunk before.

You absolutely, in no way, took advantage of me AT ALL. We were both drunk as sailors and I enjoyed every bit of our time together. It wasn’t your fault and I don’t want to say it was my fault because “fault” kind of implies that what we did was some kind of crime. It wasn’t, but I still regretted it because that wasn’t me.

I’ve known for a long time now that I should have let you know as soon as I found out. It didn’t matter if you didn’t believe me. It didn’t matter if you didn’t want anything to do with me or Peter. It didn’t matter if I couldn’t grow a damn spine and face up to what happened. You deserved to know that you were a father. I’m writing this down and I STILL haven’t told you, and I am so, so, so, so, so sorry. One of my old foster mothers said that the worst kind of people know that what they’re doing is bad and they do it anyway. Consider me the worst kind of person.

Again, I do not want you to fund/support/care for Peter. If YOU AND YOU ALONE want to do that, do it. I’ve taken away a lot of your decisions and giving this to you now isn’t the least I can do, it’s the least of the least of the least that I can do. But I am going to ask that you consider what he wants, too. So—this is going to sound horrible, but I can’t control Peter’s wants like a puppet—if Peter decides of his own will that he doesn’t want to meet you, please respect that.

I just want you to know, whether in this letter or from myself. I’m so sorry and I can only hope that you can forgive me and realize what you want to do about this. I mean it when I say I think you’re a good person. I’m not going to go into this whole “DON’T YOU DARE GET MAD AND TAKE IT OUT ON PETER” paragraph because I know I don’t have to.

I really am sorry and I hope you’re okay.

—Mary Fitzpatrick

P.S. “Cold water for champagne, hot water for red wine” turned out to be bullshit, just FYI.

The next time his own name called him back to reality, which was happening with more frequency the past few days, it came from Happy. He was leaning across the couch and his eyebrows were knotted together in deep, sincere concern. Tony still held the letter even though his hands had gone limp in his lap. He could have been staring into dead space for minutes.

Tony raised his eyebrows at Happy. “Yeah?”

“Are you okay?”

Tony folded the letter.

“I’m great.”

Chapter 7: Chapter Seven

Summary:

"So you like Star Wars and you like Legos. What else?"

"I like reading."

"You're sophisticated. What's your favorite book?"

"Charlie and the Chocolate Factory." He pronounced it like "chock'lit", which was... Unfairly cute. Peter's eyes glanced between Tony and the Legos before he finally decided to ask, "What does 'sophisticated' mean?"

"Fancy and smart."

Chapter Text

Peter didn’t come out of his room for the rest of that evening, bar one time to get a drink. Obie and Ben spent most of the time figuring out the paperwork at the kitchen table, albeit their conversation occasionally went to the Mets, Queens in comparison to Malibu, and other harmless topics. May bounced between Peter’s room and the living room. Happy only spoke when spoken to but otherwise seemed fine.

Tony sat on the armchair like a worthless couch potato.

To be fair, the others did try to strike up some conversation every now and then. For the most part, though, Tony just sat there in a thoughtless silence. Which was surprising, since he had a lot to think about.

Hours ticked by one-by-one, and with little else but pitch black coffee, everyone decided that supper was probably in order at around five. Richard was the first to suggest they go out and the first to realize that Tony existing with them would turn heads. So in the end May put in a big order for a nearby Chinese place.

Dinner was about as good as dinner could have been. Peter came obediently from the back, ate his fried rice and chicken dumplings, and didn’t say much aside from “Can I have more?” and “Yeah” and “No.” Any attempts to engage him in conversation were met with silent replies.

“What do you like to do at school, Peter?” Shrug.

“Is Chinese food your favorite, Peter?” Shrug.

“You’re being awfully quiet, Peter.” Trapped shrug.

In the meantime, the others kept up as much casual talk as they could. They even managed to crack a couple jokes and share a few laughs, but it was all blanketed in an awkwardness that couldn’t be ignored. It all felt like a business meeting trying too hard to be something else.

Peter didn’t look at Tony, but to be fair, he didn’t look at anyone much. His eyes stayed trained down to the table until his name was spoken. After a quick “Can I go to my room now?” he dashed back down the tiny hallway like he couldn’t get there any faster. Everyone tried to help out with the cleaning, but what else was there to do besides tossing empty boxes in the trash?

The conversations began to pick up the implication of closing, and Tony found himself glancing back down the hallway more and more. From where he stood, leaning in the corner with one last mug of coffee in hand, he could see a sliver of Peter’s room. Not much, but he thought maybe he saw a nightlight and a couple of glow-in-the-dark stars. Peter was being as quiet as a mouse.

“Hey,” he said, and everyone quieted down almost at once. “Is it okay if I…?”

He kind of waved his hand in the general direction, and quickly, Ben took the mug from him and gave him a nod of encouragement. With that, Tony picked up his ballcap from where he’d left it on the shelf and walked through the little hallway, through the door with P-E-T-E-R in uneven red letters, and into Peter’s room.

The room was about what Tony would have expected, albeit a bit on the small side. The walls were covered in pictures of crayons, markers, and paints, all with the "Guess what this is" quality only children could accomplish. The window had a pretty poor view of the alley down below, but an attempt was made to remedy this with striped blue curtains.

The duvet was covered in a star-and-rocket pattern, same as the pillows. A box in the corner housed a collection of toys. Those, the night stand, and a short chest of drawers were all the furniture in the room. Not counting the deflated green bean bag, that is.

Peter was in the middle of the carpet, not playing with the R2D2 but keeping it close at his side. He had a pretty large plastic box full of Lego bits in front of him. Several pieces were out on the floor—he was smart enough to keep his shoes on—and on the instruction pamphlet between Peter's feet.

His big brown eyes were pinned on his work with a surgical precision. The size of his hands actually seemed to make it easier for him to snap the pieces together. So focused was he that it took Tony turning to look at the Yoda poster on the wall to get his attention.

Watching the five-year-old's walls shoot up was only a tiny bit funny, and still in the disappointing way. He went blank-faced and turned his eyes up on Tony without raising his chin. His hands lowered the Legos as if he was about to get in trouble for it.

"Hey," Tony greeted.

Peter whispered a "Hi."

Tony nudged the box with the toe of his shoe. "You like Legos, too?"

Peter nodded.

"As you should. I kept mine ‘til I was sixteen." Given, he'd kind of hid them in a shoebox under his dresser, since Howard never did think too highly of them, but still. Who didn't like Legos? "Mind if I join you?"

Peter scooted back to let Tony sit with him. He did, cross-legged, not too close and not too far. Peter reached into the box and handed him a little booklet. It'd been folded so many times white cracks were showing. Tony spread it out and fished for the parts.

The kid deemed him harmless enough to go back to work. It was impressive, how well and quickly he worked. Not that looking at the pictures was hard, but credit was still due.

"What are you making?" asked Tony. The front cover of his own booklet was missing, so he guessed he was making a surprise.

"A jet," answered Peter. It was probably obvious from the wings.

Tony clicked a couple of pieces together. "So you like Star Wars and you like Legos. What else?"

"I like reading."

"You're sophisticated. What's your favorite book?"

"Charlie and the Chocolate Factory." He pronounced it like "chock'lit", which was... Unfairly cute. Peter's eyes glanced between Tony and the Legos before he finally decided to ask, "What does 'sophisticated' mean?"

"Fancy and smart." Looking for a two-dot piece in a mountain of other pieces wasn't going to be easy, but he'd try. It was hard to hear his own voice over all the tinkling of plastic on plastic. "Bet you do really good in school. All your friends must be jealous."

Peter didn't say anything to the last one, but he replied "Mrs. Batson says I'm really good."

"Mm. Usually the more you like school, the better you do. So you must really like school."

Peter shrugged. "I haven't been back for a couple days."

No duh, Tony. Great job.

 

He finally managed to find what he needed, and clicked it into place. “I need to ask you something, Peter, and I’m going to need you to be honest with me. Do you know who I am?”

 

Peter’s eyes flicked across his face for a moment; probably in search of something, not that he could tell what. “Mr. Stark?”

 

“Yeah, but other than that.”

 

“Uncle Ben said your name was Anthony, but Tony’s your nickname.”

 

Tony had to try very, very hard not to chew on the inside of his cheek. Not that he was aggravated with Peter for not understanding, but at the same time, a childish part of him was kind of wishing this conversation would go by faster. “Do you know how we’re related?”

 

Peter finally stopped with maybe a tiny sigh. Like he knew what Tony was trying to say but was playing it off in hopes of getting away sooner. Well, then, the kid really did have his father’s brains. “You’re my dad.”

 

“Mm-hm.” That was a little relief. “So now it’s your turn. Do you have any questions?”

 

Peter shook his head.

 

“You’re not just saying that, are you?”

 

Peter shrugged.

 

This time he did chew on his cheek. Five-year-olds were tough nuts to crack. He could tell just in the way Peter pinned his eyes back down with defiance that he in fact had many questions. If he had to guess, ‘Where have you been?’ was probably near the top.

 

The ice remained firmly unbroken, it was getting late, and Peter wasn’t looking at him anymore. Tony finished his creation—dinosaur with a scratched-off eye, go figure—and Peter finished his. If Tony needed any more proof that he was no longer welcome, Peter twiddled the jet between his fingers in mock fascination.

 

“Well, I’ll tell you what.” Tony set the dinosaur a little closer to Peter. “I’m going to come back and see you later, and you can ask me any questions you come up with by then. ‘Kay?”

 

Peter nodded, but the slightest of cracks between his lips had Tony pausing.

 

“I have a question,” Peter asked.

 

“Shoot.”

 

“Is it okay to call you Mr. Stark?”

 

The unspoken Do I have to call you ‘Dad’? was as clear as day, but Tony ignored it because that wasn’t what he asked. “If you want, but you can call me Tony, too.”

 

“Okay. How old are you?”

 

Tony looked him up and down. “I am twenty-seven plus nine.”

 

Peter only had to think about it for a moment. “Thirty-six?”

 

Oh, he definitely had Tony’s brain. It wasn’t a crime to be proud of that. “You got it.”

 

“What’s your favorite color?”

 

Yeah, it might have been a random question, but who cared? It was harmless. Tony did have to think about it, though. He’d be the first to admit that he was the sort of person whose favorite color changed often. “I’m going to say red.”

 

“Okay. Red’s my favorite, too.”

 

“You have spectacular taste.”

 

There were no more questions after that. Tony stood up to his feet and put on his ballcap again. Peter picked up the dinosaur in place of the jet.

 

“If I can pull a couple strings, maybe I’ll get us some tickets to a Jets game. Let you know when I can. I’ll see you later, Peter.”

 

Peter finally looked up at him, for just a second, no more. “Bye, Mr. Tony.”


 

 Tony, Obie, and Happy checked in to a Comfort Inn not too far away from the apartment. Tony kept his ballcap and mask on and coughed to keep up the performance. They managed to go in without trouble, with special thanks to paying in cash and the names they signed themselves under—Happy was “John Smith”, Obie was “Charles Anderson”, and Tony was “Axl Rose”. After that, all three departed for their separate rooms.

 

Tony had a much better sleep that night but still felt tired when he awoke the next morning. Jet lag, probably. Or guilt.

 

He remembered that the funeral would be the next day, and that he hadn’t brought that up at all to the others. He’d already decided that attending was out of the question, but neither Richard, May, nor Ben had so much as mentioned it. Perhaps they agreed that he shouldn’t be coming.

 

There wasn’t much of a plan that day, but at around nine, Richard texted him to say that he and May were going to eat at an Italian joint for lunch, did Tony want to join them? Tony agreed, Obie made a vague comment about going sightseeing, and Happy put up a bit of a fight about letting Tony go alone before departing, too.

 

The place was a hole in the wall, square and sandwiched, a faded canopy reading Georgino’s and a neon sign beneath it clarifying ITALIAN. May and Richard were at a booth toward the back, and cleverly seated. Tony’s back would be facing the front, there were no restrooms to come in and out of close by, and at ten-thirty, not much traffic at all. There also didn’t seem to be any security cameras, which was good for him, not so good for literally everyone else.

 

Tony ducked in and beelined it for the table before any of the staff could start a conversation. He’d been lucky enough to make the walk over with only a few “is that…?” glances and no confrontation. He wanted to keep it that way.

 

May was wearing a striped sweater, Richard a red scarf, and both looked more rested than the day before. They even offered him welcoming smiles as he approached.

 

“Hey, To—” May caught herself. “—bias.”

 

‘Tobias’ gave her a grin behind his mask. “‘Tony’ isn’t too uncommon a name, you know.”

 

Richard took a look around just to be safe. “I think as long as we don’t refer to him as ‘Señior Rígido’, we’re good.”

 

“You have my full permission to call me Tony.” He picked up the laminated menu that probably hadn’t been cleaned in a good while and flipped it open. Lasagna was the first option, except it said ‘lasanga’, so that was a good sign.

 

May blew a piece of auburn hair out of her eyes. “Next time you see Obie, thank and bless him for helping us out with the paperwork. I thought my brain was going to melt out of my ears the last time I looked at it.”

 

“That I will. That mean you guys have decided on what to do?” Not wanting to immediately bring down the mood, he tried to save it with, “Unless he was just helping you out with your electric bills, in which case, I’m afraid you should be versed on that by now.”

 

May picked up her menu again and shrugged. “Not entirely. We’re prepared to be his custodians, but we’re still deciding on the everything-else.”

 

“Just for the record,” said Richard, “we all want to. Take care of him, I mean. It’s just—I mean, I live all the way out in Los Angeles, and May and Ben—they just—can’t.”

 

“No kids allowed in your apartment?”

 

May shook her head with just the tiniest hint of a smile on her lips. Tony hadn’t even noticed until then that she was wearing glasses. “No, it’s just that we aren’t prepared financially. I work at a soup kitchen, Ben’s trying to get into the police academy, and, well, it’s New York. It’s not a bargain to live here.”

 

That explained Ben’s build. Tony tried to keep reading his menu, but couldn’t for long. “Just for the record, I’d be more than happy—”

 

May raised a finger and snapped, “Ah, ah, ah!” Then she pointed to Richard. “Rich, please inform Tobias of the Parker-Reilly proverb.”

 

“Only spoil a movie if you want someone to hate you.”

 

“The other one.”

 

“The owner of the last slice of pizza must be agreed upon by committee.”

 

“The other one.”

 

Richard sighed. “Well, you made one up without telling the Parkers—”

 

“Don’t accept charity from people, even if they mean well.” May tucked the menu back behind the napkin dispenser and gave Richard a mean stink-eye. “It’s really sweet to offer, but we have to decline.”

 

“That’s never been a ‘proverb’ of ours.”

 

“It is now,” May barked. “Anyway, we’d be using the money for him, anyway. So it’s probably not even going to be that big of a problem.”

 

“Fitz had a couple of friends, too. From work and—like—Peter’s school. So we were thinking maybe we could ask them. Maybe.”

 

Tony gave Richard a curious look. “‘Fitz’?”

 

Boy if Richard didn’t look like a deer in headlights. Immediately turning his eyes down to the grimy table top, he explained, “Just—what I used to call her.”

 

Tony probably could have come up with another quip, but he left it at that. The somber light in Richard’s eye had been there since Tony had first seen him and it hadn’t let up even when he was smiling. Mary thought they were going somewhere, she’d said. Maybe Richard had thought the same thing.

 

Maybe he had thought the same thing and was now sitting at the table with the father of her kid. That would…definitely explain the awkwardness.

 

The waiter came, and they all settled down while Tony made sure his mask was up.

 

May ordered saffron risotto, Richard carbonara, and Tony got the ‘lasanga’ while pronouncing it as such. Judging by the waiter’s look, they got that complaint often.

 

It wasn’t until the waiter was gone that May cracked the smile she was holding back. “Mary used to do that every time we came here.”

 

“Really?” asked Tony.

 

Richard said, “No, she got the uh—” He peeked inside his menu. “—spag-hottie.”

 

“Oh, yeah,” May laughed. Richard just smiled and shook his head like he couldn’t believe those misspellings hadn’t been fixed yet.

 

Given, he’d only known her for no more than a night, but Tony could hear Mary’s voice saying it. I’ll have the spag-hottie with extra marioro sauce, per favore. He suddenly remembered that in their alcohol-filled haze, he’d been naming a few of the faces at the event for her. At Alphonse Eldermark, her entire face had twisted in disgust for the man’s parents.

 

“When we were at that party, she got herself a rum and Coke.” Why was he saying this to her lifelong friends? Didn’t matter. May and Richard were listening now. “It was 90% Coke. Just about tore the bartender a new one.”

 

“Was it Bill?” Tony nodded, and May looked up at the ceiling. “Oh, she complained about Bill all the time. She was so mad he got paid more than her.”

 

Richard lightened his voice in friendly mocking. “‘He said he wanted a White Russian, Bill! I’d say you were trying to give him milk and cookies, but you forgot the cookies!’

 

Tony laughed along with them. He wished that he’d gotten to talk to Mary a little more, a feeling nostalgic from the morning where she’d run out before he was even dressed. If only he’d said something, anything. Maybe then he’d have gotten to hear more of her eloquent insults of her coworkers.

 

“She was clever,” he sighed.

 

Richard nodded. “She always wanted to make people laugh, not that she’d admit it.”

 

“Peter gets it from her.” May had a warm twinkle in her eye. “I know he seemed shy as a mouse, but I swear, half the time it seems like he can’t stop smiling.”

 

So Tony had definitely made him uncomfortable. Great—

 

Oh, would you stop? some angry part of his mind barked at him. Obie was right, you’ve been wallowing in self-pity ever since you got here! You’re more bummed out than her friends of twenty-plus years!

 

Richard shifted in his seat, and suddenly sighed. Tony watched, but tried not to stare, as the lankier man reached beneath the table to re-adjust his leg. Tony would have forgotten all about that, if not for the walking stick now folded up at Richard’s side.

 

“Can I ask how that happened? You don’t have to tell me unless it’s a really cool story.”

 

Richard laughed a single ‘Ha!’ and straightened back up. He didn’t seem bothered. “The coolest story. I was driving a motorcycle, took a turn that was just about ninety degrees, crushed my foot into a thousand tiny pieces. I think I was in shock, because the paramedics said I was sitting cross-legged waiting for them.”

 

May rolled her eyes and flicked Richard across the nose. Ignoring his yelp of pain, she told Tony, “He was definitely in shock. Do you know what the first thing he said was when he called Ben? ‘Hey, how are you doing?’”

 

Tony raised his hands palms-up and mirrored Richard’s defensive look. “That’s a perfectly normal greeting!”

 

“Yeah, but when your foot is missing?”

 

“Well, what would you have said?”

 

“‘Ben, I just lost my foot, come to the hospital now!’”

 

Now it was Richard’s turn to roll his eyes. “Well, when you’re waiting on the side of the freeway with her foot in pieces, you do that.” Richard shook his head. “Anyway, that’s actually what got me started in physical therapy. It was—inspiring, I guess? Having someone teach me how to—function. I cannot speak, I’m sorry.”

 

“No, no, hey—You said you were in LA?” Richard nodded like he didn’t see the significance of that. Tony, meanwhile, all but flew his arms out with his eyes wide in disbelief. “Stark Industries is in LA! I live in Malibu. We’ve been, what, forty minutes away from each other this whole time?”

 

“I realized that before I called you.” May didn’t, though, and mimicked Tony’s wonder at not realizing it sooner while Richard nonchalantly continued. “I thought maybe I could fly over and see you while I was getting some stuff from my apartment, but then I thought, just—‘Yeah, like Tony St—like Señor Rígido doesn’t get strangers on his doorstep every hour of the day.”

 

Tony leaned forward to whisper, “The secret is to buy me flowers.”

 

Richard smiled at that, a real smile that crinkled at his eyes, probably the happiest Tony had seen the man. May’s surprise had turned to thought, and thought turned to brainstorming. A light bulb popped on over her head.

 

“Hey,” she exclaimed, a little too loud not to draw attention. Then, quieter: “When Peter comes to visit, he can come see Tony, too, right?”

 

“Oh, yeah,” Tony answered at once. “Absolutely. Just give me a heads-up and—we’ll make it work, I’m sure.”

 

The waiter came with their plates in hand as he said that. The lasanga tasted as good as it was spelled, not that any of them were expecting Michelin-star quality. May explained to Tony that she was a first-generation Italian. This was a prologue into her hushed rant about how authentic Italian cuisine was becoming harder and harder to come across. Richard chimed in with a reminder that May wasn’t exactly Chef Boyardee, and that got them into an argument wherein Tony was all but ignored.

 

Which was probably for the best, because it was time for another round of Is Tony Beating Himself Up for No Reason, or is He Just Thinking About Important Things?

 

He would be returning home in probably two or three days. He’d had a grand total of two (2) conversations with the son he’d flown out to meet to begin with. Now, with seventy-two hours at most remaining, he still had no idea where he was going from here.

 

If Mary and Ben or Richard ultimately decided that they could house Peter, and care for him, then that would be fantastic. It would be up to Tony to decide how often he was going to visit, because…Well, he had to visit. He couldn’t just meet his son once. What kind of person would he be if he said hello and goodbye within three days? Their talks hadn’t even solved anything.

 

If they decided that they would need someone else to care for Peter, that would be a little harder. They hadn’t dropped any names, so maybe they were considering a foster home? As in, strangers. Well, maybe not. Cousins? Distant family? In any case, someone who wasn’t mentioned in Mary’s letters and would have to have the whole situation explained to them before Tony could even think of visiting. Meaning Tony would have to trust Mary’s friends to trust whoever they chose. No matter what happened, he was more than obligated to support Peter somehow..

 

Did Tony have any say in who took care of Peter? Probably not.

 

Did Tony have the right to be uncomfortable with strangers taking care of Peter? Probably not.

 

Did Tony forget that May, Richard, and Ben were already strangers, so what was the difference either way? Probably.

 

It was really hard to plan the rest of his life and Peter’s. He could ask Obie for help, he guessed, but he still wasn’t sure if Obie had gotten over his sourness about this whole situation.

 

He didn’t let his pondering ruin the lunch. He nodded, joked, asked questions, all in all functioned like an actual human being while he, May, and Richard were together. It must not have been enough, though, because he noticed the looks May was giving him. Not wary, not annoyed, but knowing. Maybe his face was neon-lighting his thought process.

 

They ate their unauthentic Italian, tipped the waiter, and walked outside together with Tony’s head carefully turned toward them. Richard unfolded his walking stick and tried to hail down a taxi. They would be going to Central Park to meet up with Ben and Peter.

 

May lagged behind until Richard was out of earshot. With a glance either way down the street, she told him, very seriously, “Listen. I’m not saying you need to know how this is going to go right here, right now, but you need to figure it out soon.”

 

Tony’s lips pursed behind the mask. “Yeah. I hear you.”

 

“I know I probably said the wrong thing, but we’re going to try everything we can to make it work. I can get another job, we’ll cut down on whatever we need for the bills, we’ll do anything, okay? I’m just saying, realistically, that it might not work. We hate that, but we have to acknowledge it.” May had her eyes pinned hard on Tony’s. “If it doesn’t work, we’re going to find the best damn people we can get. Maybe not someone we know, but someone more than capable.”

 

Tony swallowed hard and nodded still. He realized—not then, but before—that he really did wish Mary and Ben could care for Peter. A foster family might be able to give him a normal life, but they wouldn’t have the presence May and Ben had. Everyone needs constants, Mary had said. Even she’d agreed that it wouldn’t work, and only begged for Peter not to be abandoned.

 

So why, why, why, did it feel like doing what she said would still abandon him?

 

Tony straightened up his posture—he didn’t know he was slouching—and took a deep breath. The tension didn’t ease, but it became more bearable somehow. Even May could see him relax just so, and some relief spread across her features. It wouldn’t occur to Tony until later that May was searching for proof that he was serious; that he cared for Peter’s wellbeing and wasn’t just trying to ease a guilty conscience.

 

“Whatever happens,” and every word came out in careful enunciation, “I’m going to trust you guys. All I’m asking is that, if it’s not you or Ben or Rich, let me know.”

 

May nodded. Richard had hailed down a cab and was calling for her, but she kept her attention dead on Tony. “Okay.”

 

“I’m not going to abandon him.”

 

“Okay.”

 

May and Richard hopped into their taxi and pulled away.

Chapter 8: Chapter Eight

Summary:

Every time he saw Peter, his kid would be a little older, a little taller, a little smarter, a little different. Tony wouldn’t be seeing him grow, he’d be seeing him change. Every visit would have time just for recapping what had last happened in Peter’s life. Phone calls wouldn’t make up for it.

Tony had no right, but he wanted to see Peter grow up, and wasn’t that ironic? About four days ago, he thought the world was ending, and now the idea of not seeing his son regularly was making him anxious.

Chapter Text

Sitting in front of a Comfort Inn window, listening to distant car honks and cruiser sirens, watching rain splatter on the grimy Queens street down below, all while knowing that the mother of his child was being laid to rest at the same moment was one of the worst feelings Tony has ever experienced in his lifetime.

All that he’d received from the others was a single text from Ben very early that morning: Funeral is @ 11:00, Simmons Funeral Home. No questions, no assumptions, just point-blank. Tony hadn’t even texted him back, because he had no idea how to.

Obie and Happy at least picked up that he wouldn’t be in high spirits that day. Apart from breakfast, he’d neither seen nor heard from either of them. He wanted to say that he’d at least done something productive so far, but besides watching the news and cable television, the last few hours have been pointless.

Once, just once, for no reason whatsoever, he used his computer to search Mary’s name online. He almost immediately found a result in an article titled “Queens Woman Killed in Three-Car Crash”.

A car accident early Saturday morning resulted in the death of one woman and injured two others, police said.

Mary Fitzpatrick, 31, was riding in a taxi cab on Merrick Boulevard by Roy Wilkins Park in St. Albans at approximately 9:20 am when the vehicle was struck by a Nissan Altima.

Witnesses state that the driver of the vehicle, later identified as Fredrick Bass, had sped through a red light at almost twice the speed limit and struck the left side of the taxi, where Fitzpatrick was seated. The force of the collision pushed the taxi into a nearby vehicle. No passengers within the third vehicle were injured.

Bass—who later confessed to driving under the influence—and the driver of the taxi, Miguel Herrara, were both injured in the crash. Herrara was driven to the Jamaica Hospital Medical Center to treat a broken leg. Emergency responders pronounced Fitzpatrick dead on the scene, killed instantaneously.

Bass suffered minor injuries and was arrested for reckless driving, and faces charges of driving under the influence of alcohol and vehicular manslaughter.

That was it. Four short paragraphs, nothing else, no mention of Peter or Mary’s friends. Four short paragraphs, and they somehow managed to dig a hollow pit in his chest that wouldn’t go away.

One of the cons about being him, he guessed, was that he never stopped thinking even when he wanted to. He really tried to stop his mind from going on its path, but it was no good. He couldn’t keep the images of Mary lying forever still in a coffin, or being lowered deep into the earth, or Peter dressed in a little black suit and weeping, weeping, weeping, out of his head. He thought that maybe later he would go to pay his respects and—well—he didn’t know—give his last goodbye?

The only bright side of the morning thus far was that they finally got the results from the paternity test. Plot twist: Peter was Tony’s son. Obie was probably nonplussed when he heard that bit of news.

The rain’s stay was short, and at maybe twelve, sunlight finally started to shimmer down on the wet pavement. Ironically, Tony found his mind clearing up, too. It was still heavy, but at least he could get himself back into the present. He couldn’t spend the whole day locked up in his hotel room feeling sorry for himself. Plus, it was Queens. He hadn’t been back for a while and there was no harm in making the best of his time. It’d been an especially long time since he’d been back to Flushing Meadows, and he’d never before been without having to worry about camera flashes before. Why didn’t he go incognito more often?

A shower, a change of clothes, a ball cap, a cough mask, a traffic-filled taxi ride, and two heads-up texts to Obie and Happy later saw him finally walking through Corona Park. The November chill had turned the trees gray and the leaves brown, but the freshly-clear sky made up for it. Plus, the quiet. He’d had quiet all morning, but not walk-through-a-park-by-yourself quiet. Listening to the distant sounds of children playing tag was miles above a police siren blasting past his window at two in the morning.

The wind was cool, the grass was still green, and Tony walked for so long his feet started to ache before he’d even realized it. Hoofing his way to the Unisphere wasn’t that hard. Blessedly, the autumn rain had kept a crowd at bay, so now it was just stragglers and the occasional jogger.

He managed to sit down on a bench just as the fountains started up. At least he had new scenery to brood at.

It was as good as time as ever to think about what he was going to do, and how he had no idea what he was going to do. The best case scenario was that Ben and May would be able to take Peter in. In that case, after taking care of all Peter’s money issues, he would just figure out his visiting schedule. He’d have to come on the major holidays—Christmas, New Year’s, Thanksgiving—and then trips between that.

It wouldn’t be that hard, especially since his holiday plans consisted of being with Rhodey and/or Obie, drinking, going to a big blow-out party, etc. He’d have to bring gifts at Christmas and, oh, Peter’s birthday! They’d have to be great presents, too, to make up for…everything. Options for going out were limited if he wasn’t in some kind of disguise, so he’d have to research what places took anonymous and private bookings. They could hit up the Macy’s parade. Halloween would be a great time, too. Parents went trick-or-treating with their kids in full costume all the time. Not only that, but Tony could get them the best Halloween costumes ever seen on God’s green Earth.

If he couldn’t make it to Queens, there was always the option of getting Peter somewhere else. Ben, May, and Richard could be invited, too. The Fourth of July would be a great time for a beach resort, they could go anywhere in the world for New Year’s, and hell, any time was a good time for Disney World and…

and…

and…

 …and who was he even kidding.

Every time he saw Peter, his kid would be a little older, a little taller, a little smarter, a little different. Tony wouldn’t be seeing him grow, he’d be seeing him change. Every visit would have time just for recapping what had last happened in Peter’s life. Phone calls wouldn’t make up for it.

Tony had no right, but he wanted to see Peter grow up, and wasn’t that ironic? About four days ago, he thought the world was ending, and now the idea of not seeing his son regularly was making him anxious.

He knew why, too. He’d probably known for a while and had just been too cowardly to even think it.

Tony didn’t want to be a father like Howard Stark.

Oh, he would never put Peter through the absolute hell of being compared to someone he’d never met his whole. It didn’t matter if it was the Star-Spangled Man with a Plan or whoever the hell else; Tony lived through that hell for years and it still left a bile taste in his mouth. And he’d never make Peter feel like a failure. He’d known Peter for not even seventy-two hours and he already knew he was a great kid, a smart kid. He wouldn’t shoot down his every accomplishment and insult him to his face under the excuse of “constructive criticism”.

He’d be checking off every other box, though. Not being around when Peter needed him? Check. Making every moment together feel like an awkward business meeting? Check. Keeping Peter forever asking why his father never did, never does, or ever will stay? Check.

God, his life had changed so much in less than a week. Tony never thought he’d be a father, so he was woefully unprepared to be one, and he had nothing to go by.

Suddenly, he saw pink.

“Picked it up from the gift store.”

Obie waved it under his masked nose until he finally took it. It was a little dome of glass on a wooden base, no longer than his middle finger. A branch of full cherry blossoms was frozen within. Still had the price sticker on it and everything.

Tony huffed a laugh while Obie sat down beside him. The fountains died down for a break, leaving the Unisphere completely unconcealed.

“Penny for your thoughts?” Obie asked. Tony was very, very unused to seeing him outside of a business suit, let alone in denim pants and a T-shirt. No one would recognize Obadiah Stane like that.

“You get three guesses, and the first two don’t count.”

Obie snorted and leaned back against the wood. “Alright. Well, let me start and we’ll see if that gets some conversation out of you. I wanted to apologize for being such a jackass.”

“Want-ed? Past tense?”

“Alright, smartass.” He was almost smiling as he said it, though. “I’m serious. I was being insensitive and I’m sure I was making you feel like crap. I humbly extend an olive branch.”

“So eloquent.” Despite his scoff, some relief filled him. He’d already decided to just ignore Obie’s bad mood, but finally having some backing from the person he’d been expecting it from to begin with helped. “What was getting you so riled up, anyway? Jealous?”

Obie just shook his head. “I don’t know, Tony. I try to keep my cool as much as I can, but this is a rough time we’re in. The Jericho Project, the media, the war, it’s like we can’t sneeze without Time putting it on the front cover!”

“Like you’ve got to tell m—oh, hey, pretzels! Let’s go.”

Obie didn’t even protest as Tony stood up and beelined it for the cart across the way. He just fell in step beside him and continued, “If we were different people in a different life, I would have congratulated you as soon as I found out. Would have bought you all the ‘It’s a Boy!’ banners you wanted. But we are who we are, and if we get caught even whispering the word ‘son’, we get caught in a landslide.”

Tony was fishing for bills in his pocket, and didn’t look up from his counting when he replied, “What’s that to us, though? From our end, that’s just some more bathroom gossiping to deal with.”

“Ah, come on, Tony. You know more than anyone people will find whatever way they can to judge you. The fact is that you have a kid you never knew about, but the opinion will be that you’re a deadbeat who can’t take care of a kid, so how can you protect all of the United States?”

“I hear you, but I’ve given up on caring. Plus, I might even get some more nicknames. Have you heard about ‘Merchant of Death’? Tell me that’s not an amazing name.”

With the vendor close enough, Obie quieted for just a minute. Tony forked over a few bills, the glass box was opened, and they were both handed hot-and-fresh salted pretzels, praise the Lord. Obie waited until they were a good length out of earshot (and until he had a good mouthful) to keep going.

“It wouldn’t just be a personal thing, though. It’s like a seed that gets planted, first it’s just soccer moms gossiping at the hair salon, then it’s hosts on talk shows that only come on Sunday nights, then it gets higher and higher until our partners start questioning you. I’d like nothing more to just kick ‘em in the teeth and tell them to piss off, but that wouldn’t be an option, would it?”

Honestly, Tony was only half-listening, because he just realized that it’s very hard to eat a pretzel with a coughing mask. The only thing he could do was pinch some off and stuff it underneath, which was worth it.

“So you were stressed out?” With a mouthful of pretzel, the last word came out as ow.

“More than I like admitting. I’d ask how you weren’t, but honestly, you’ve looked halfway between panic attack and constipation for the past few days.”

Please write poetry. Anyway…Guess I was just more worried about Peter. Literally since the second I started to breathe, I’ve had cameras flashing in my face and microphones shoved down my throat. People I’d never met a day in my life acted like aunts and uncles visiting on the holidays. But at least I became a person. I don’t know if Peter would ever get that blessing. People would start thinking his first name is ‘Tony’, middle name ‘Stark’s’, last name ‘Son’.”

Obie nodded along with no rebuke, his brow even creasing together in agreement. “Oh, yeah. God, that poor kid.”

“You haven’t talked to him yet, have you?”

“I asked if he liked any sports.”

“What’d he say?”

Obie opened his eyes wide and shrugged his shoulders.

Tony chuckled. “He’s smart. Can’t get more than ten words out of him at once, but he’s smart. May said he loves to make people laugh.”

“You know, his birthday was only a month ago. I was thinking, if you want to really make a good impression, you can make up for it.”

“Didn’t I already get him an R2D2?”

“Hear me out: an actual R2D2.

Tony laughed aloud at that. He was feeling significantly better already. He may or may not have actually been considering that idea, too.

The two of them went on in silence for a stretch, making a full half-circle around the Unisphere before they started to break off from the turn. The sun was at its highest now, probably, what, twelve? One? The funeral was probably over by then; they may or may not have returned home already.

“I was thinking about maybe helping May and Ben out with Peter. May said she wasn’t too big on the ‘charity’, but I think I can insist.”

Obie crumpled up the napkin in his hand and tossed it into a nearby garbage bin. “That would be best. They’re already family, right?”

“Right.” That last comment gave him inexplicable and probably unjustified offense, so Tony just took it and went on. “What I’m really wondering is how I’m going to go about visiting and all that.”

“Huh. You going to visit?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact. Somehow visiting him regularly sounds a hell of a lot easier than preparing a ‘Goodbye Forever’ speech.”

“Mm-hm.” Obie’s jaw worked side to side for a moment. More cogs, less serious ones and not as heavy, were spinning behind his eyes again. “Not going to be easy. You’re going to have to come up with a lot of cover stories. I don’t know if anyone will buy you going on vacation to Honolulu for Father’s Day.”

As if Tony would be spending Father’s Day with the kid. Father’s Day was for fath—well. Uh…

“Thing is, I’m trying to figure out how to make it as regular as possible. I don’t want Peter to think I’m just coming because it’s holiday tradition, you know?”

He wasn’t looking at Obie while he said it, so the silence that followed confused him. Obie was watching him with eyes half-narrowed and a mouth that was neither smiling nor frowning. It was impossible to pin what he was thinking.

“What?”

“You’re taking this very seriously.”

“Didn’t we just have a conversation about how we’ve both been taking this very seriously?”

“I’m talking in moral terms, not business terms. First you just…know that he’s your kid, then you have to see him, and now you’re thinking about how you’re going to see him for the rest of forever.”

“He’s my kid, Obes. Don’t know what else to say.”

“You remember when Hobbs found out he had that daughter with the woman from Nepal?” Hobbs was a member of the board, a man who was all business and transactions until he left the building. Once he had a beer in hand and 2004 New Year’s glasses on, he would say anything and everything. “He didn’t sweat a drop, he just sent enough for a college fund and some pretty dresses. End of story.”

“I’m not Hobbs.”

“Yeah, that’s what’s surprising me.”

“So you thought I was going to slide over a couple grand and let that be it?”

“Tony, the first thing you did after we found out someone strapped a bomb to your car in Philadelphia was go to a bar and order a Daiquiri. Can you blame me?”

“Happy carried me away like a princess to a castle. I felt safe!”

Tony crumpled up his own napkin, and Obie groaned.

“Alright,” he went on. He and Tony both ducked their heads when a jogger passed by a little too close for comfort. “You’ll help Ben and May take care of Peter. You’ll visit…let’s say twice a month, not including holidays. We’ll map out the schedule so we don’t have to cancel too much. If they need anything, they’ll have straight access to your phone number. We’ll have a lot of NDAs signed. Happy ever after.”

“Yeah.” Tony nodded. “That sounds good.”

“Alright?”

“Alright.”

“All good?”

“All good.”

Obie suddenly pressed a hand against his chest to stop him. He still had that not-smile, not-frown expression on his face.

“So,” said Obie, “why are you still upset?”

Tony tried to shrug, but he probably just jerked his body instead. Trying to avoid Obie’s eyes just made the older man gaze him down harder. “Can’t really think of anything that’s going to make me click my heels right now.”

“No, no. We found a solution, you still think there’s a problem. Spill.”

Trapped in a corner. Tony huffed, and the sound alone seemed to please Obie. Sometimes Obie’s ability to read him like an open book was a blessing. Sometimes it was a pain in the ass.

“I’ll say something I don’t say often: I don’t know.” Obie let him keep walking while he rambled on. “I’ve broken this down to the most black-and-white, step-by-step formula that I can, and it still bothers me.”

“Tony, you didn’t know he even existed until a few days ago. It’s not like you abandoned him—”

“This isn’t about the past. I can’t change the past. I know I didn’t abandon him then, but I cannot map out a single scenario where I avoid abandoning him now.

“I shouldn’t have used the word ‘abandoned’. That’s not what this is. It sounds like you’re throwing him to the wolves, or something.”

“You don’t know what’s going through his head right now.”

“You do?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact.”

“Then educate me.”

And Tony did, succinctly, his voice rising just a hair more with each word until he was almost shouting at the end.

“He’s probably gone his whole life wondering why his dad wasn’t around, and now he has an answer: his dad didn’t know he existed. His dad doesn’t know his favorite color, or his favorite book, or his favorite anything. But no problem, right? Now Dad’s here, so now they can finally get started on some good old father-son bonding, right? Nope! Any and all excitement that he’s worked up is now going to be popped like a balloon, because guess what? Dad’s not staying. He’s just visiting, and he’s going to visit again, but it’s never going to count, it’s never going to be real. He’s never going to be able to see him without making sure his schedule isn’t full first. He’ll be so distant that Peter’s going to be confused about what the word ‘father’ means, because he thought a father was someone who stuck around and loved you and told you so, not some guy who ‘stops by every now and then’!”

Obie listened along until he was finished, and didn’t speak for a moment after. Embarrassment took its unfamiliar hold on Tony quickly, and he pulled himself together. He was not about to have a breakdown about his daddy issues on a trip to fix his…daddy issues.

When Obie did answer, it was very calmly with a little lace of satisfaction. “So this is a personal thing, just so we’re clear?”

Tony marched on ahead, and he swore he almost heard a laugh. He took back what he’d been thinking before. Obie’s presence was not comforting him in the slightest. In fact, as Obie stepped up his pace just enough to fall in line with him again, he felt his blood pressure rise a few digits.

“First of all, you have got to stop acting like Howard was the worst monster who ever lived.”

“I’m not having this conver—”

“Second of all, I am going to ask you—as your friend—to please accept that there’s nothing else you can do here.” Obie’s voice had become softer. If his intent was to calm him down, it worked well enough. Still embarrassed, Tony felt some of the heat cool in his veins. Overreaction wasn’t the way to go here. “You didn’t ask to have a son, you didn’t know you had a son. You feel like there are so many expectations you have to meet, but you’re the one who made them up to begin with. Peter will be fine, Tony, and safe. He’ll grow older and he’ll understand everything better.”

There went the last of Tony’s fight.

A sudden fatigue fell on him, running his hand down his face. Obie reached out and clasped his shoulder in comfort. The weight he was carrying on his shoulders was eased by the weight on his shoulder. Crap. If a dad-grab on the shoulder eased him up this much, he might consider paying someone to friggin’ snuggle him.

“I don’t envy you. This is a really unfair situation and it’s no one’s fault. A solution is a solution, just because it doesn’t feel good doesn’t mean it won’t work. Look on the bright side of things: you’re setting him up for a hell of a good life. He’s never going to have to worry about money, he’s going to have great people taking care of him, and he comes from the biggest brain of the modern day.”

“Yeah. Yeah…” Tony ran a hand down his face again, and Obie’s hand squeezed a little more. “Sorry. I guess I just needed to vent a little.”

“You won’t find any blame from me. I’m just surprised you haven’t blown a gasket already. I’m going to help you every step of the way, remember that. We’re going to set this kid up so he’s one step away from living at the mansion.”

“Perfect. ‘If only we weren’t us’, right? Then maybe he actually could.

He and Obie scoffed at the same time, the latter following with, “Yeah, right.”

“I just mean if we didn’t have to worry about the press and everything. I’m joking, Obes. It’s not going to happen.”

“Yeah, I know you’re joking.”

Tony squinted at him, but all Obie did was tilt his head a little to the side and ask, “What?”

“Now I feel like you’re the one not saying what he wants to say.”

“Why are we getting worked up over a joke?”

“I’m not worked up. Are you worked up? I’m just curious.”

“Tony. Anthony. Come on.” Obie waved his arms out. He was finally smiling, but he didn’t seem amused so much as defensive. It was very dry. “You could be a random Joe in the suburbs and it wouldn’t happen. Let’s be realistic.”

“Realistic about what?”

Obie’s arms and his smile dropped at the same time. “I’m not going to say it.”

“Say what?”

“Nope; this is getting too serious. You said we were joking.”

“We are joking.”

“Are we?”

“Yes, now tell me the punchline.”

There was a long, long moment of Obie just staring him down, not moving an inch. Tony urging him on just made him blink. Add ‘very confused’ to Tony’s descriptors for that moment, right beneath ‘inexplicably annoyed’.

“You can’t take care of Peter,” Obie finally sighed.

“I know that, I was talking in theoretical. This entire conversation has been an up-and-down rollercoaster, and I’d really appreciate it if we could get on the same page here.”

“The ‘page’ that I’m on is that theoretically or otherwise, you can’t and couldn’t take care of Peter.”

Tony’s head snaked back. “Why?”

“You know why, but let’s get on that ‘same page’. Raising a kid is a pretty big deal and you’re not cut out for it. Not because you’re busy or famous, it’s just because you’re you. I’m really not trying to insult you here, Tony. I’m just stating facts. It doesn’t matter.”

Outrage—outrage?—sparked in Tony’s chest and spread down his torso. If not for the mask, Obie would have seen his teeth gritting together behind his lips. He couldn’t even get his own thoughts organized, his mouth was running faster than his mind was.

“You just decided that?”

“I didn’t decide anything. I didn’t decide the sky is blue, and I’m not deciding that you wouldn’t be able to—”

“Well, no, because that’s for me to decide, isn’t it?”

Obie deflated at long last. It was like the past few minutes had aged him twenty years, even his voice dipping low in exhaustion. “Alright. You say what you think, then.”

Tony agreed.

That was probably why he was so angry.

He wouldn’t be able to take care of Peter and he already knew that. It wasn’t Stark Industries or his busy schedule, it was just him and him alone. He was immature, irresponsible, and a whole lot of other negative i-words. Even if he’d known Peter since he was born, raised him from the moment he first opened his eyes, he wouldn’t have been good for him. Not being a father like Howard Stark didn’t make him a good father by default.

But Tony always had a childish part of him that couldn’t be killed, and that childish part just didn’t like someone saying what he knew out loud. Yes, Obadiah, he was well aware that he’d be a shit father. Doesn’t give you the okay to say that.

While he was stewing there with steam puffing out of his ears, Obie just waiting for him to wave his little white flag, Tony thought about the horrid experience that it would be to be his kid—always feeling unimportant, unwanted, unloved. That wouldn’t change no matter how many birthday parties they would throw, or how many Christmas mornings they’d have, or how many A+ papers Peter brought home…or how many first days of school he’d go through…or…or…

“I would.”

Obie was already walking away. “Yeah, sure.”

“I would. Not trying to brag here, I just think I’d be a pretty fantastic dad.”

“Mm-hm.”

“I know it’ll break your heart to hear it, but I don’t need your approval. Me and him will get along just fine without it.”

Ten feet away now, Obie just threw a look over his shoulder. “Who’s ‘him’?”

“Peter.”

“Yeah, you don’t need my approval to go see your kid. I’m not really into this conversation anymore, sorry. I have stuff I have to take care of.” Obie pulled his phone from his pocket, flipped it open. “Hey, since we’re in NYC, why don’t we find a good pizza joint? I saw about fifty on the way over here.”

“I don’t need your approval to take care of him.”

“It’s not happening, so it doesn’t matter. Let’s try ‘Big Joe’s’. Sounds promising.”

“No, it’s happening. You should feel proud, you’ve changed my mind in ten minutes. New record.”

Obie had been clicking the buttons on his phone to text Happy, and was murmuring it under his breath, “Big…Joe’s…meet in…thirty…”  He didn’t even so much as look up at Tony. “Changed your mind about what?”

Tony walked past him.

“Peter’s going to live with me.”

He made it a good twenty feet ahead before he heard Obie’s voice call, “What?”

“It’s not like I don’t have the room. You go on ahead and save me a couple slices, alright? I have to go have a talk with the Parkers.”

That wasn’t the end of it, of course. Obie marched after him and kept marching until Tony found sanctuary in a taxi cab. He tried every trick he could, from pretending like they were still joking to the good old “Ah, come on. You’re just saying things.” Tony, feeling simultaneously better and worse than he’d felt for a while now, didn’t pop a vein once. Calm and collected, it only made Obie more annoyed by the second, until he was huffing steam when Tony shut the door on him.

It didn’t matter. Tony had already made up his mind.

Chapter 9: Chapter Nine

Summary:

May’s reaction was a little different from her boyfriend’s.

Which was to say, she was livid.

“What the hell?! No!”

Chapter Text

Tony didn’t like, at all, bringing up the conversation only four hours after Ben’s best friend’s funeral, but time wasn’t infinite for them. He was technically supposed to fly out tomorrow, and he hadn’t told Pepper that yet. He also had to admit that he was running on adrenaline at that point and didn’t want to run out.

Ben was alone in the apartment. May was out with Peter, but he didn’t give any more detail than that. Tony took a guess that she was trying to cheer the poor kid up. For all he knew, Peter was still sobbing his eyes out. Richard was MIA. No one knew where he was.

Their greetings were a lot cooler than the last time they’d seen each other. Tony didn’t know if Ben had expected him to come to the funeral, and he probably never would. Maybe Ben was mad, maybe he was still grieving, maybe he was just being awkward. It took some chitchat and coffee before Tony finally managed to say what he wanted to say.

Ben didn’t balk, nor did he smile. He accepted it fast enough, albeit with an understandable confusion.

“You sure?”

“I’m pretty sure I’m sure.”

Ben took a deep swig of coffee, except he’d run out a minute ago. Considering he didn’t so much as blink, he didn’t notice. Tony decided Ben needed more sleep than he did. The poor guy was still dressed in the suit he’d worn to the funeral. His striped tie was haphazardly looped around his neck.

“Can’t say this is what I thought we’d be talking about,” Ben mumbled.

“I realized on the way over that this might not be the time and place to talk about this. But I also can’t think of what would be a good time and place, so.”

“Yeah. Um…” There came the hand to scratch at his stubbly cheek. That was his tic the way that Richard’s was stammering, Tony had learned. He guessed he needed to be paying attention to everything now. “I mean, obviously—this isn’t my decision. We’re going to have to do a lot, a lot of talking.”

“I know this isn’t going to be a one-conversation thing. Just know that I’m extending my stay here in Queens, and I’m prepared to do what needs to be done.”

He really needed to tell Pepper. Happy also wasn’t, well, happy that Tony had once again dashed off without him. “The apartment” worked well enough as an answer, though.

Tony was definitely, absolutely, unquestionably pushing any doubts deep, deep down before they could even become proper thoughts. This was just like skydiving, right? If you freaked out and thought of every bad thing that could happen, you got cold feet. You just had to go for it before you could second-guess it.

Maybe skydiving wasn’t a good comparison to taking in a child. Hm.

This was going to have to be a step-by-step process, he decided. There were two ways of overthinking this whole thing, and neither of them were good. Step one was to just get the ball rolling. No plans could be made until he got the ‘okay’.

Ben’s hand couldn’t stopped moving, it seemed. First he was scratching his cheek, then he was rubbing his brow, then he was running a hand down his face. The conversation had turned him as fidgety as a kindergartener.

“I know I literally just asked, but you’re sure that this is what you want to do?”

“I can’t say I don’t understand your questioning, Ben, but if you don’t mind, could we maybe wait until May gets here? I feel like maybe she should be here for this, too.”

Ben nodded before he was even finished. “Yeah, yeah. You’re right. Of course.”

So they waited. It took a short while, but May and Peter finally returned home from wherever they were. Tony had by sheer chance been in the bathroom when they arrived, so he was spared the image of little Peter in a black suit and puffy red eyes. From the other side of the door, he heard May and Ben’s voices muffled, somber.

The conversation picked up shortly after that. May’s reaction was a little different from her boyfriend’s.

Which was to say, she was livid.

“What the hell?! No!”

The sudden whip of her voice had Tony and Ben both shifting in their seats just a bit. She at once looked regretful—not for her anger, but for almost waking Peter in his bedroom. He’d apparently been tuckered out as soon as they came in.

May’s eyes were wide open behind her glasses. Hands on her hips, auburn hair bright against her black dress, Tony had never seen her so intimidating.

Ben cleared his voice in a teeny little cough. “I think we all need to sit down and talk about this—”

“Talk about what?” demanded May. “This is a terrible idea! There’s nothing else to talk about.”

Tony raised a finger. This could have very well been one of the most awkward situations in his whole life. “I had some points prepared.”

May’s eyes somehow managed to harden and soften on him at the same time, same as her voice. Terse but calm, she told him, “Tony, I like you, alright? I do. But you cannot take Peter back to Malibu; he can’t live with you.”

“I am neither agreeing nor disagreeing—” So familiar was he with May that Ben didn’t so much as flinch when she rounded on him. “—but I think we need to get into the why.

“Why? Why. Okay. Here’s why.” May pressed one finger hard to another. “One: Peter has lived here his whole life and moving all the way to Malibu is too big a change.”

Here Tony interjected. “Malibu is a fantastic city, if I do say so myself, and I will do whatever it takes to make it feel like home.”

“Two: all of his friends are here, including us.”

“Five-year-old friends, which he will make more of at the best school Malibu has to offer. I would do absolutely nothing to keep you separated from him. Plus, Richard would only be forty minutes away, tops.”

“Three: he met you two days ago.

“Which I am terribly, terribly sorry about, and which is why I intend to make this a very easy process for him. It is my full intention to read every parenting one-oh-one book that I can get my hands on.” May’s glare was withering. “I’m not expecting an immediate Brady-Bunch bond. I want to get to know him, I want him to get to know me. He’ll be able to call you at any time of the day.”

“Four: his mother just passed away, her funeral was a few hours ago, and now you want him to move across the continent with a stranger?”

“…I have no response to that.”

May heaved out a great gust of air and grabbed a fistful of her hair. “Where is this coming from?”

“I honestly think it’s been in the back of my head this whole time, I just needed a walk in the park to get it out.”

Ben hummed. “Where’d you go?”

“Corona.”

“It’s nice when there’s not much of a crowd.”

“I noticed!”

May snapped her fingers at both of them. “Don’t change the subject!” She took a step closer to Tony and leaned forward, eyes hard as rock behind the lenses. “This isn’t something that you decide in just two days.”

“May, I don’t know what you want me to say. I want to take care of him and watch him grow older. The kid’s got a grip on me.”

“Can you honestly look me in the eye and say that all you want is for Peter to be taken care of?”

“Yes.”

Thankfully, the sincerity in the one word was enough for May to stand upright again. She watched him for a long moment, eyes roaming over each inch of his face. It was the same look she’d given him yesterday after their dinner together with Richard. She couldn’t read minds, but she could read faces.

May finally tore her eyes away to pace around the living room. Now it was Ben’s turn to let out a great sigh.

“Okay,” he said, “maybe I’m playing devil’s advocate here—”

Tony pointed up a finger again. “I’d appreciate not being called the devil.”

“Sorry—but just thinking from the other side of the coin, I think Tony should have some say here. He is Peter’s father.”

“Since when?” snapped May, but the glance she sent Tony’s way was apologetic. Tony couldn’t deny some hurt, but neither could he deny that it made sense. “I’m not going to say that Mary made the right or wrong choice not telling you, Tony, but it was a choice she made. Yes, you’re Peter’s father, but you’re also a stranger he doesn’t know.”

“Like I said, I’m not pretending otherwise. I swear to both of you, I have been thinking about this a lot, and—I’m not going to vent about my life story, but I can put myself in Peter’s shoes here. The way that I see it, this can go three ways. The first is that I never see or talk to him again, which is going to upset him and me both. The second is that I visit as much as I can, but that’s going to be a very awkward life with no satisfaction for either of us. The third is what I’m proposing right now. It’d be a real awkward start, don’t get me wrong, but I think we could work up a—a real, father-son bond. Or something. Something along those lines.”

Ben looked from him to May. “He has a point.”

“Why does it have to just be those three, though?” countered May. “What makes you think he won’t be happy otherwise? I’m really, really not trying to be mean here, but it sounds like you’re saying being with you is, like, the only thing that can ever make Peter happy. My dad was in the military, I saw him for half the year at most. I was still perfectly happy.”

Ben looked from May to him. “She has a point.”

Tony swallowed the seemingly permanent lump in his throat and stood up to his feet. Ben stiffened up on the armchair, probably thinking that a shouting match was about to ensue, but Tony liked to think he was as cool as a cucumber. May didn’t step back an inch from him as he approached.

“I’m not saying I’m his only key to happiness,” he told her. “That’s ridiculously self-centered.”

“I agree.”

“I’m glad you agree. What I’m saying is that it might have been better if I’d never come here at all.”

Every muscle in May’s face scrunched together. “What?”

“Hear me out. I wanted to meet him. I wanted to meet him very much. Now that I’ve met him, and now that he knows me, I’m afraid that I’ve put both of us in a very awkward situation. I remember what it’s like to be a kid, alright? When you’re a kid, you’re taught a lot of rules, and when something goes against those rules, you get very confused and upset. You with me?” May nodded reluctantly. “Okay. Peter knows what a dad is, he sees them on TV and he reads about them. He probably sees his friends get picked up by their dads every day. He knew that his dad wasn’t around; that was the rule. Now his dad finally came, but he’s kind of, sort of leaving again, so I can only imagine that he is ridiculously confused at the moment.”

“You don’t think living with a stranger will also be confusing?”

“It’ll be a lot less confusing, in my opinion.”

Ben finally joined in. Though he, too, stood up to his feet, he kept himself right in the middle of them. He still wasn’t taking one side or the other.

“My mom left my dad when I was six,” he told Tony. “I knew what was happening. I hated it, but I knew what was happening. I hear what you’re saying, but I think Peter’s capable of figuring out what’s going on.”

May nodded. “And if you ask me, there’s no outcome to this that isn’t going to be stressful to a five-year-old. Will he understand? Sure. But it doesn’t matter whether you never see him again, or if he lives with us while you visit, or if he lives with you while we visit. I can’t even put that all on you, that’s just how things are now. I’m just trying to figure out a plan that will give him a pinky’s less trouble. Right now, that’s between people who have known him his whole life and a person who’s known him for forty-eight hours.”

“Maybe I’m misrepresenting myself here: I’m not saying he’d be with me exclusively. Like I said, you’d be able to call him anytime, anywhere. He can come see you, or you can come see him, whenever.”

“Why can’t we just do that the other way around?”

“Alright, alright, alright.” Ben pressed one hand to Tony’s chest and one hand to May’s. He waited for some of the steam to waft away from them before continuing, “Let’s backtrack and cool down for just a second, because as far as I’m concerned, we have two sides here. Tony is Peter’s father, he wants to be Peter’s father, he’s more than capable of looking after him, and he wants Peter to be as comfortable as possible. On the other hand, like May said, we’ve known Peter a lot longer, Queens is Peter’s home, and this would be a lot to take in right now.”

“I’d also like to add that he’s one of the busiest men alive right now,” May cut in.

Feeling petty but adamant, Tony cut in, “I’d like to add that money would never, ever be an issue.”

“Al-right.” This time Ben pressed them gently until they stepped back from one another. For a man who didn’t have children of his own, Ben had mastered the fatherly quit fighting look down to a T. “Putting all that aside, I think we need to focus on one thing first and foremost: what does Peter want?”

Tony didn’t freeze. Did he? No, he didn’t freeze. He just…felt his fire die out.

May didn’t look away from him for a moment. “I’m going to take it you haven’t asked him?”

“I’ll admit it hasn’t crossed my mind.”

“I need a drink.” May shouldered past both of them to make her way to the kitchen. They heard the refrigerator door creak open. “I’m cracking open the beer I’ve been hiding behind the hot sauce. Don’t look at me.”

Ben didn’t look at him when they were left alone; he just picked up his empty mug and went for the sink. All the while, he kept rubbing and scratching his face.

There went all the adrenaline Tony had pumping, all replaced by humiliation.

What the hell was he thinking?!

Of course Peter wasn’t going to want to live with him! He couldn’t make himself keep eye contact with Tony for more than five seconds, there was no way in hell he was going to willingly go live with him all the way across the continent. Considering the way kids’ minds worked, he might even hate Tony for even posing the question. He wants him to leave Aunt May and Uncle Ben? Forever? No! Go away!

This had to be reality grabbing him by his collar and slapping him awake. May had been right; Tony could visit regularly and Peter could be perfectly happy. He’d broken the envelope, he’d crossed every line. Not only was he going to have to be careful about his relationship with Peter, he’d be walking on eggshells around Ben and May for the rest of forever.

The phone in his pocket buzzed for the hundredth time that day, it seemed. Expecting Obie or Happy, Tony fished it out just so he could shut it up.

The caller ID read Virginia.

“Uh—I have to take this.”

Ben waved him on, and May didn’t look at him. He almost moved for the doorway, but figured an apartment building hallway wasn’t the best place to have a conversation. Nor did he want to do it in the room.

Fire escape it was, then. May did look up at him when he drew the window open and crawled out. Probably confirming that yes, he was weirder than she thought.

He made sure to keep his face mask up before he answered. Never knew when a camera would be ready to snap a picture.

“Hello?”

Pepper’s voice was impatient. “What’s going on, Tony?”

“Did I miss a call, or something? Things are pretty hectic over here, so…sorry.”

“I mean what’s going on with Obadiah? When’s the last time you talked to him?”

Tony stilled his hand on the railing. “Maybe an hour ago. Why?”

“He said he’s heading to the airport right now to come home. He sounded really annoyed, but he wouldn’t tell me what’s wrong. Did something happen?”

“I, uh…” Tony tugged on the bill of his ball cap. “It’s a little too much to explain on the phone right now, but…I may be staying here for an extra day or two. Don’t worry about Obie.”

“So you’re promising me that everything is okay.”

“Yes. It’s—Benjamin. It’s just everything going on with Benjamin.”

“See, you say that everything is okay, but you’re lying right now, so…I don’t know what to think here.”

Pepper couldn’t see him, of course, but he still blinked. “Pardon?”

A sigh. “I really wasn’t trying to snoop, Tony, but I figured that if anything came up with ‘Mr. Fitzpatrick’, you might want me to send something or another over. Except I looked through pretty much every class that has graduated from MIT and they’ve never had a Mister Benjamin Fitzpatrick. So…I’m not asking for details, but can I just get some assurance that you’re not covering for some really awful, dark secret that’s going to cause everyone a lot of trouble?”

Let it not be said that Pepper wasn’t dedicated to her job. Despite the cover being blown, Tony didn’t feel that stressed. Probably because he knew as of five minutes ago that the whole parent-for-life thing wasn’t going to happen. Probably also because he’d spent all of his stress in the past couple of days.

“Alright. I lied, I’ll admit to that.”

“Thanks?”

“You have my word, there’s nothing really awful or dark going on over here. It’s just a very private matter that I don’t even think I should say over the phone. I’ll tell you when I get back over there, alright? Just hold down the fort for a little while longer.”

There was a shuffle on the other side. Pepper’s voice became softer. “Alright. Just…Call me if you need me.”

“’Course,” he said, and then she hung up.

Was he surprised that Obie was flying back to Malibu? Only because he hadn’t said anything about it. Tony had tested the man’s patience for almost a week straight; it was a matter of time until he threw in the towel. Plus, this was probably a good thing. Now that Obie was back, Tony didn’t have to worry about his attitude, and someone was there for Stark Industries. It worked out for all of them.

Inevitably, though, he would have to inform Obie that no, that whole Peter’s-going-to-live-with-me thing didn’t work out. Then he’d have to deal with Obie’s half-assed apology and comfort all while he tried to fight a smug grin from his face. Tony might have to ask point-blank to just spare him the humiliation.

Tony was disappointed, too, but in a self-realized kind of way. He had wanted to take Peter back home with him, the idea had jet-fueled him all the way back to the apartment, but now he knew that just wasn’t going to work. All that lamenting about Peter’s happiness and wellbeing were for nothing, because what Peter wanted was the priority.

This was fine, though. Tony had a son, he could visit him whenever he wanted, and he’d be safe and happy with the people his mother wanted to care for him. Really, he’d just overcomplicated everything. Simple as that.

He opened the window to get back inside, but made it a good three inches before May’s and Ben’s voices spilled out, almost as clear as day. Tony didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but once he heard, he realized that hopping back inside also wasn’t a good idea.

“…thing I’ve ever heard of in my life. What are you even thinking?!”

“May, calm down. I just think that, you know, maybe he has some kind of right here? Mary said she trusted us to take care of Peter, but it wasn’t—you know, official.”

“Right, because if not us, she wanted us to pick someone we trusted to take Peter in. Now, me, I thought that maybe we could look through all our friends and family. You, however, have decided that hey, maybe the guy we met a few days ago is the most qualified person!”

“He’s Peter’s father, I think he has some kind of say in this.”

“Yeah, he has some say, but not this much say! How the hell can you trust him? I just—I think he’s nice, Ben, but that doesn’t mean he’s good! Peter hasn’t been alone with him for more than five minutes, and he’s got to be the busiest person alive. Can you look at him and imagine him and Peter having a game of catch for two seconds?”

“I’m not going to say that I’d be happy with it either. I love Peter. You love Peter. I like Tony, but I don’t absolutely trust him, and I wouldn’t be clicking my heels if he took Peter. But we’ve already decided we might not be able to take care of him, either, and Tony will never have to worry about money, or safety, or—”

“So what? It comes down to the fact that he’s rich?”

“No, it doesn’t come down to that, but we should consider that! It’ll have to come down to Peter, alright? If Peter wants to stay with us—which he almost definitely will—then fine. All good. Happy ever after. If Peter wants to stay with Tony, then we’re going to have to accept that.”

“When I was a kid, I wanted to eat the entire box of Chips Ahoy that my parents bought from the store. There’s a reason they didn’t let me do that!”

“Well then he’ll figure it out, alright? The second he doesn’t feel safe about it, he can come right back home.”

“You can’t just ‘try out’ living with someone. How far are we going to let him go before he can change his mind?”

“I—I can’t have this conversation right now.” Tony could almost hear all the air deflate from Ben. “I’m sorry, I just…I can’t.”

Then he was quiet, and May was quiet, and tension was so close to physically spilling out from the window crack that Tony didn’t want to go back inside anymore.

On the bright side of things, now he just had a couple more reasons to know he was wrong, right? Right.


 

Obie touched down sometime around five, something he learned from Pepper, not the man himself. Tony returned to his hotel room to…pack, he supposed. Either tomorrow or the day after, he’d be returning to Malibu. That meant he had to figure out what he was going to say to Peter before he went. Not goodbye forever, but goodbye nonetheless.

Happy was at first in a sour mood when he returned. To be fair, after Obie had texted him to meet up at Big Joe’s for pizza, he’d wound up alone and wondering where they were. So Tony apologized for that, but then there was silence. Happy didn’t ask what was wrong. Maybe he didn’t need to.

Peter wouldn’t be that much more open when he said goodbye, so that would render the whole visit to meet his son little more than awkward small talk. Tony couldn’t grind information out of him, but maybe he could still leave him with something.

Using the stationary on the nightstand, he started to write things down.

My favorite color is red.

My favorite food is pepperoni pizza.

My favorite band is AC/DC.

My favorite movie is

Alright, what was his favorite G-rated movie Peter could reasonably watch?

Honey, I Shrunk the Kids.

I am 36.

My full name is Anthony Edward Stark.

My parent’s names are were are Howard Anthony Walter Stark and Maria Collins Carbonell Stark.

My birthday is May 29.

My eyes and hair are both brown.

What else should he leave? Should he ask Peter to fill out one of his own? Peter’s favorite color was red, his birthday was August 10, he was five years old, period. Tony had a lot of room to learn.

“I, uh…”

Happy stood up from the tiny little table in the corner (he might have been doing Sudoku puzzles for the past three hours), and went to the box-shaped mini-fridge. He pulled out a Styrofoam box and handed it out to Tony.

“Got you some,” Happy explained. “It’s not fresh, but—New York pizza, said you always liked it…”

Tony pressed his lips in a half-smile. He took the box. “Thanks, Hap. Very thoughtful of you.”

“I also got this…

His coat was draped on the back of his chair, and he withdrew a book from that. Paperback, with a price sticker in the corner. Tony only saw the title when Happy extended it forward.

You’ve Got This—Lessons for Parents Who Weren’t Expecting

“I was going to get something to read on the plane, and I saw this in the bargain bin—not that I wouldn’t have gotten it if it weren’t on sale, I just figured. I thought maybe you’d want to—No. I am so sorry. This is horribly unprofessional.”

Happy drew the book back before Tony could even touch it. He was wincing in shame.

“Hand it over.” He did, still looking afraid. As if he’d just dived headfirst into this will get you fired territory. “I appreciate it.”

He wasn’t joyful, but he was sincere, and Happy nodded with clear relief. Tony could’ve been annoyed or even offended, but honestly? He needed all the help he could get. He could make exceptions to his being-handed-things peeve.

Tony’s phone buzzed once again. Happy went back to his table immediately.

He didn’t recognize the number, so Tony just answered. “Hello.”

“Hey, Tony? That you?”

Tony set aside the paper and pen. “Hey, Ben. Yeah, it’s me.”

“Alright, uh…You said you were going to be here for a little while longer?”

“Yeah, probably for another day or two. I just want to make sure everything’s good before I go. So just…whenever.”

Ben sighed more at himself than Tony, he could hear that. “Okay. Is there any way we can meet up, maybe tomorrow?”

“Of course. I just need the when and the where. And preferably the why, if you could.”

“We talked to Peter a while ago. He said he’s—you know, he’s okay with it. I mean, he wants to live with you.”

“Oh. Alright! Great. So…your apartment, around eleven? That good?”

“Yeah. That sounds good. I’ll see you then. Good night.”

“See you, Parker.” Tony was already talking before he or Ben have hung up. “Happy.”

Like the flip of a switch, Happy went from okay-when-did-Sudoku-get-this-hard mode to tell-me-what-to-do-and-I’ll-do-it mode. “Yes?”

“You remember when we were in the lobby, and there were all those magazines on the table? Confirm to me that there were Toys R Us catalogues there.”

Happy thought about it for a second. “Yeah, I’m pretty sure there were.”

“Go get all of them.” Tony all but threw a stack of bills at him. “And go to the clerk and ask for every sticky note they have. We’re in for a night of shopping.”

Chapter 10: Chapter Ten

Summary:

“Alright. My son is coming to live here.”

“Okay.”

Tony took a deep, nose-tingling drink.

Seven, eight, nine…Ten seconds, and Pepper finally rewound to what he just said. He saw her thought process in the way her eyes widened and brows knitted.

Her reaction was not unlike Obie’s. “What?”

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

The process of taking in Peter wasn’t a happy one. Pretty tedious, actually.

First there was just the talking, a lot of it, mostly in the visit Tony made the day after he got the news the first time. The conversation was much slower, a lot cooler. Civil. Everyone kept their voice even, but there was unhappiness weighing down on the room. Ben and May both contributed what needed to be said—for example, that Peter had reading glasses, or how long it had been since his last checkup. Ben was clearly trying to just move with time, get everything going, but May was biting her tongue the whole talk. She was angry, bordering on furious, but there was nothing else she could do. She’d talked with Peter, she had no more say.

There were two additions to the talk this time around, one of which was Richard. And…

God, Richard…

Not two days ago, Tony had seen him bright and ready for their dinner at the Italian joint. Even with his walking stick, he’d had energy. He was alert, eyes open. He talked when he was spoken to. He was fine. He was alive.

Now, though…Richard was almost a dead man walking. His pale was as pale as a sheet of paper, the slight hint of stubble on his jaw had become a full shadow. The bags under his eyes were so thick, they could have been drawn on in Sharpie. He blinked slow, talked slow, moved slow.

The day before, he had attended Mary’s funeral—Fitz’s funeral. The woman he loved but never got around to saying so. Best friend for almost his entire life. One of his constants. Tony could almost feel the grief wafting off of him. The poor guy was just…hollow.

What was there even to say to him? He was the guy who fathered Mary’s son, he wouldn’t be surprised if Richard hated him, even just a little bit.

Speaking of “son”, Peter had joined them, too.

He wasn’t excited. He didn’t bounce off the walls or ask Tony what his new house was going to be like, nothing like that. But he was certainly more chipper. He didn’t turn his head down at the first hint of eye contact, nor did he go out of his way to distract himself with something. He stayed where he was seated beside Richard, calm but fidgeting.

The first thing Tony had said to him after a greeting was, plain and simple, “You sure about this, kiddo?”

Peter nodded. “Mm-hm.”

Why? “You sure you’re sure?”

“Mm-hm.”

WHY? “Alright.” Tony gave the kid’s shoulder a squeeze. “Let’s figure this out.”

Since he was there, they all tried to be mindful of what they said, not wanting him to feel ignored or left out. He could understand everything they said.

They talked about all the big things that needed to be said, like setting Peter up at his new school. May only got grumpier with each word that was said, and judging by the way Peter’s eyes always went to the floor after he looked at her, Tony guessed that their talk about it had been a long one. He doubted May had tried to spin Peter’s mind a certain way—she was adamant, but kind, and he couldn’t imagine her doing a “It’s your choice, Peter, but also I’m going to be very upset if you don’t make the decision I want” shtick.

Tony noticed tenderness between Peter and Richard he hadn’t seen before. Peter half-sat-beside, half-lied-on Richard on the sofa. Richard had a cup of coffee on the little nightstand by Peter, and gently asked him to pass it over when he wanted it. He ran his fingers over the boy’s curls without looking, making Tony think that he didn’t even know he was doing it.

He also noticed—and was pleased by—Peter’s decidedly more open nature to him. He had yet to ask or say anything to Tony himself, but he answered when Tony talked to him and didn’t shy away. In fact, whenever Tony smiled at him, he returned it. Maybe not happily, but warmly enough. When Ben brought up his glasses, he rushed to get them from his room just to show him. His almond-and-hazelnut allergy came up again, and he made it clear that he was still totally okay to eat peanut butter. Sweet kid was trying.

He wasn’t happy, but he was the happiest Tony had seen him since they met. He liked it. He liked seeing Peter smile. He liked how he handed Tony his glasses like they were some marvel. He liked that he was almost excited to come live with him; it gave him a glimpse into what the future would be like.

It was a little tempting to give him a hug. He didn’t, of course.

Eventually they got on the topic of how Tony was going to deal with the whole sudden-five-year-old-child situation to the public. Tony assured them that he was already brainstorming how to keep it under wraps—which was almost completely a lie—but before he could plan on the spot, Peter’s brow furrowed on his forehead.

“Doesn’t ‘keep it under wraps’ mean ‘secret’?”

Well, if that didn’t just give them another bout of awkwardness. Just about everyone did some kind of fidget. Cheek rub, nose scratch, sniff.

Someone had to explain, and it should be him, Tony decided. So, putting on the “Dad stance” of leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, he tried.

“You know how I’m on TV and magazines a lot? Not because I did anything, but just because I got a cheeseburger, or something?” Peter nodded. “Yeah, that’s not always…fun, and if everyone finds out that I’m your dad, that’s going to happen to you.”

Peter frowned. That, too, made Tony think that he looked more like him than was obvious. “I thought being on TV and stuff was good?”

“Well…It is when you did something good. Imagine you go to school one day, and your shoelaces are untied, so you trip. Then someone takes a picture of you tripping, and everyone in the world is talking about that. How would you feel?”

Peter scratched the end of his nose, unhappy. “Embarrassed.”

“Yep. So since I’m really famous, that would make you really famous. And you’d be embarrassed all the time.”

Out of his peripheral vision, he saw May give him a quick, angry look. It wasn’t his intention to scare Peter, but hey, Peter didn’t seem all that scared. There was some pent-up curiosity in his face, because he was a kid and kids were curious, but he seemed to understand. Or at least, he understood enough and didn’t want to pop off his ten thousand questions at that moment.

He did pop off one, though. “So I can’t tell anyone?”

“Well—” Ben paused to see if Tony was okay with his chiming in. “It’d be a secret.”

“But what if someone asks? Do I lie?”

Tony didn’t know the answer to that. his first instinct was to say no, because you weren’t supposed to tell your kid it was okay to lie, right? But also…He’d probably have to. Except—

Alright, hold on.

What was the plan, again?

He’d keep his son a secret. How was he supposed to keep an entire human being a secret?

Ben didn’t say anything; May didn’t say anything.

Richard said something, in a soft voice. “I may have an idea.”


 

On paper, the plan sounded simple. Like, figurative paper. The papers they had to sign and file and whatnot were neither simple nor thrilling.

This was the cover story: after the death of his mother, Peter Fitzpatrick was adopted by Mary’s close friend, Richard Parker. Though her other friends May and Ben dearly wanted to do so, they simply didn’t have the time or money to care for Peter properly. Richard, now well on his way to becoming a physical therapist, also did not have countless time on his hands. However, he did have time, and enough money to keep him and Peter comfortable. Peter Fitzpatrick was now Peter Parker.

This was the real story: Tony had—in every legal sense—taken custody of Peter. It was up to him to care for him physically and financially, up until he was at least eighteen. Richard’s “adoption” was just a show. To keep that show going, Peter would spend one or two days a week at Richard’s new totally-bought-with-his-own-money house specially secluded from curious neighbors. PTA meeting? Doctor’s appointment? Kid’s birthday party? Richard was Peter’s father. Otherwise, he’d be with Tony in the mansion. Any time of day, any day a week, Peter could call his Aunt May or Uncle Ben if he wanted to talk.

He could also call him if he changed his mind and wanted to come home. Tony could only hope it wouldn’t come to that.

It wouldn’t be easy, of course not. There were a lot of factors they had to deal with. The only people outside of them who knew were less than five lawyers and CPS agents who all signed black-and-white NDAs, but who was to say they wouldn’t spill to the press anyway? Peter finally got on board with the lie—no, not lie, pretend—that Richard was his new father, but what if he just couldn’t help it and let it slip one day? Not being seen in public with Peter wouldn’t be too hard, but he could be seen with literally anyone else and the media might try to put two and two together.

All through the process, they watched Peter like a hawk, minding how he felt and what he thought. His excitement for his new home became more evident at times when he was Tony, evident enough to let the somewhat gap-toothed smile peek through.

“How big is the mansion?” “Imagine the biggest house you can think of and multiply it by pi.” (“Pie?”)

“Will we be close to the beach?” “If you walk too far out the back door, you’ll fall into the ocean. Let’s just put it like that.”

“Is it close to Disneyland?” “Not exactly, but just tell me when you want to go and we’ll get it arranged.”

Sometimes, though, the wariness came through, as it should have. At times they caught him looking around the little apartment with some sad fear, the knowledge that oh, I’m not going to live here soon. He asked to see just where Malibu was on the U.S. map and was very surprised to see several inches between it and Queens. When he finally returned to his last days at his school, one of his friends—Wendy? Willy?—gave him a sloppy fifteen-second Ill miss you Peter!! card that he carried heavily.

They had different ways of dealing with this. Tony’s way was to try and cheer the kid up through some cheap but well-meaning distractions. Ben’s way was reassurance that there was nothing to be scared of. May’s way was encouraging Peter to say what upset him. Richard somehow managed to do all three at whatever times they were necessary. He read his soon-to-be-psuedo son well. In the end, Peter would always reassure that he was still okay with it.

It was curious, at some point, how well he and Peter got along. Peter didn’t call him “Uncle Richard”, for some reason or another. Just “Richard.” If some passing comments were to be believed, then Richard’s busy job meant that the five years of Peter’s life had him visiting often, but still just visiting. Some months, he never saw Peter at all. But still Peter relaxed around him, opened up to him, laughed himself red in the face when Richard did funny voices.

(Some part of Tony asked, “Hey, if Richard and Peter have such a good relationship just visiting, why can’t you do the same?” He shut that part up.)

It was a mission that took all five of them. Every detail, every plan. The specifics of each step. They made it work, though, through some elbow grease and strong wills. Grief stull hung over them all. There was always an empty spot whenever they talked; there were times where they could all sit in the living room and feel as if they should have left a seat vacant.

Mary was gone. They loved her, they missed her, but they had to keep going. May and Ben knew this, Richard knew this. Peter knew this, too, even if he did at times have his lip quivering and go suddenly quiet for no clear reason.

Maybe Peter had known that Richard and his mother had some kind of special connection? There was a difference when Richard comforted him. He was too sweet to pick favorites, but there was no reluctance when it came to hugging Richard or taking his hand.

Richard watched him a lot in the days they were together, in a way that almost kind-of, sort-of creeped Tony out. He didn’t even seem angry, he was just always watching. Mostly it was just glances, but when Tony talked to Peter, that gaze was pinned on them both.

Tony almost thought that maybe a talk was order when, lo and behold, Richard took it upon himself to instigate it. It was after dinner, everyone was in the other room, Tony was taking a look at how much Peter had packed up. (It wasn’t much, but Peter didn’t really have much.)

It was not a talk so much as a lesson, really. There was no back-and-forth as Richard talked to him in a firm, even voice that almost bordered on but never crossed into anger.

“Keep him safe,” he said. “Keep him safe, keep him happy, and don’t ever, ever make him feel like he’s not wanted. Okay?”

“Okay,” Tony had promised, to him, and Richard, and Peter, and Mary.


 

Tony couldn’t keep away from Malibu forever, and he wasn’t always needed. He bounced to and from Queens on an irregular basis over the weeks. If anyone was curious about where the Man of the Century was going, Pepper shut them down with an explanation that was just ambiguous enough.

Speaking of which, Tony realized as he walked into his home after his extra four days in Queens and saw her standing in the middle of the room that oh, yeah, that was what he forgot. He thought maybe he left something in the hotel.

“Hiya,” he greeted.

“Hey,” she answered. If he didn’t know any better, he would have said she was relieved to see him. That wasn’t an ego-stroke, by the way, he just knew he was asking her to hold down the fort maybe a little too longer. “Everything go alright?”

“Alright enough. Everything looks like it’s still in one piece.” He made a joking look around while he said it. “You didn’t find my secret wine cellar, did you?”

“No; I promise I’ve just been making sure the cleaners came.”

“Wonderful. By the way, I totally do not have a secret wine cellar I don’t want anyone to know about.”

Pepper gave him the pursed-mouth look she usually gave him, like she kind of wanted to smile but also didn’t want to indulge in his humor, so she reached a halfway expression. Even that soon faded, though. “Can you tell me what’s going on now?”

“Yes, I can. As a matter of fact, hold on there just a second.”

He took all of thirty seconds to hop over to the fridge and pull out two ice-cold Coke cans. Not the best for a toast, but he was suffering from jet lag already, so champagne actually didn’t sound so great at the moment. Pepper just raised a brow at him as he approached and took hers with a pen still in hand.

Tony cracked his open. She tucked her clipboard under her arm so she could do the same.

“To life and good fortune and whatever the hell else,” he declared, and tapped his can against hers.

She nodded. “Whatever the hell else. I’m guessing we have good news?”

“We certainly do. Emphasis on the ‘good’, and emphasis on the ‘news’, because you’re not going to see this coming.” Pepper’s brow started to furrow at once. “Emphasis on the ‘good’, I said! This is just going to be a big surprise that you shouldn’t be worried about.”

Pepper took a breath. “Alright.”

“M’kay?”

“Yes.”

“Are you ready?”

“Just tell me.”

“Alright. My son is coming to live here.”

“Okay.”

Tony took a deep, nose-tingling drink.

Seven, eight, nine…Ten seconds, and Pepper finally rewound to what he just said. He saw her thought process in the way her eyes widened and brows knitted.

Her reaction was not unlike Obie’s. “What?”

“I’m going to wrap this up nice and quick. Five years ago, I met a woman at a party, she had a kid, I didn’t know, she passed away just recently, that’s why I left, and now my son’s going to come live here with me.”

“I—we—Tony, oh my god, how could you not tell me that?!”

“We only made the decision a few days ago; figured you wouldn’t want to hear this over the phone.”

“Well—is he here now? Is he coming?”

Pepper craned her head around him, as if expecting the little boy to just be there with his bags in hand. Tony shook his head.

“He won’t be here for a while. Since you are one of the four people given full access here, though, you need to know.”

Pepper was still unable to wrap her mind around everything. “Are we going to have a press announcement, or something? How are we going to let people know?”

“We aren’t going to let people know.”

“…How?”

“Take a seat, Miss Potts. Let me break down Operation: It’s a Boy for you.”

He did, over the course of about an hour, with another can of Coke and a bag of popcorn between them. Though she didn’t relax entirely, Pepper listened well, and (as was her personality) only asked questions where she needed. They spent more time on the how’s and why’s, she also listened well to what he had to say about the Parkers and May, the letters, and Mary herself. She didn’t pry too much on that last one.

When her back had finally touched the sofa instead of sitting needle-straight, Pepper asked, “When is this happening?”

“In a month, maybe? There’s a lot of stuff we need to take care of.”

“Right. What do I need to do?”

“Nothing. Well—no, I could definitely use your help. He’s going to be going to school, so we need to figure which one would be the best option—you know, distance, security, whatever. Getting his room set up is going to a hassle. We’re going to have to get truckloads of toys and furniture here without anyone asking questions.”

Tony could see in her eyes that she was already making her list. God bless Pepper Potts, honestly. One hour and she was abundantly more supportive than Obie had been for more than a week.

“You ever hear from Obie?”

Pepper shook her head. “Just to talk about business. He never told me anything.”

Tony sniffed. “Yeah, I figured.”

“Something wrong with him?”

“Let’s just say he’s not happy about this and leave it at that. I know it’s only around nine right now, but Queens feels like one in the morning, so I think we’re going to have to talk about this later. You good? Not mad? Should I novelize everything?”

“No, I’m good. I understand.” Pepper stood up to her feet and straightened out her blazer. She opened her mouth for a goodbye, it seemed, but then she paused. “You sure you have everything figured out?”

“Oh, no, I’m still floundering in the water. It’s a work in progress. I’ll make it work, though, don’t sweat about it.”

“Alright.”

“Alright. See you tomorrow. Or today. Whatever.”

Tony went ahead and took off his watch. He was content to hop into bed and drift off while Pepper let herself out. It maybe wasn’t the greatest thing a host could do, but he was tired, and she was understanding.

“Just, uh…”

Pepper’s hesitant voice had him turning around again. The blonde tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, already looking regretful.

“I’m here to help, so just tell me when you need anything.”

Tony nodded. “Will do.”

Pepper left after that. Tony went to bed feeling significantly better.


 

The whole process took a good couple of weeks, all the way past Christmas. Tony went to Queens, talked to everyone, caught up with Peter, signed the papers, and returned to Malibu. Repeat. It took a toll on his sleep schedule, but that was a small price to pay.

Happy and Pepper were so supportive during the whole thing, they might as well have been cheerleaders. Happy just did as he was told without problem. Pepper did the same on top of her other duties and never complained about her full plate. She figured out how to get Peter’s room taken care of: it was a system of ordering everything through a card that couldn’t be linked back to them, then specifically—specifically!—asking that the contents of the boxes not be told to the deliverers. When said delivery trucks came down the driveway, they dropped off huge boxes and crates, never the wiser of what they contained.

Obie, in contrast, was content to ignore everything. Tony saw him again, of course. It took more than a month to do everything, and Tony still had to do his job as Stark Industries CEO. They didn’t talk about Peter at all. They were all business day in and day out, only discussing SI and the board and the Jericho Project. Obie didn’t show up to his mansion again.

Tony was thankful. Caused him a lot less stress.

Between all the work and the planning, Tony found that the best thing about it was spending time with his son.

Whenever he returned, Peter greeted him very casually, having accepted that he was part of everyday life now. He let Tony look at the things he’d done in class and talked about whatever he wanted.

He smiled when Tony smiled at him, and the first time Tony got him to laugh—Peter was drawing an android that he called ‘KA-1O’, and Tony purposefully mispronounced it as Kay-yo—Tony felt happy. Pleased, in a warm way.

Tony was excited. He really was. He was looking forward to showing Peter his new room and everything there was to do in Malibu.

Now, the question occurred to him once or twice when he was falling asleep: Did he love Peter?

He guessed the answer was ‘no’, if only because he didn’t have the right or reason to. But! At the same time, perhaps there was some innate fatherly tenderness in him. He’d read that in You’ve Got This. (He wasn’t totally planning on reading the book cover-to-cover, but he got curious.) One of the opening paragraphs said that every parent, even ones that weren’t expecting children, would feel some near-instinctual connection to their kids. Tony stopped reading after that because, ahem, Howard, but now he thought there was some truth to that. Like, yeah, maybe every parent did have at least a little undeniable love for their kid. Didn’t mean they couldn’t also be shitty, uncaring, or even abusive.

Peter’s class had thrown him an impromptu farewell party, complete with a GOODBYE, PETER! banner and cupcakes and whatnot. Peter was in a bittersweet mood about the whole thing.

“You going to miss them?” Tony asked while they were packing away Peter’s drawings. Peter wanted to be very, very sure that they wouldn’t be wrinkled or torn in the flight to Malibu.

Peter shrugged. “I’ve only been going for a couple months. Wendy was—we were friends since we started—like, she started after we did, but we were friends.”

Peter did this sometimes, fumbling over his words. Not out of nervousness, though. He was five. He wasn’t always articulate.

With the final drawing tucked away in the box, Peter folded the box closed, in that two-over-two way that wouldn’t actually keep it shut. No matter—Tony had the packing tape ready to go.

“Maybe you can call her sometimes, huh?”

Peter shook his head. “It’s okay. Uncle Ben said I’ll make new friends at my new school.”

“That you will.”

Did it occur to Tony to have Richard check in with the school to ensure that Peter was making friends? Maybe. Sort of. Kind of.


 

December 28th, almost six weeks since Tony first learned that he had a son, Peter finally returned home with him. Finally, finally.

They all drove in one car, and sitting in the backseat with Richard and Peter was only moderately awkward. The last of Peter’s things are in a backpack at their feet. Every two minutes May craned her head from the passenger seat to ask if he forgot something. He assured her until he got tired and started groaning, “No.”

It was a shame Peter couldn’t sit by the window, because when the car pulled up closer and closer to the jet, Peter began to almost vibrate in excitement.

“We’re riding in that?” he exclaimed.

“Mm-hm.” Tony tried to stifle the swell of pride by readjusting his sunglasses. The sun was pretty bright, for a cold December day in Queens. “I couldn’t get the rocket today, sorry.”

The genuine elation in Peter’s eyes almost made him regret the joke.

The car pulled up to a stop, and everyone finally stepped out to stretch their legs. This was the most opportune day they’d gotten for a while—Peter might’ve gone to Malibu sooner had the threat of snowstorms hadn’t kept them at bay. Not that he wouldn’t have spent Christmas with May and the Parkers either way.

Richard pulled his two bags from the trunk and slung Peter’s bag over one shoulder, never affected by his leg. He’d taken Tony up on his offer to fly back with them, because why wouldn’t Tony offer? It saved the man around $400 dollars someone studying physical therapy couldn’t afford to toss around.

(Even the pilot had signed an NDA; no doubt he would be curious about why Tony’s back and forth trips had culminated in a child and a grown man returning home with them.)

The door was already open, extending the steps down to the ground of the runway, and Peter couldn’t stop himself from shooting inside the jet like Speedy Gonzalez. Maybe it was rude; May sighed. Still, Tony couldn’t help but smile hearing Peter’s muffled cries of awe inside.

Ben was kind of in the middle. Almost smiling, but also trying to stay ‘professional’. “He’s never been on a plane before, so if he starts bouncing all the walls, you know why.”

“Fingers crossed he doesn’t find a way to open a window. Rich, hey—stop showing off.”

Tony took the man’s bags and strode up into the jet without stopping. He dropped them into the nearest seat for the moment, but took a look at Peter while he was inside. The kid really was bouncing off the walls. He looked at the seats, the windows, the tiny little compartments that housed absolutely nothing. Pure amazement.

“C’mon, Pete. You can look this place up and down on the way over, kay?”

Peter followed without protest. Back outside, in the icy cold air, the others were waiting. Richard and Ben were talking about something or another and May was holding a forced smile on her face. It became a little less forced when Peter ran forward and wrapped his arms around her waist. She bent down to push her cheek against the top of his curls.

“You need anything at all, you just ask.”

“I will.”

“Call me as soon as you can.”

“I will!”

May kissed his forehead twice before she let him go to Ben. He made a big show of picking Peter up off his feet—the police academy workout routine meant it was as easy as turning a sheet of paper for him—with a big roar that had Peter giggling and May rolling her eyes and mouthing showoff to Richard. But then he stopped joking to hold Peter against him, the boy’s head on his shoulder. Another reminder of just how small the kid was.

“Don’t have too much fun without me,” Ben muffled into Peter’s shirt.

“Promise I won’t.”

“’Kay. If you get thrown in jail, we’ll bail you out.”

Peter giggled again, and Ben set him back down with a forehead kiss of his own. Peter went back to May for one last hug, then let Richard have his turn of goodbyes.

May turned to Tony while he stood a little to the side with his hands in his pockets. “Everything good?”

“Everything magnificent.”

She narrowed her eyes at him, but it was refreshingly joking. She still wasn’t making friendship bracelets for him, and Tony had settled that she maybe never would. That was okay. Tony could have done everything she ever wanted of him, and she would still be upset, even just a little bit. She loved Peter, and him being so far away from her would hurt no matter what.

But she’d finally accepted it. She was wary and bitter and quiet, but the excitement Peter had to live with his dad was undeniable.

Then they left. They stepped up and into the jet, peered out the windows to wave goodbye, watched the car shrink behind them. Peter kept his face pressed to the glass for what felt like hours and hours, just watching the land give way to clouds and the clouds give way to wide, open sky.

“You hungry, sport?” Tony nodded to the sleek black box tucked away on the other side of the cabin. “Go on, help yourself.”

Peter shot right for it like he just wanted to open the fridge itself. Usually, the fridge would be keeping a variety of alcoholic beverages and fruit. Now it’s fruit, juice boxes, little ice cream cups, and Creamsicles. The little compartment above that had chips, pretzels, M&Ms, so on, so forth.

“Whoa-ho-hoa,” Peter whooped.

“You want something, Rich?”

Richard had taken to a book in-between his sparse talk with Tony, and was caught off-guard when spoken to. A Feast for Crows almost fluttered shut. “Ah, no, I’m good.”

Head stuffed in the icebox, Peter called, “There are Creamsicles.”

“No, I—oh, wait, get me one!”

“Snag me some M&Ms and get back over here,” Tony called. “Got something for you.”

Peter returned with his hands full and the fridge maybe not totally shut all the way, but whatever. Tony reached into the pocket lining of his jacket, Peter’s eyes watching every movement. He did that a lot, lately, always amazed not by how much money Tony had but rather the fact that he seemed to be able to just procure whatever, whenever.

This ‘whatever’ is a pair of dark violet shades in gold frames, sized just enough for the eyes of a child.

“Specially made. Now we match.”

Peter made another delighted sound and put them on at once. Yeah, he probably looked a little funny, but Tony thought he was looking pretty good.

Richard readjusted where the glasses went over his right ear. “What do you think?”

“It feels cool!”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. But it’s dark.”

“Hence why they’re called ‘sunglasses’.” Tony also drew out the little leathery box for them. “Here. Keep ‘em safe.”

Despite the darkness, Peter wore the glasses all through the rest of the flight until he finally turned to the book in his backpack, Matilda. Then he swapped the sunglasses for his reading glasses, and man if he didn’t look like the smartest five-year-old in the world wearing them. He read the words under his breath, nodding along to the more difficult words to pronounce them.

Most of the flight after that is quiet, but not tense. Richard and Peter read. Tony considered joining them, remembered that his only option was a how-to-be-a-good-dad book, and decided to pick up the crossword book tucked under the table. It was fine and casual. Plus, he was still excited. That was another plus.


 

Peter fell asleep for good around a half-hour before they landed. Six forty-five for Malibu meant the poor guy was feeling closer to ten on Queens’ time. So despite the fact that the sun hadn’t even fully set yet, Tony let the boy sleep on.

The jet touched down, the coast was clear, they all stepped off. Tony almost woke Peter up, then…reconsidered. Maybe it was a little too parental for a one-month father, but he decided to just carry Peter to the Audi Happy had left for him. Didn’t even break a sweat, and Peter barely stirred as Tony held him. The weight of his head against Tony’s shoulder was relaxing, somehow.

“You sure you don’t want me to do anything else?” Richard whispered when they were back out in the night air. He stood back while Tony delicately placed Peter in the backseat, and wrapped the seatbelt around him.

“Go catch some Z’s, Rich. I’m sure your coworkers are going to have a baby shower ready for you tomorrow.”

Richard nodded, reluctantly. He’d wanted to spend Peter’s first night with him, thinking it would help, but his DPT program just couldn’t stretch out his across-the-continent visits any longer. He needed to be in first thing in the morning tomorrow.

So, with one last goodbye and a kiss to Peter’s brow, he went on his way to flag down a taxi cab. Tony hopped in the driver’s seat to take him and Peter home.


 

The sky was violet when they returned home, and Peter wasn’t just asleep, he was uh-SLEEP.

Which was a problem, kind of.

Just past the front door of the mansion, Pepper and Happy would be waiting with party poppers in hand and a mountain of gifts on the table. Streamers and balloons would be hanging from the ceiling, and a banner stretching behind them would read WELCOME, PETER! in vibrant red and gold. There’d be a stack of pizza boxes waiting on the table, and paper arrows on the floor would lead Peter to his new room.

When the door opened, Pepper and Happy were supposed to pop out the confetti (however reluctantly or embarrassing it was). Peter would meet Pepper, finally get a proper introduction to Happy, and get to know who they were and what they did. As soon as they saw the little boy, the party would be in motion.

Instead, the first thing they saw when the door just barely opened was Tony’s hand holding a sheet of newspaper Sharpie’d with BE QUIET!!!

So they stayed quiet and went even quieter when Tony came in with the still-sleeping Peter draped against him. Nothing is popped, no greetings are given. Happy took the backpack and a silent confirmation from Pepper had her moving ahead to the bedroom, where she turned out all the lights and pulled back the blankets.

There wouldn’t be any party that night. Happy and Pepper would take the pizza home and promise to return the next morning to catch up. The paper arrows were picked up.

It wasn’t too disappointing; they’d get to it tomorrow. Peter would wake up in his new room with the North Pacific Ocean stretching out beyond his windows. Then, Tony guessed, the new life began.

Notes:

There's chappie 10!! This was supposed to end in a different place, but then I noticed it was getting about twice as long as a normal chapter, so we'll continue this in ch. 11 (U._.) It'll be a long one!

Chapter 11: Chapter Eleven

Summary:

It did make him sad, in a subdued way that didn’t take him out of the present, that he’d been deprived this for so long.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

The first day went very well.

Tony was unfortunately not there to see Peter’s face when he first woke up in his new room, but a later recount from J.A.R.V.I.S. would confirm that he was, in fact, elated. For good reason. Tony had paid mind to make the bedroom of every child’s family—within safety measures, of course.

Instead of the star-and-rocket patterned bed, the bed was a rocket, the foot raising up into a “control panel” filled with enough buttons and switches to make a N.A.S.A. scientist impressed. They didn’t do anything (for now) but Peter’s imagination could do wonders. The glow-in-the-dark stars had become little LED lights wired in the ceiling. One wall was essentially one giant whiteboard, underneath which was a cushion-topped set of cubbies for all of Peter’s toys. The whiteboard had a bucket of markers of probably every color of the spectrum and then some. All of Peter’s books and all the ones he needed were now in a “shelf”—except that it was shaped like a star, each point was its own holding place with a sliding cover, and Peter could spin it around to get the books he wanted. There was a TV with a Wii on one end, bean bags on the floor, all his posters and pictures lining the walls like a gallery.

Was it a little much? Yes.

Did Tony feel any ounce of shame for it? Hell no, it was a great room.

Maybe Peter had spent some good time just exploring the new wonderland, or maybe he went straight for the door to figure out where he was. He came out all the same, though, and Tony spotted him quickly. Still dressed in his clothes from the night before, hair now an absolute nest. Seeing the cushions and stars of his room become sleek tiles and glassy surfaces seemed to unnerve him. His little hand started to trail on the wall to anchor himself.

“Wakey, wakey, something-and-pancakey.”

He hadn’t meant to scare him, but the boy jumped about a foot in the air. Then wonder returned to his face when he saw what Tony had set out for him. The pancakes he made himself (he wasn’t a five-star chef, but come on, he could do pancakes), but everything else—blueberries, strawberries, chocolate chips, whipped cream, syrup, so on—had been delivered right that morning. Tony nudged the three-stacked plate closer to Peter as a blank canvas.

“Go nuts.” That reminded him—Tony pushed over the glass container of crumbled peanuts.

Peter pushed himself up and onto the stool. He was almost drooling. “Really?”

“Really, truly. As you can see, I’m pretty boring over here.” Tony pointed down to his own stack, just blueberries and syrup. “So wow me.”

Wow him, Peter did. Like—wow.

After the bowl of chocolate chips was emptied and no more pancake-top could be seen under the whipped cream, it only then occurred to Tony to make the first introduction.

“Hey, I have someone I want you to meet.”

Peter was trying to figure out how exactly he was going to eat his new creation, so when he looked up at Tony, his fork had pretty much disappeared into the sugar. “Who?”

“J.A.R.V.I.S., introduce yourself.”

“Hello, Master Peter, sir.”

Peter went as still as a rock. He looked around the room just to confirm that yeah, no, there was no human being to see where that came from.

“Say hello,” Tony told him.

He did, quietly. “Hello…”

“I am J.A.R.V.I.S, the artificial intelligence system that controls and protects this house.”

“Oh…I’m Peter.”

“It’s very nice to meet you, sir.”

He had to look at Tony for confirmation. He was obviously trying to fight down a smile now, still confused but excited. This probably being the first time that someone called him sir, that word that only grown-ups got called, also helped. He turned in his seat a little bit, like he could face the AI.

“Are you a robot?”

“In a sense, yes. You can think of me as a robot without a body.”

“Like one of the things that we—like, at home, the box that let you talk to the people outside?”

“An intercom.”

“Yeah.”

“Yes, I am, but I don’t just let you talk to people. I control the lighting, the air conditioning, the electricity, and security. I know who is coming into the building and who is leaving it. I assist Master Tony with his projects and experiments. I can answer any question that can be researched within reasoning.”

Peter took this as a challenge. “Any question?”

“Within reasoning.”

“Why is the sky blue?”

“The sunlight that passes through the Earth’s atmosphere is scattered by gases and other particles, and blue light is scattered more due to its smaller waves.”

“How many stars are there in the sky?”

“As of now, there is no certain answer, though research puts the number between two billion and six-hundred billion.”

“What am I thinking right now?”

“That is not within reasoning.”

Peter deflated, but asking “Can you turn the lights off?” and the kitchen immediately being turned to darkness made up for it.

“J.A.R.V.I.S. keeps me and you safe,” Tony told him. “So if you ever feel like you’re in trouble, just talk and he’ll answer. Or, you know, if you just want to talk to him. Feel free.”

Peter was absolutely fascinated now, and turned back to his conversation (“Can you see me?” “I am aware that you are in the kitchen.”) while Tony went down to his pancakes. Given, that was just the basic introductory to J.A.R.V.I.S., but Peter would find out more and more with each passing day. He didn’t know that—technically—J.A.R.V.I.S. would always be keeping an “eye” on him. Not like a camera, Tony would allow him his privacy, but he’d already instructed J.A.R.V.I.S. to be alert for things like crying, screaming, or any form of bodily harm. He didn’t think that was too bad.

The boy and the AI talked much through breakfast, during which the lights came back on, the window shut close, and “Hakuna Matata” blasted over the speakers. Peter didn’t get too far into his pancakes—unsurprising, considering the brick wall of sugar—but that was fine. He’d probably crash hard later, but who cared?

The conversation was cut short by J.A.R.V.I.S. announcing that “Miss Potts is at the front door.”

“Let her in.” Tony pushed off from the counter and waved Peter forward. He’d instructed the AI to give him a heads up when she arrived. “C’mon, got someone else I want you to meet.”

Peter followed him to the living room, all the while looking up and down, left and right at every shining surface of the mansion. At five years old, he probably didn’t even care about leather couches or glass waterfalls, he just knew that they cost a lot of money and looked cool. If not, all the balloons and streamers still hanging up did the trick.

Pepper, in a charcoal blazer and pencil skirt, so professional so early in the morning, was carefully stepping her heels over the balloons on the floor. For no reason besides nitpicking, she readjusted the gift boxes stacked on the table. She was tweaking the bow of one, a little square wrapped in newspaper cartoons.

“This is Pepper Potts—” Make that Person #2 he nearly scared to death that morning. “—she’s my assistant and you’ll be seeing her a lot.”

Pepper gave him a flat look for the scare, but softened on Peter. She’d already gotten a good look at him last night as they were tucking him into bed, but seeing the big doe eyes open and looking up at her was something else. Tony guessed that she was thinking what he had: so small, jeez! Unable to decide whether to kneel down or not, she sort of awkwardly squatted while she smiled down at him. Peter came closer; not too close.

“Hello, Peter. It’s nice to meet you.”

“Hello.” He scratched the side of his nose, like he did that first time, and asked, “What’s a personal assistant?”

“Uh, well—I do a lot of Tony’s paperwork, and I answer some of his phone calls. I schedule his appointments and I let him know if anything is happening at Stark Industries.”

Peter nodded just once before looking up at Tony instead.

“Have you ever seen a movie where there’s an old guy in an office, and there’s always a lady with him writing stuff down and telling him stuff?” Peter nodded. “That’s what she does.”

Though irritated, Pepper just nodded along, then turned to the gifts behind her and picked up the newspaper-wrapped one. She checked it over for a second before she handed it over to Peter with a real, teeth-baring smile. “Here; got this for you.”

Peter took it quickly enough and tore off all the paper with little trouble. Under the Californian sunlight beaming through the windows, Charlie and the Chocolate Factory gleamed gold.

“I heard that one was your favorite.” As soon as she said it, Pepper’s face fell. Regret took over. “Which means you…probably already have it, huh? I’m sorry, I’ll get you another one.”

“It has all the pictures,” Peter exclaimed as he flipped through the pages. Tony wasn’t well-versed in Dahl, but he recognized the classic pinpoint eyes and sloppy lines on the images. He’d seen Peter’s copy before, and all the characters had been drawn in a neater, more rosy-cheeked way, not as childishly charming. “Thank you!”

Relief silently took over Pepper’s face.

The door swung open.

“Tony, they just announced a recall on that spin-art toy, the battery compartment can overheat and burn—do not let Peter open it, I don’t want him to get excit—hey, Peter.”

Just as quickly as he came into the room, Happy pulled himself up short, back to professional Harold Hogan. Pepper looked like she was trying to hold back a smile, while Peter looked at the man he soooort oooof(…?) knew with curiosity.

“You remember Happy, right?”

Peter scratched his nose again. “You were in our apartment that—the first time, right?”

“Uh—Yeah. I’m Harold.”

Tony scoffed. “Call him Happy.”

“You don’t have to—alright. It’s nice to meet you, Peter. Officially, I mean.”

Happy took one step forward, caught himself, and drew back. Peter was not an unobservant child, though, and held his arm out as an okay. The two shook hands with as much professionalism as a grown man and a five-year-old child could manage.

“Are you a personal assistant, too?”

“No, no. I’m Tony’s chauffeur—uh, that means I drive his car wherever he wants to go. And I’m his bodyguard.”

Peter’s eyes went wide. “Cool!”

Tony, though still just as grateful as he was annoyed about having a bodyguard even after all these years, sent Happy a wink while he took the torn newspaper from Peter to toss in the trash. “Very cool.”

“Have you beat anybody up before?!”

Peter answered “no” the same time that Happy answered “well” and Tony answered “oh yeah.” The three of them gave one another amused but displeased looks.

“I just keep Tony safe from bad guys,” Happy tried to explain. “I don’t just go around and beat people up. So, uh—I got you a present. Except, I just found out that it’s very dangerous, so I’m going to just—take it back. I’ll get you something else. Just—”

So very awkwardly did Happy pluck the jade-colored box from the table. Peter shook his head.

“It’s okay, I’ve got enough. Thanks, though.”

“Yeah, no problem, kid. Uh—Peter.”

“Real nice of you, Hap. Really is. Speaking of, check out all these other gifts! Second Christmas, sport, go wild.”

All the others were from Tony himself. So yeah, he was technically sneak-bragging, but whatever. This was step three of the “Make Peter Feel Better than Little Orphan Annie Going into Warbucks’ Mansion” plan and he wanted to keep the ball rolling. Even if that meant getting a little side-eye from Pepper and Happy when Peter started tearing paper like a ravenous wolf.

It was nice. Very nice. Homey. Just the three of them, watching the kid open his presents and ooh-and-ah. Thinking about it, this was probably what Christmas would have been like had Tony been with an actual family, which he hadn’t. While Peter had been celebrating with the Parkers and May, Tony had treated himself to his favorite Michelin-starred restaurant in town and spent the night in the workshop playing “Jingle Bell Rock” over the speakers.

While Peter was opening Gift Number 7, an Apollo 11 Lego set of more than a thousand pieces, Pepper caught his eyes and nodded to her right. Happy was left to nod along to Peter’s exclamations while she and Tony stepped off to the side for a second.

Though she gave the boy a fond look over her shoulder, Pepper’s voice dropped quietly as she spoke to Tony. “You’re not going to spoil him, are you?”

“Ah, come on. This is just his big welcome. I’m making up for lost time.”

“How much did it cost you just to get that bookshelf in his room?”

“Not a dime. Made it myself. Bet you didn’t think I could woodwork, too, did you?”

Pepper shook her head, still almost smiling. “He going to get everything he wants and more?”

“I’m going to stay away from the line between ‘providing’ and ‘spoiling’. It’s a thick line. It’s one thing to give him the things I can afford to give him, it’s another thing to make him think he’s entitled to those things. I’ll avoid planting bad seeds.”

“That’s very well-said. Almost like you…I don’t know, read it somewhere.”

Tony took a sharp glance at her. Definitely smiling now.

He sighed. “Happy told you, didn’t he?”

“You left it between the couch cushions one day.” Catching Tony’s somewhat pursed mouth, Pepper softened her teasing look and told him, “I think it’s really sweet. I can get you more, too, if you want.”

“I might call it quits after this one, actually. One chapter is devoted entirely to comparing raising a child to planting an apple tree and watching it grow. An entire chapter, dedicated to one simile. I…”

Pepper shook her head, too, and they returned to watching the present-opening. Happy took out a pocketknife so he could snap away some plastic twine around one of the boxes, then just about had a heart attack when Peter’s fingers suddenly came forward to help by holding the twine taut. Peter had to promise that Happy hadn’t actually sliced one of his fingers off.

The arrival of another person surprised Tony. Said arrival not being announced by J.A.R.V.I.S., meaning that they were in the okay-to-let-in database, also surprised him. Seeing who it actually was did explain that, but was the most surprising.

Obie had a calm smile on his face as he shut the door behind him with his heel. One of his hands was holding a cardboard tray of four coffee cups, the other holding a folded-up bundle of red cloth. He walked in like it was any other day, not even glancing around at the streamers and balloons even as his footsteps sent several fluttering up into the air.

“Morning, everyone. I know someone here likes theirs with five creamers, six sugars, and a bit of cinnamon, but I can’t remember who it is, so I’m just going to make you take the Walk of Shame forward.”

Even Happy gave Tony a look from where he was kneeling on the floor with Peter, who was watching Obie with the same recognizing curiosity he had before. Even though Obie had done a little more talking to the boy than Happy had—which was to say, he had talked to Peter—Peter seemed more wary in the older man’s presence. Understandable, maybe, since Obie was notorious for his severe face that was only softened by his smile.

Not wanting to address the elephant in the room outright, Tony turned to Pepper. “That you?” Pepper shook her head, and he hummed. “Definitely not me. Get your terrible coffee, Hap.”

Obie held the tray out so Happy could take the cup, and while he was bending over, turned his eyes to Peter.

“Hey, kiddo. Sorry I couldn’t make it to the party last night, but Pep said there was a do-over this morning, so here we go.” He held the red cloth out to him. “Not much, but I swear it’s comfortable.”

Peter took it from him with a quiet “Thank you.” Satisfied, Obie left them to go to Pepper and Tony. They both took their cups, too, but Tony couldn’t help but level Miss Potts a look.

“You give him a heads-up?”

“I just said you might be a little late today,” Pepper said. “I didn’t—”

“I’m a party crasher, Tony. Don’t take it out on her.” Obie tossed the empty cardboard into the trash. “You seem displeased. Why’s that?”

“Hm. See, you ask that, but this feels a lot like a peace treaty, so…”

“Yeah, I was being coy. Allow me to explain.”

He said this after taking a sip of his coffee and immediately grimacing, so he beelined for the kitchen without awaiting Tony’s answer. Now being pulled aside from being pulled aside, Tony just waved an ‘okay’ at Pepper and Happy before he followed. Peter was struggling to get a piece of tape unstuck from his finger.

Obie was already sprinkling sugar into his drink when Tony walked in. “Remember when I apologized for being an asshole about this whole thing, and then immediately returned to being an asshole about this whole thing.”

“I vaguely recall that, yes.”

“I’d like to extend Apology 2.0. I figure, since the kid’s going to be around a lot, I might as well get used to ‘im before I start making him feel bad. Poor little guy’s been through enough, I don’t want to add Big, Scary Obie in the mix.”

“Good. Fantastic. Just—before we get into another repetitive talk that derails into arguing, why don’t you just tell me point-blank what the deal was this time? I know I kind of slammed the door of my bedroom last time, but it’s been just about radio silence from you for weeks.”

“I’m not proud of it.” Obie took a gulp way too big not to burn. He leaned against the counter and turned his eyes on Tony, softer than he’d seen them for a while. “So, first, I thought you were just saying ‘nuh-uh!’ and then we’d meet back up for an awkward do-over. Then you stayed in Queens and starting making plans and I started thinking, ‘okay, so he’s taking in the kid just so he can prove a point.’ Then I saw how much effort was being put into this and I thought, ‘well, shit, he’s serious and I’m being an asshole.’ That was followed by about a week of me being sheepish before I decided to show up.”

“Can’t say I don’t appreciate the honesty…”

“Anyway, I hear you now. The kid’s staying, this is happening, we’re doing this. Fact of life, I have to deal with it.”

Tony pursed his lips. “So are you going to give me the don’t-screw-this-up talk, or what?”

“Do I need to?”

“That’s a loaded question.”

Obie shook his head and chuckled. Crossing the kitchen back over to Tony, he clapped a hand on his shoulder. “You know you’re going to be busy, right?”

“Oh, yeah. Tell me about it.”

“Yeah. So, I decided to—oh, boy. There a problem?”

Tony turned to where Obie was looking, and stopped. Where Peter once stood, there was now just a teetering lump of red cloth. Two long lengths were flapping about, and it took him more seconds than he’d admit to realize they were sleeves. Happy was fretting off to the side while Pepper was tugging it further and further down.

Finally, fluffy curls and brown eyes popped out. Peter spat hair from his face. The sweatshirt was so big on him his arms were all but swallowed up by the thing, and the hem brushed against his bare feet.

Obie grimaced. “That’s the smallest one they had…”

“Ah, geez—Do you want to take it off?” asked Pepper.

Peter shook his head, still dusting hair away from his eyes and mouth. “It’s okay. ‘S like a blanket.”

Pepper nodded. “Yeah, it looks really—” Peter turned around, and she saw the V-neck and drawstrings beneath his hair and Stark Industries written across the boy’s back in white letters. “—oh.”

Tony just waved at her to leave him be. Obie shook his head, amused.

“I was saying, since you’re good to be busy for the rest of forever, I’m going to throw you a bone today. Stay here, do whatever you want, spend some time with your boy. I’ll hold down the fort.”

Tony hummed, unsure. “People have got to be asking questions now.”

“Everyone buys that you’re just taking a vacation, trust me. You don’t mind if I borrow Pepper for the day, do you?”

“Not if she doesn’t. Thanks, Obes.” Tony clapped him on the shoulder, too, and went to rejoin the party. “’Preciate it.”


 

Again: the first day went very well.

Peter opened all his gifts and took each one with the same amount of wonder and gratitude. In his room, they all went strewn about the carpet, remote-controlled cars overturned on their sides and LEGOs creating a minefield. For today, Tony took care of cleaning up all the paper and balloons and whatnot.

May and Ben call a little after ten, and Peter talks back via J.A.R.V.I.S. Richard had explained that he was out like a light last night, so they weren’t so upset about not being called sooner. He didn’t mean to listen it, but Tony grinned as Peter gushed and gushed and gushed about his new toys and his new room and the view from his windows. He did the same for Richard when he called next. From what he heard, they all only sound mildly concerned, overall just pleased to hear his excitement.

It wasn’t exactly beach weather four days after Christmas, so the first thing they did after Happy drove them to Los Angeles (hello, ball cap and face mask) was the Griffith Observatory. Clearly, Peter’s love of all things space went further than just Star Wars, because his eyes were never not wide open. If he wasn’t smiling, he was gaping in awe. He didn’t just like looking at the star displays and planet models, either—he asked Tony to read the plaques of information and listened to the recorded voices over the speakers.

After that was Warner Bros. Studio, and there was no less wonder as they looked at Loony Tunes cells, movie costumes on display, almost-empty soundstages, and so on, so forth. Instead of a fancy, expensive restaurant, they grabbed a quick lunch at one of many, many Californian taco trucks. They ate in the car so Tony could take his mask off, but driving through the scenic LA streets while Peter stood up through the skylight made up for it.

It was a little too short notice to go to any of the big amusement parks of Universal Studios or Disneyland, but it was a remarkably fun day regardless. Real fun, Tony would recall with fondness later. True, there was no one around to snark at or with, and he did have to mind what he said, but that was okay. Peter was funny enough on his own—May wasn’t lying about him liking to make people laugh. He did it so often, he just said things to crack a grin out of Tony.

It did make him sad, in a subdued way that didn’t take him out of the present, that he’d been deprived this for so long. Honestly, he didn’t know whether he was upset with Mary not telling him about their son sooner. Some part of him felt wronged, because like she herself had said, he had a right to know that. It wouldn’t have been an easy thing to do, though. Tony didn’t even know how he would have reacted to the news.

In any case, it wasn’t just the morality of keeping the secret from him. Yeah, his wanting to have a real relationship with Peter hadn’t been an instant decision. Now that he’d made it, though, he felt some envy for Richard and Mary and Ben—envy that he was aware was childish, so he kept it to himself. Peter was sweet and friendly, he wanted to be with Tony and know him, but he just didn’t trust him, and that made perfect sense. They weren’t yet close enough for Peter to just ask him for things, even little things like “can we do this?” or “can we do that?” Tony had to feed him ideas, and when Peter agreed, it was up to him to see that he was just going along with it and didn’t really want to.

They’d have to work on that, he guessed. He was still planning how his busy schedule could work now. He obviously couldn’t ask Pepper or Happy to babysit because that wasn’t their jobs, and he couldn’t ask Obie to do it, no explanation needed. He’d have to split time with Richard, and if not, pay for a babysitter at Richard’s house, because he really didn’t want to let anyone else know the secret. It was called a secret for a reason.

Who knew, maybe he’d be able to install a babysitting program into J.A.R.V.I.S. one day.

They were both tuckered out a little before five, and resigned to ordering takeout once they got home. Peter could only play with his new collection of gadgets and toys for a few minutes before popping in The Great Mouse Detective. Tony knew the need for alone time when he saw it, and told him that if he needed anything, all he needed to do was talk to J.A.R.V.I.S.

Peter only did so once to ask if he should go to bed—it was eight twenty-two, not even ten minutes past the time he’d gotten from Ben—and Tony gave him the go-ahead, goodnight. Peter got in his pajamas, brushed his teeth, and tucked himself in. J.A.R.V.I.S. confirmed as much.

Sitting down in his workshop, giving DUM-E a fond pat on the head, Tony mentally gave himself a thumbs-up. He’d thought Day One would be a disaster, but it was pretty great, if he did say so himself. All he had to do was keep up the good work.


 

Just one last time: the first day went very well.

The first night did not.

It was maybe a half-hour since Peter had said goodnight when J.A.R.V.I.S.’s voice cut AC/DC’s music off short.

“Sir, you’ve instructed me to inform you if Master Peter is hurt or distressed.”

Tony had been bent over his work desk at the time, but stood up pin-straight in less than a second. He yanked the pin he was holding between his teeth out. “What’s wrong?”

“He’s not physically harmed, but he is crying at the moment.”

Shit, Tony thought as he scrambled up to his feet. Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit…

He ran out of the workshop, up the stairs, through the living room, all the way to Peter’s bedroom door before he pulled himself short. Not to doubt J.A.R.V.I.S.’s report, but he leaned forward just enough to let his ear hover close to the door.

The AI had been right; the sounds coming from within the room were not the loud, bawling cries of a skinned knee or bruised elbow. No, they were the sounds of pure sadness, quiet sniffles and hiccups of air. His face was no doubt flushed and streaked with tears, but Tony couldn’t even make himself picture it.

Tony stood outside the door so long his shoes threatened to root themselves in the carpet. He couldn’t make himself open the door, even when his mind was yelling at him to do it.

He just—

This was going to be his life now, he was taking care of his son, who was five, and five-year-olds weren’t always going to be sunshine and giggles. Especially not a five-year-old who’d just recently lost his mother, and his friends, and his home…He knew that. He knew that he knew that, he’d had so long to prepare.

But the idea of going in just froze him. He had no idea what to say. He had no idea how close was close enough, or too much. His presence alone might make Peter feel worse, not better. While he stood there, unmoving, he swore he could feel the eyes of May and Ben and Richard and Mary watching him, urging him on. Telling him that he should just get in there and be a father.

It definitely would have helped to call May or one of the Parker brothers, but at the same time, how alarming would that have been for them? Even if they’d all agreed to this, none of them were at least a little unsure, and a nighttime phone call telling them that Peter was crying his eyes out, could the please help, wouldn’t help at all.

The best thing to do was go in there and comfort his son, because just trying was better than nothing at all.

But Tony didn’t do the best thing. Tony was unprepared, and scared, and—for once—stupid.

That was why Pepper showed up not long after.

It was very strange, seeing her outside of blazers and heels and whatnot. In simple jeans and a button-up, she already looked like a completely different person. Not that Tony was able to look for long, though. The second the door opened, she leveled him with a look of such crushing disappointment that he couldn’t bring himself to take one step closer to her.

“You said he’s not hurt?” She was already setting her keys on the table, not stopping to face him.

“Health-wise, he’s fine.”

Pepper didn’t wait for any more explanation, or any debriefing before she opened the door, ducked inside, and shut it again. Effectively separating her and Peter from Tony.

He waited. Went to the sink to clean the oil from his hands. Waited some more. Spent some time looking out over the moonlit ocean, feeling sad for himself. Waited even longer.

The next time the door opened, Pepper was alone. There were no more sniffles or cries, but as she stopped just long enough to say “goodnight”, a reply of “’night” came out as barely more than a whisper. Pepper shut the door softly.

She picked up her keys and moved for the door. Tony realized she wasn’t even planning on giving him an explanation, which given, maybe he didn’t deserve one. This was not something that was in her job description; this was not something you asked of anyone, ever, really.

Tony still asked, though. “Find out what’s wrong?”

Pepper stopped while her hand was on the door handle. There was another withering look from her. Disappointed. Not surprised.

“He misses his mom, Tony,” she told him. “He just really misses his mom.”

That was the first night of the new life. Pretty damn bad, if Tony said so himself.

Notes:

So this is another "was supposed to be something else but turned out longer than I thought it would chapter" (U._.) The next chapter will be the one covering the time lapse, I promise, haha. Thank you all so much for the support!

Also, if you work at Marvel Studios, Disney, or Sony, and you are reading this now:

PLEASE LET MY SON STAY IN THE MCU I CAN'T LOSE HIM AGAIN.

Chapter 12: Chapter Twelve

Summary:

They don’t seem to drift apart at all, but it couldn’t be denied that they didn’t see each other nearly so often anymore.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

The first month was not the worst, nor the best, it was just the most difficult one.

The first night was sadly not the only time that Peter cried; also sadly not the only time where Pepper had to swoop in like a heavenly savior. One time being unable to comfort his grieving son was unacceptable, every time after just made Tony want to punch himself in the teeth. No matter how long he spent beating himself up after, though, he never managed to do any better the next time.

Peter returned to Queens for New Year’s Day, just a few days after he came to the mansion for the first time. Tony did not return with him, but Peter did seem a little more chipper when he returned. Plus, he called May and the Parkers at least once a day, but usually twice. Tony hardly ever did, but he was infinitely grateful for them. Though Peter was not horribly homesick, having his pseudo-family there at any moment was undoubtedly doing wonders for them. They never ran out of things to talk about.

Peter spent his first night with Richard when he returned, and seemed to fit in just fine. Tony would later give a (very rare) visit to Richard’s house—no longer an apartment, in a lovely neighborhood in LA, but at the end of a wooded driveway for some privacy. Peter’s room was a nice one, almost identical to the one he had back in Queens. Richard’s friends from work sent Peter a remote-controlled toy dog in greeting. The dropoff and pickup from one house to another was a tedious process left up to Happy, but there was never any terseness. This was their agreement, plain and simple.

Peter began his attendance at his new school, and in the first week managed to wrangle a new play pal by the name of Seth. He had no problem telling Tony what he learned that day or showing him the crafts he’d made. Tony oohed and ah’ed over them as if the cotton balls and popsicle sticks were creations that could rival his own.

Tony, of course, had to return to work. That was already a challenge in and of itself, but throw in a new child, and he had a schedule to figure out. Thankfully, he managed to get home around three most days, right when Peter would return home. He just had to slow down on the drinking and partying so he could spend time with Peter; no big deal, no problem. Who cared?

Really, the hardest part was him getting used to Peter, and Peter getting used to him. It wasn’t unlike that first day for a good while: they could laugh and have fun and smile, but anything even an inch deeper than that was off the table. Peter hardly ever asked to do anything from the norm. If he talked about anything that happened more than a month ago, his voice would  become small and hesitant. Tony had to get used to keeping up with Peter’s games of pretend and what did and didn’t work for the five-year-old.

That was all understandable, though. Not the frozen inability to talk about the elephant in the room, but everything else. On the bright side, Peter didn’t seem to dislike anything about his new home. He talked to J.A.R.V.I.S. about things like movies and science, sometimes asking the AI about his favorite color or movie—and, once, his favorite food, before he remembered that that question couldn’t be answered. Pepper being the one to comfort him in those dark moments had warmed him up to her exponentially. He greeted her with enough enthusiasm to make her smile every time. Happy and Obie he never really minded, though he never went out of his way to talk to them.

The only thing Tony hadn’t really crossed off the checklist was introducing his son to Rhodey. He hadn’t seen his best friend for over two months now, and it wasn’t a piece of information to be shared over a brief phone call, so he never really had the chance. He just had to keep his eyes and ears open for when he was going to fly in next.

He did. He checked in with Pepper at least once a day, he had J.A.R.V.I.S. do checks, so on, so forth, he wanted to be ready.

Tony was not ready.

He walked in to the house one day to hear chatter in Peter’s room, opened the door to find him and Rhodey playing a video game on the floor, and he was not ready.

There were worse sights to be greeted with, he supposed. Rhodey, rarely out of uniform, now sat cross-legged in simple jeans and a T-shirt on the carpeted floor. Peter sat next to him with his tongue poking out between his lips and his feet barefoot. Both had controllers in their hands and both were mashing buttons and turning sticks with great intensity. Every time one of the little karts on the television screen turned a corner, they tilted their bodies into it. They weren’t talking. It was all about the game. Just Mario and Yoshi.

Tony had been standing there for, what, thirty seconds? Then Peter’s half of the screen flashed 1st, Rhodey’s 4th, and a whoop and a groan sounded off at the same time.

Rhodey noticed him first. He just put his controller down and greeted him, very casually, “Hey, Tony. Could you ground this guy for me? I’ve been eating his dust for the past hour.”

Peter protested. “I didn’t cheat!”

“I didn’t say you did, little man, you’re just too good.” Rhodey jabbed a thumb over his shoulder at the child. “I’m not being sarcastic, man, he’s insane. I’m legitimately hurt over here.”

Peter was grinning, of course, and with a lot of pride. He clicked out of the match and back to the menu, already flicking through the different courses. “Want to do Rainbow Road now?”

“I’m not subjecting myself to that evil. Actually, could you do me a favor? I think I left my wallet in the kitchen. Could you go get it for me?”

“Okay!” Peter shot up to his feet and barely gave Tony any time to sidestep out of his way. He did turn his head over his shoulder to call back, “Hi, Tony!” That was what he was upgraded to, now. It took a month, but he’d finally dropped the ‘Mister’. That was nice.

The second Peter was gone and out of earshot, Rhodey turned to Tony.

“What the hell.

“Yeah.” Tony held up his hands. “Yeah, I know.”

“That’s a kid.”

“Mm-hm.”

“That’s your kid.”

“Yep.”

“When did this happen?!”

“About five years ago.”

“No, when did THIS happen?”

“About a month ago.”

“I can’t believe this.” Rhodey dragged his fingers down his face, pulling his cheeks down. “I’m somehow not surprised at all, but I can’t believe this.”

“I wanted to tell you in person. I did, really. I swear it.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I can get that. This is a big deal. Just, uh…This used to be the guest bedroom, and now there are Lego boxes and robot drawings everywhere and I just need to know where the segue happened. I know why the kid’s here, but why is he here?”

Tony explained it to him as short as he could—the Parkers and May, the letters Mary had left, the whole process of deciding that Peter should come live with him and how it was all working out. Rhodey nodded along, still shocked but listening well. He didn’t seem bothered by Tony having a kid so much as he was the very big change of housing said kid in such a short amount of time. Unlike Obie and Pepper and whoever else, he didn’t have nearly so many questions after.

Peter returned empty-handed. “I didn’t see it in there.”

“Hm. Can you check the bathroom?”

He was already running off again. “Okay!”

Rhodey turned back to Tony, face flat. “How’s this working?”

“It’s working.” Tony gave him a dry thumbs-up. “It’s definitely working.”

“Who all knows?”

“Eugh…Me, you, Pepper, Happy, Obie, the Parkers, May, about four lawyers, and my jet pilot.”

“Your jet pilot?”

“I don’t know if he knows, but he flew us over here from Queens, so I think he’s put two and two together now.”

Peter returned once more, legitimately frustrated that his missions were failing. “I didn’t see it in there, either.”

“You know what? It’s right here in my pocket. I forgot.” Rhodey leaned forward to the compartment beneath the TV and pulled out a third controller. He’d already plugged it in before anyone could say anything else. “C’mon, Tones. We’re playing Rainbow Road.”

Peter whooped in victory and took his seat back down on the floor. Tony—now ensnared in the most cowardly of ways to get someone to do something, the old the child will be upset guilt trip—tucked his sunglasses into his breast pocket and joined them. Just a CEO, his son, and a colonel playing Mario Kart. Nothing out of the usual.

“You having fun here, Peter?” Rhodey asked.

Peter was leading them through the menu to add another player in. His tiny hands had no trouble working the controller. “Mm-hm!”

Tony moved his stick to pick Yoshi as his character. Rhodey intercepted him, the bastard. Didn’t even glance his way while he did the Three Clicks of Shame over to Donkey Kong.

“Your dad’s pretty busy,” the colonel went on, “how much do you guys hang out?”

It was infuriating how Tony just had to sit there and not say anything about it. The Rainbow Stripes of Hell appearing on the screen at least gave them a reason not to look at one another, but if he could, Tony would have been glaring him into a six-foot grave.

Peter was none the wiser. “Uhhhh…When I come over. I stay with Richard sometimes, but I stay here a lot, too.”

“What about your friends? Outside of school, I mean.”

Peter shook his head. Rhodey hadn’t been kidding: Tony was genuinely trying at this game, but Peter-as-Mario was well ahead in first place and was somehow dodging the out-of-nowhere chomping ball-whatevers with ease. “Not really.”

Tony brushed his elbow against his. “I thought you were going to talk to Rich about Tee Ball?”

Peter sighed a little, quiet breath. And promptly hit Tony with a green shell while he was already dead in the water. “We play baseball at recess, I’m not—good at it.”

“So you like baseball,” Rhodey concluded.

“Mm-hm!”

“You ever watch the LA Angels play?”

Peter shook his head. “Nuh-uh, just the Mets.”

“Tony!” Just the way he said it, dripping with the fakest spontaneity he’d ever heard, let Tony know the first blow was coming in fast. Peter, the sweet innocent child, turned his head just so. So curious. So oblivious. “You know what you should do?”

Tony didn’t even grace him with a dry guess. He just waited in knowing silence.

“You should send Peter and his friends to a ballgame. First of the season, front row seats. He’d love it.”

Peter was mature enough to keep his excitement contained, but young enough that he looked up at Tony—glancing back to the screen, but he’d pretty much already won anyway—with so much hope that it really, physically hurt just to meet his gaze. “Can we?”

The kid probably hadn’t brushed his hair that morning. Locks were sticking up at odd angles, like cowlicks. Tony brushed one down and told him, “Sure, we’ll figure something else.”

Peter went back to the game, but just looking by his upright back and open eyes, was already imagining what the Angel Stadium would look, smell, and sound like.

Rhodey, meanwhile, discreetly leaned over to Tony’s ear and whispered, “I’m going to ruin your life with this kid.”

Tony answered, “I’m going to ruin your life, period.”


 

The next two months are much better.

Finally, they have reached a routine. It was really like moving into a new house, Tony supposed. It took a while to get used to, but they slotted in eventually. Most of the time, Peter would go to school, and if he wasn’t going to Richard’s for the night, he’d make it back to the mansion a little bit before Tony returned from work. There were exceptions, of course, as Stark Industries sometimes pulled some surprises on him, and hey, maybe, admittedly, Tony liked to spend one or two nights on his own every now and then.

He was careful about what he did now that he was a Responsible Father. He didn’t stop drinking, but he stopped drinking outside of his workshop, kept the cabinet and bar under lock and key. The workshop he’d kept off-limits just because the idea of Peter around all the heavy equipment made him nervous, but he always let J.A.R.V.I.S. unlock the door if it was an emergency. He had to mind his language, of course. The first time he left a party with a woman in company—he was a little ashamed to admit he’d never actually gotten her name—they went back to her place instead of his. On the off-chance that Peter saw some left-behind underwear or an unknown woman walking around their home, that was a conversation he didn’t want to have.

He saw Richard often enough, talked to him often enough. They weren’t friends, per se, but they did have a very important job together and they had to stay connected. They never got into any spats about where Peter would stay and when; Peter never got upset when he had to leave one house or another.

May and Ben he hadn’t seen since they’d departed that last time, but they sometimes had phone calls where Ben was more than pleasant and May tried very hard not to sound like an interrogator. When Richard and Peter took visits up to Queens, they did it on the jet, just the two of them. Peter kept calling them at least once a day and updated him on how their lives had changed since he saw them last.

(Valentine’s Day was when Ben finally popped the question. Tony sent them a sincere congratulations and they replied with sincere gratitude. Peter thought they were already married and was very confused.)

Rhodey, as busy as ever, did not see Peter too often. That didn’t stop him from becoming the honorary “Cool Uncle”, though. He always brought gifts when he returned—nothing too big, but still supreme to a five-year-old, like service caps and detailed models of military aircrafts. On his second visit—his second visit!—he scooped Peter up by his underarms and carried him on his hip like it was the most natural thing in the world. And Peter let him because, uh, hello? Colonel in full uniform carrying him around? Yes, please.

Tony couldn’t even be envious; he got it. It was somehow easier to get along with a friendly and unknown stranger than a stranger that also just so happened to be your father. It was the same thing for Pepper—albeit her comforting him in those dark moments definitely still had her in good standing in the kid’s eyes.

There was a light in Peter’s eyes when he saw Pepper, and a softness in hers in turn. They saw each other on a near-daily basis. Sometimes he gave her pictures and she clipped them underneath her very important documents on her board. Other times she’d bring him these very specific grape lollipops that a nearby 7/11 sold. They did have some boundaries, though. Pepper was hesitant to touch him at all, and she couldn’t always keep up with his energy or endless time. She turned down his offers of Mario Kart and sometimes had to excuse herself from his excited rambles to answer a phone call. She liked him and he liked her, that was true enough.

Tony had also finally decided that yes, he loved Peter.

There wasn’t any particular moment where he realized it, it wasn’t like one more hug from the kid had officially upgraded him into “love” territory. It was really just over breakfast one morning, watching Peter meticulously pick up the Cheerios that had fallen from his spoon, when he thought I love this kid.

(Rhodey also told him point-blank when they were out to dinner one night. Richard had sent him a confirmation message that Peter was tucked away and sleeping, and watching Tony tuck his phone away, Rhodey had chuckled, “You love him.” Tony didn’t deny it.)

Parental love was…new. It was familiar, but unique in its own way. He took joy in seeing Peter happy, and took joy in making him happy. He noticed his little quirks and habits—like whispering aloud when he read, or how carefully he used yellow markers so the felt tips wouldn’t stain—as well as his flaws and shortcomings—like how he always wanted five more minutes at bedtime, or refused to drink orange juice if it had even a hint of pulp in it.

You’ve Got This said that those were things you were supposed to work on, but for now, Tony took them as the things that let Peter be Peter. His situation was a very unique one. Also, You’ve Got This had earned a lot of criticisms from him, starting from that children-are-trees chapter.

He and Peter were now acquainted enough to make living together a breeze. Peter knew to keep his Legos toys in his room, for example, and Tony knew not to use the blender when Peter was in the kitchen because he hated the sound it made. More than that, though, they were just casual with each other. They weren’t walking on eggshells anymore, and though it wasn’t as if they’d known each other for Peter’s whole life, it was amazingly peaceful between them.

Not that there weren’t some hurdles.

Like Mary’s birthday, for example.

Peter had come into the kitchen with uncharacteristic sluggishness. Instead of bouncing up into his seat at the island, he just took his seat and took his grilled cheese sandwich with a murmured “thanks”. He wasn’t talkative, either, but he shook his head when Tony asked if he was feeling bad. J.A.R.V.I.S. scanned him when he was out of the room and confirmed that he was healthy.

It took going to his room, getting his backpack packed and zipped, and sitting down on the bed while they waited for Happy to come for Peter to finally spill.

“Really?” Tony hummed, unsure of what else to say. “I didn’t know that.”

Peter shrugged one shoulder. “I got really mad when I forgot last time, so she said ‘Mary-born-in-February, date-of-birth-the-twenty-first.’”

Damn. That was good. “She would be thirty-two today, right?”

“I think so.” Peter paused. “Last time we went to a Chinese rest-‘raunt. She got this—it was like chicken soup, but it wasn’t chicken—there were these things like—like pizza pockets, but they had like—meat in them…”

J.A.R.V.I.S.’ voice slipped in. “Mister Hogan has arrived, sirs.”

Peter hopped up and grabbed his backpack, but Tony was worried. That first birthday after Maria had been killed, he hadn’t wanted to do anything. He just wanted to stay home and stare at the TV without watching it. But he had to be out and about, had to take care of business, all culminated in a fancy dinner held in her memory. He thanked absolute strangers for their condolences and ate food and wore a suit and he hated every second of it.

Maybe that would make it easier for Peter, though, being around his school friends. Even just sitting in class and having something to do.

“Maybe we’ll do something later,” Tony had told him, and then Peter was running out to meet Happy at last.

They did, eventually. Tony brainstormed the whole time he was at work that day, and very nearly zoned out in the middle of a meeting just planning. Obie—who never spoke to Peter very much at all but was friendly enough when he did—had to give him a rattle of the shoulders to snap him out of it.

It wasn’t much, in the end. But when Peter returned home at the end of the day, his eyes lit up at the sight of the bowl on the kitchen island.

“It’s called wonton soup,” Tony explained as Peter scrambled up into his seat so quickly his foot slid off the rung and Tony just about dove forward to keep him from falling. But he was alright, and picked up his spoon at once. Tony just kind of regretted not taking it out of the Styrofoam bowl first. “For future reference.”

“Won-ton,” Peter tested.

“Mm-hm. Eat up, sport.” Tony picked up his takeout box and stabbed a chopstick through a piece of pork. “Richard’ll be here soon.”

Peter slurped up a spoonful of broth. “Why’s Richard coming?”

“So you guys can hang out. Do whatever you want. Go to the movies. Rob a bank.” Though Peter nodded, he was still very confused, and Tony went on. “Richard probably wants to do something today, too, and I think you’d both be a lot happier if you went together.”

There was a restrained kind of sadness in Peter’s eyes, like he was happy to be with a familiar face on such a dark day, but also reminded of just why this was a dark day.

“Don’t you want to come with us?” he asked.

Tony wasn’t a mind-reader, contrary to popular belief, so he didn’t know just what that question meant. Maybe Peter was offering because being left out was a universally hurtful thing and he was just a polite kid, or maybe he really, truly wanted Tony to come along with him on this day. Or maybe he didn’t want Tony to come at all and he just knew it was the nice thing to offer.

“I also think,” he said, “that on days like these, it’s nice to have people you really, really know around. I like to be with Rhodey and Obie because I’ve known them a long time, so I think you’d like to be with Richard. What do you think?”

Peter nodded, but Tony still wasn’t totally convinced. So, leaning down just so, he asked very simply, “Do you want me to come with you guys?”

Peter had to think about it, which he guessed was better than a scared, immediate ‘yes’. Or maybe a yes was supposed to be ideal. And maybe when Peter confirmed “I want to go with Richard” and went back to his soup, he still didn’t mean it. But that was that, because Tony couldn’t grab him by the shoulders and shake an honest answer out of him. They ate their food and talked about how Freddie Maxwell was totally cheating at kickball at recess until Richard came at last.

He looked a lot better, about as awake as a physical therapist in full-time training could look. He gave his sort-of son a hug around the shoulders when he came in. Tony sometimes couldn’t even tell that one of his legs was a prosthetic.

He said “Hey, Tony,” and Tony said “Hey, Rich” and other than vague talk about the hospital and SI, that was it. Watching Peter pull on his shoes and run a brush through his hair to get ready for whatever they decided to do, Tony thought about maybe joining them after all. Or rather, he thought about if he should have wanted to join them after all. When had he stopped understanding his own brain?

Tony ended up staying home and still unsure of just what he wanted. But Peter squeezed him around the shoulders and told him “See ya, bye, love ya,” before he left, so…Not a horrible day.


 

The next three months were the best.

Peter was perfectly at home in Malibu, at the mansion, and at Summerset Kindergarten. He looked forward to visiting Queens just as much as he looked forward to returning home. Tony got into the habit of swinging by his bedroom to say goodnight and waking him up in the morning when he could. Tony was the first person he bragged about his drawings and crafts to, followed by Richard, then Pepper, then Happy.

May and Ben wanted the exact opposite of a big wedding, so within two months after “yes, I’ll marry you” came “yes, I do”. Richard and Peter flew out to Queens to join them, and Tony went on what was a business trip with several board members but was really just an excuse for them all to go to the Bahamas. Richard sent him a picture of Ben holding Peter on his arm, both of them in blazer-less tuxedos, with May walking towards them in a white summer dress. Tony responded with a picture of the sun setting on the ocean horizon, hoping that was even enough.

May and Ben flew over once or twice for visits. They always ate dinner together and made a point to keep their talks about how Peter was doing purely nice and not passive-aggressive at all. Tony actually liked May a lot now. Not just how adamantly she defended Peter, but everything else she cared about. Ben was also just—a ridiculously good guy sometimes. He cleaned the kitchen for no reason than just “wanting to”.

They had private movie screenings at home, they go on incognito trips to the museum and the beach, and they sometimes spent hours on Lego sets (the Apollo one was finished quickly and put on display on the shelf). Peter one day hit the bed corner pretty hard with his foot, and having to reassure him that he’s fine while he sniffles and cries just about broke Tony’s heart in half.

It wasn’t all sunshine and rainbows, though. Peter was a good kid, but he was a kid. He had the capacity to whine and be sassy and push limits. No, Tony didn’t love those moments, but he loved Peter, so he just had to pinch the bridge of his nose and work through it. Disciplining—which was for some reason the shortest chapter of You’ve Got This, what the hell?—was not so hard as he thought it would be. He only thought as much because, well, he never imagined having to be in a discipline-your-kid position. It was a learning process, not perfect, sometimes maybe a bit much. He thought he was doing alright. For an unprepared parent. Again, Peter was a good kid.

Said good kid had finally gotten around to calling him ‘Dad’ at some point or another. Whenever it was, it wasn’t like some great, momentous occasion imprinted into Tony’s memory. More like “Morning, Dad” or “See you later, Dad”. Just like how Tony had fallen into the habit of calling him “Pete”. It was good. It was great. It felt very natural.

Similarly, Tony didn’t know when Peter, or even himself, had dropped the first “I love you”. If he thought about it, he’d say that it was probably after Tony was shutting his bedroom door one night. He’d said “Night, Pete. Love you,” and Peter’s soft and drowsy voice had answered, “Love you, too.”

After that, it was just an everyday interaction. Eat breakfast together, pass the TV remote, ruffle the kid’s hair, give Tony a hug around the leg, say “I love you”. Tony didn’t really think that much of it, but seeing Pepper’s lips quirk up just so when she overhears them one day, he thought that maybe he should. He didn’t know—should he quietly accept it as routine, or should he be celebrating it as a milestone?

Either way, Dad, Pete, and “I love you” slot into life without problem. They’d reached a state of serenity now. Yeah, Tony still had to work long nights and take sudden business trips, and Peter still had to spend so long with Richard a week to keep up the ruse, but even though they didn’t have a fixed schedule, nothing was wrong. Every now and then there were things to celebrate.

Like birthdays, for instance. Pepper’s had come just nine days before Mary’s, and whether it was on that day or before or after, Tony hadn’t been in the best place at the exact moment. He was work-stressed and going minute-to-minute, so he just deposited her a quick $750. Peter, though, he painted over an animal cracker box and gave it to her “since she said she was losing her jewelry”. Maybe she used it, and maybe she didn’t, but the warmth in her eyes told Tony that she loved Peter dearly.

Tony’s came in May, and it wasn’t too much different from the usual. Peter was not at all bothered to hear the plan: that Tony would be having an adults-only party at his house, with all of his “friends” from work and wherever else. Obie and Rhodey would be there, too. Peter likened it to having birthday parties at school, where your family wasn’t there and not all of your classmates were your friends, but it was fun anyway. Clever kid. Even if he wasn’t aware of why it was an “adults-only” party.

The day before Tony gave him a hug and a shared “love ya” before Peter went over to Richard’s. He was neither happy nor sad to see him go. Peter wasn’t going to be there every day of his life, and that was fine for both of them. Peter kept asking him what he wanted as a present, but considering he was, you know, five, Tony told him to just draw the coolest picture he’d ever drawn and they’d leave it at that.

He’s presented with that, except it’s on a square of cloth instead of paper.

“So you can wear it in your suit,” Peter explained.

The pocket square is covered in what might have originally been a tie-dye pattern, with ink spreading from the center in squiggly circles, but it seemed Peter got frustrated with that pretty soon and decided to just do the rest in haphazard crosshatch. There are places where the yellow and purple have become brown and plenty of unchecked white spots.

“It’s perfect,” Tony told him, and meant it. Though he’d come up with the lie that a “young fan” had sent it to him, he wore it to the next meeting.

(Before he could say that lie, though, one of the members actually asked him where he got it from. Tony had to choke himself to stop from laughing then and there.)


 

The three months after that are…worse. Not terrible, just worse.

When summer was coming, Tony had thought it’d be a good thing. That meant going on a yacht and trips to the beach and lounging on the sand. It also meant summer vacation for school, though. So between Stark Industries and Richard’s work, that meant it was officially time for a babysitter. Or babysitters, rather. They were infrequent, men and women, boys and girls, the youngest sixteen and the oldest twenty-five. They were short and tall, fat and thin, every color of the rainbow. Peter liked them (except Sally, who he just said was ‘rude’) and they liked Peter.

But they weren’t Richard or Tony, or even Pepper or Rhodey, and having the new faces walk in and out every day just seemed to remind Peter of how different Malibu was from Queens. Sometimes his school friends, or rather their parents, would have Peter over for playdates, but that wasn’t much. It would have been nice to get him into a sport or a club or something, but that meant making their complicated schedule even more complicated.

The first time Peter asked to go visit May and Ben, it made Tony sad. He knew Peter didn’t mean it as an insult or anything—“I’m unhappy, take me home!”—but it did sort of feel like that. Neither Richard nor Tony could join him, not that Ben and May couldn’t handle it. Peter was happy when he came home. Refreshed.

There are…other problems, though, not just Peter’s homesickness and the scheduling. Tony had problems—caused them.

Old habits die hard. That was a stone fact. Tony hadn’t gone sober in the past six months—HA!—but he’d definitely gone lighter on things. His bar visits had slowed to maybe twice a month, everything else being occasional glasses at home. He’d had a grand total of four parties, and that was including his birthday. Anything outside of that were on business trips and business dinners.

Tony didn’t fall back into the habits so much as he’d willingly walked back to them. Sometimes he could have Peter home so they could spend time together, but he wanted to spend the night sipping Daiquiris with the first female companion he could find. He hired a babysitter or two when he could have just cancelled a late-night workshop session. Between taking Peter to Hollywood Studios and taking an excursion on his yacht, he’d chosen the yacht. He’d really regretted that one.

He didn’t think that was horrible, though. He didn’t even need to read You’ve Got This (which he’d officially chucked in the trash when he got to the shit-you-not threequel to the “children are trees” chapter) to know that there was nothing wrong with taking “me time” as a parent. That wasn’t even limited to written guides, either, that was just a common understanding. Every second of the day, there were dozens of babysitters watching over little Billy and Sarah while Mommy and Daddy went out for dinner.

He had to admit, though, that it felt a little different for him. Tony spent a lot of time at work, sure, but was it possible he was being disproportionate to his work-to-relaxation time? There wasn’t a formula to go by. Especially considering how he’d missed the first five years to figure it out.

They don’t seem to drift apart at all, but it couldn’t be denied that they didn’t see each other nearly so often anymore. The days where Tony returned home to an empty house had returned with discomfiting frequency. Tony was searching for a way to push himself to make it work without driving far and beyond his stress limit.

In the several months now that Peter had been living with him, they’d had plenty celebrations together. They spent the Fourth of July at Disneyland and he’d put time aside for a week-long summer vacation to Rio de Janeiro, which was a pleasant time of sunshine and samba music even in spite of his disguise. Peter took immense joy in the lush jungles and colorful streets; but still, Tony had been planning his birthday, the big s-i-x, for a long time coming.

He’d given speeches to hundreds of people, he’d stayed up three days straight to get projects done by deadlines, he’d been playing part in the Iraq War for more than four years now, and Tony was still horribly nervous the whole day.

Like—this was his son’s birthday, the first one he’d ever been able to share with him. He had so many bars to raise. It had to be perfect.

When Peter wiped sleep from his eyes over their English-style breakfast buffet, Tony thought, Oh, no, what if he’s too tired to keep going the whole day and we have to cut it off short?

When he saw the size of the line for the Bionicle Blaster at Legoland, Tony thought, Oh, no, should I slip a hundred to the operator so we don’t spend too much time out of the day waiting?

When they were in the limo on the way to the Grove for the shopping spree of a lifetime, Tony thought, Oh, no, what if we pass by a building right when the plane flies by and he doesn’t see it?

(Peter did see the distant banner of Happy Birthday, Peter! being dragged across the sky. He proceeded to lose his mind.)

Tony fretted and fussed much more than he’d like to admit, but he forced himself to smile and laugh and go along with everything. He’d never before felt such a consuming need to make someone happy. All of Howard’s expectations that he’d tried to meet were stupid and painful and worthless, and he knew that even as he tried so very hard for his father’s approval. Peter, though, Tony just needs him to know that he’s loved. Peter needed to know that Tony wanted him around now and forever.

The day was culminated in a little mini-party back at the mansion. Pepper, Happy, and Richard are all there and waiting, but so are May and Ben, shifting between gawking at the wonders of the place and none too subtly flashing their rings with pride.

Obie was there, too, which really surprised both of them. Even if he’d accepted Peter into life just as much as the rest of them, he still talked to him very rarely. Peter didn’t mind him, though—especially when he set down a Lego-printed ballcap down on his curls that Tony really needed to schedule a trim for. “So you and your old man can match now.”

May and Pepper fell into easy conversation about their jobs and the people they have to put up with, but also suggestions for what May should do while she was there (she never got around to doing everything the past few visits). Rich showed Peter his new “upgrade” that made his prosthetic look a lot sleeker and not as clunky. Ben, Obie, and Happy got into a very intense conversation that Tony thought was worrisome before realizing that they were talking about the ending of No Country for Old Men. They did all this over slices of birthday cake and pizza.

It felt like home.

Happy gifted Peter a jacket, Pepper a new backpack with his name sewn on the back, and the three Parkers had all gifted him the entire Harry Potter book series and audio recordings since he’d expressed interest a while ago.

Tony was a relentless sort of bastard, though, so even though they’d done, you know, everything that day, he had one more gift up his sleeve. Months in the making, not as hard as he thought it would be, but a source of infinite pride regardless.

“I’ll be back with it in a minute. I don’t want to see that unasked-for Hawaiian box even touched when I come back.” After the workshop door had swung open for him, Tony paused to narrow his eyes at his son across the way. “Do you eat pineapple on pizza?”

Peter shrugged. “I’ll eat it but I don’t ask for it.”

“You’re on thin ice. Stay here.”

The reactions are about what he expected: gasps of wonder, gapes of awe, a whispered “He didn’t”, all laced with a bit of exasperation because he really didn’t need to go that far but he did anyway. Tony didn’t plan on apologizing anytime soon. Especially not when Peter was jumping and dancing and screaming with such jubilee that he could have been crying with joy.

Obie leaned over his shoulder to whisper, “I was joking, you know.”

“Yeah, but it was a good idea,” Tony answered while R2-D2 answered Peter’s greeting with a Beep-ba-bo-bwip!


 

The next four months were the absolute worse and it started when he awoke to a tiny finger poking his cheek and steam wafting past his nose.

“Dad…? Are you awake…?”

Peter’s voice was hardly more than a breath, even past the fog that seemed to be drowning him. His limbs were as heavy as lead, his head thick. Every breath he took felt slow and wet. He tried to push himself up from whatever it was he was lying down on, but then a hammer slammed into the side of his head and he fell back down with a gurgling groan.

The only saving grace was that it was fairly dim wherever he was, no blinding light stabbing through his eyelids. Oh, and he had clothes on. Two saving graces.

So dim was it, though, that he had to be sure of who he thought it was. “Pete?”

“Yeah. I brought you some tea.”

Tony wasn’t a huge tea drinker, but he recognized the ginger aroma. It was a slow and dragging process, but he made himself take everything in one-by-one. Peter was there and holding a mug of tea out to him. He was on the bed in his room, except his feet were on the pillows and his head was at the foot. There was no mess except for tousled sheets and rumpled clothes. Where there should have been a crystalline view of the ocean beyond the mansion, he instead saw black panels.

“Wh’ time s’it?” he asked as clearly as he could while trying to rub away the pain in his temples.

“I think it’s—I think it’s eight-thirty.”

“Should’un you be at school? You should be at school. Go tuh school.”

“It’s Saturday.”

“No s’not.”

“Yes it is.”

“Why’re you whispering?”

“Richard said to be quiet.”

Tony narrowed his eyes at him. It barely made him look a little less squiggly. “Why’s Richard here?”

Peter explained almost in one breath, still whispering like it was a secret. “I came to wake you up this morning but J.A.R.V.I.S. said you had this thing called a hangover and that if you didn’t wake up in thirty minutes he was going to call Pepper but I know Pepper gets mad at you about stuff so I asked if Richard could come over instead and J.A.R.V.I.S. said okay.”

Speak of the devil: the voice of the AI came from the walls, low in volume and almost disappointed in tone. “With help on the way, the first step of the Katzenjammer Protocol was aborted. My apologies, sir.”

“You did good, Jar.” Tony doubted even the supercomputer could hear him; he said it muffled into the comforter.

“Do you want the tea?”

“No, but I’ll take it.”

The ginger tea was a little too spicy for his taste and way to hot to gulp down, but he did it anyway. Tony managed to pull himself up to his feet and only then saw that he was not in his pajamas, but in slacks and a T-shirt. Plus a baby’s bib that said Mommy’s Little Heartbreaker, the origin of which he could only vaguely recall as a waitress with a nose ring and knuckle tattoos, and he tore it off and stuffed it under the mattress before Peter could see.

Peter led him out of the bedroom almost by hand. The rest of the house was sunlit, but he just dealt with it. The sound of someone moving around the kitchen was enough of a distraction.

R2D2 was in the living room. Tony stared, remembered, and kept walking. The little robot beeped and strolled after Peter.

Richard hadn’t arranged a five-course meal for him, but he’d concocted a hangover-worthy breakfast of scrambled eggs and banana slices with a glass of apple juice. Tony counted himself only somewhat fortunate that he wasn’t having an upset-stomach hangover. He wasn’t exactly drooling, but neither did his belly roil at the sight of food.

Richard was pulling the coffeepot out of the maker when Peter and Tony came walking in. Whatever look Richard leveled his way, Tony didn’t see it, because he was still rubbing his eyes even as he walked to his seat.

“Hey, Rich.”

“Hey, Tone.” Yeah, he was definitely not happy. He never called Tony a nickname.

Peter carried Tony’s mug of coffee over to him, and still whispering, reminded Richard to “save some for him!” Richard had to rear the pot back before he filled another mug full and poured the rest into a third mug. It was only a third full, but the rest would be filled with milk and sugar, the only way Peter took it.

With his pretend-father getting his coffee together for him, Peter turned to his actual-father and asked, “Are you okay?”

“Will be,” Tony answered through a long yawn. “You don’t have to whisper, you know. Just don’t yell.”

So speaking, he asked, “What’s a hangover? I asked J.A.R.V.I.S. but he told me to ask you.”

Despite surely listening in, the AI said nothing in explanation. He hadn’t done anything wrong. Tony should definitely be the one to answer the question. As Peter stared up at him in curiosity, though, Tony came up short.

Richard, who also took some of his older brother’s gift-to-earthness, answered for him. “It’s like a bellyache adults get sometimes. He’s not sick; he just feels bad.”

“Oh.” Peter set his hands on the side of the bar and propped his chin atop them. It was adorable, and Tony would have ruffled up his curls at any other day. Today, though, Tony keeps his hands to himself and puts way too much pepper over his scrambled eggs. “When I got bellyaches, Mom used to make me pillow forts. So I could hibernate. Like a bear.”

The first bite of eggs slid down more than got swallowed, but Tony nodded to him. “That sounds absolutely incredible. Please do that and make sure it has five bedrooms and an indoor pool.”

Peter shot off like a bullet, coffee forgotten, and R2D2 followed when Tony shooed him on. The robot—which technically had an artificial intelligence on par with J.A.R.V.I.S., but was limited to beeps-and-boops for communication—was basically their pet dog at this point. An infinitely adorable playmate for Peter, a sometimes-nuisance for Tony. At least they didn’t have to worry about Peter growing out of it anytime soon.

Tony just got it out of the way. “Thanks.”

Richard blinked.

“Yeah, that doesn’t cut it. I know.”

“In complete and utter fairness, in the nine months this has been going on, this is actually the first time the cavalry had to be called in.” Richard took a gulp of coffee and smacked his lips. He’d probably never had imported-from-overseas coffee before. “’Mean, this isn’t good, but it’s been fine up until now.”

“Yeeeah. Actually, hold on…Was Peter here last night or not? I’m confused.”

“Happy brought him over and made sure you were here before he left. Peter said you were sleeping on the sofa, then a little after Happy left, you just got up and went to your bedroom.” He gestured to the bar, where Tony only just noticed the giant stuffed teddy bear that didn’t belong to his six-year-old. “He also said you were snuggling that thing, but you know him. No judgement.”

Last night must have been freaky, Tony thought. “Okay. Uh…Eugh. Let me explain.”

“You went partying and got blackout drunk. I get it. My mom did that, like, sixteen times when I was a kid. Wouldn’t even care that much if it weren’t for Peter, you know?”

“Yeah. Shit.” Tony ran a hand over his brow. “You have my word, not going to happen again.”

From the living room, Peter called, “Can I get the pillows from your room?”

“Go ahead.” After a blur sped past them, he turned back to Richard. “Never.”

Richard visibly chewed on the inside of his cheek. “Maybe just—I know you have a lot of protocols and stuff with J.A.R.V.I.S., so maybe you can just…Make another one? Just in case Peter’s around. You don’t have to—just thought—you know. Precaution.”

As stiff and stammered his words were, Tony got the underlying message: Richard didn’t quite believe him. He was right, this was his first huge screw-up so far (you know, outside of not knowing Peter existed for 83% of the kid’s life), but that didn’t mean it was okay, or something not to be worried about. Richard was as aware as anyone that Tony’s main endeavors were time in the workshop, bars, parties, and pretty much anywhere where alcohol flowed and inhibitions were loose. He’d never judged him for it before since he’d always kept it in bounds, but now he’d taken the first step over the line.

Peter passed by again with an armful of pillows that almost consumed him. Guilt panged hard in Tony’s chest. He didn’t even want to imagine what could have happened while he was out like a light.

Richard nudged his coffee toward him like an olive branch. Tony took it, already planning on implementing the Dad’s Fallen and He Can’t Get Up Protocol by the end of the day.

A third time, for good measure, he repeated, “Never again.”


 

It happened six more times. Five times it was a gravely disappointed, border-lining furious Richard who came to the rescue. Only once was it Pepper Potts, with the rage of it being the hundredth time. To her knowledge, though, it only happened once.


 

Peter, again, did not have full access to the workshop, purely for safety reasons. There were sharp tools and heavy machinery everywhere; not a place for a six-year-old to wander about. Tony knew that just made the place the Forbidden Fruit in the Garden of Eden that was the mansion. In all of Peter’s few and brief visits inside, he always looked around with wonder and want.

To be honest, the workshop was also Tony’s personal place. In there, it was just him, his work, and the rock music that played over the speakers. He didn’t have to worry about Stark Industries or the Jericho Project or the War. While others might beat punching bags or shoot at a range to vent, he dismantled engines and snipped wires.

He was a parent now, though, and that meant making exceptions and sacrifices. Even if he didn’t want to, and even if it annoyed him.

Originally he’d had it so Peter would be let in automatically case of an emergency, like an injury. Otherwise Peter would beep him on the intercom before he let him in. Sometimes he just needed to know where something was, and he’d walk off without problem after. Other times he needed help getting something from a high shelf and whatnot, and Tony would come and meet him.

In this case, when Peter’s voice cut Led Zeppelin off cold, it was to ask, “I need help on my math stuff.”

So Tony heaved a great sigh, cut off his blowtorch, and said, “Alright, c’mon. Careful.”

He’d had to lay off three people that morning. He and Obie had gotten into a spat about the progress of the Jericho Project. He had a migraine that he kept taking Ibuprofen after Ibuprofen for. But Peter just needed some two-second help. He could do that.

Peter came tiptoeing in and made the most of the short walk over to admire the scenery. Tony was surprised, since Peter had never had an issue with schoolwork, but then he saw what the problem was. The paper (he questioned even giving six-year-olds homework, but whatever) had run out of ink about halfway, so the final row of addition equations were hardly shadows. The ones up top were filled in and correct.

“I can’t see what they say,” Peter told him.

“Gotcha. Alright, give me a second.” Tony looked over his desk to find his pen. “I’ve got it. Hey, do not touch that, alright? It’ll fall.”

Peter looked over to the tool rack and nodded. The thing was pretty delicately held against the back of the desk. Tony did not miss the irony in something so small as it going unfixed in his workshop. He just dealt with it.

Writing over the shadowy numbers with pen took longer than he should have, especially at the very bottom. Tony seriously doubted he got any of them wrong, but if he did, Peter would have a note about how the paper was misprinted.

Then it happened.

CLANG

CRACK

BANG

The crash of sound hit him like someone smacking him upside the head. He set his pen down, took a not-very-deep breath, and already knew what he was turning to see. The tool rack was now facedown on the desk, wrenches and pliers scattered this way and that, all while Peter clutched his once-extended hand to his chest.

Instinctively, Peter cried, “Sorry!”

“I told you not to touch that.”

“I’m sorry—”

“Get out.” Tony handed him the paper and picked up the rack. The few tools that had kept their hold went clattering down. “Just go.”

“But—”

“I said get out, Peter!”

Peter ran.

It took getting the rack propped up, the tools piled together, and the music playing again for regret to sink in. He’d broken the number-one rule of parenting, Do not take out your anger on your kid. Yeah, Tony, he’d done something you told him not to do. So reprimand him, don’t bite his head off his shoulders.

He was too annoyed, frustrated, and tired to immediately pull himself up the stairs and apologize. If tears were falling from Peter’s eyes, J.A.R.V.I.S. decided Tony didn’t need to be told that. Even worse, the parental guilt pretty much ruined his venting. Now he just felt sluggish.

When he decided enough was enough, he forced himself to Peter’s door and knocked.

“Hey, Pete?” No response. “Hey, can we talk?”

Still nothing. Tony tried to twist the knob, but it kept hard in place.

“Pete, unlock the door.”

Nope.

“Unlock the door, Peter.”

Nada.

J.A.R.V.I.S.’s voice drifted down. “Would you like me to open the door for you, sir?”

Tony thought about it.

“No,” he decided. “It’s alright.”

Peter did eventually emerge, decidedly not teary-eyed and with the homework done. Tony apologized for snapping at him. Peter apologized for knocking down the tools. That was that. Not a big deal at all. Still, Tony promised himself that it wasn’t going to happen again.


 

It happened again. And again. And maybe three more times after that.


 

“Can I spend Christmas with Aunt May and Uncle Ben?”

It wasn’t the question itself so much as the timing of it that made Tony’s heart squeeze. In the past two weeks, he’d only been able to see Peter a total of three hours altogether. The Jericho Project had reached its critical state; everyone was in overdrive. Meetings, crunch time, emergency intervention after emergency intervention—everyone was at the end of their wits. It wasn’t just that Tony didn’t have the time for Peter, he didn’t have time for anything.

Except for the occasional party and bar hop, though. It didn’t matter how much he kicked himself in the pants for it later, he always made time for it.

But he really had been making Christmas plans for him and Peter. Nothing huge, but something like a cabin somewhere snowy. Peter could enjoy making snowmen and going sledding and Tony could enjoy sitting in front of a fireplace and drinking eggnog. They could even watch those old Rankin/Bass stop motion Christmas movies for extra nostalgic value.

Of course, he’d been planning on allowing Peter time to spend with the Parkers, but those visits lasted a few days at least, and he was holding out on a certain time frame. The days before and after Christmas was “vacation time” for Stark Industries, an eye in a storm that couldn’t be rescheduled.

Tony pulled up Peter’s blanket a little more, trying to be casual. “Yeah, why’s that?”

“Just wanna.” Peter rubbed at his eye. “I haven’t seen them in a while.”

You saw them two weeks ago, and you talked to them this morning. “How long do you want to stay?”

Peter thought about it like he always did. Tony didn’t remember waiting so tensely for the answer, though.

“How ‘bout a week?” he finally decided.

So much for that trip, then.

“Sure. Now go to sleep.” Tony flicked off the lamp on the nightstand. The stars in the ceiling lit up one-by-one, casting them in a light glow. In the corner, R2-D2 stood dormant. “I’ve to go call Santa.”

Peter left for Queens almost a week before Christmas, just in time to say goodbye to a visiting Rhodey and make Tony realize he didn’t like how happy Peter was about leaving and feel childish. He’d sent most of the gifts over already just so he could have that Christmas-morning opening spree, but he kept his own gift home until he returned. It wasn’t an R2-D2, but it was a near-authentic astronaut helmet, a puzzle made from one of his drawings, and other cool little things put together.

Instead of a comfy cabin with a burning fire and his son just in the other room, Tony spent Christmas largely alone in his mansion save for one dinner between him, Rhodey, Obie, several board members, and a somewhat incredulous-as-to-why-she-was-there Pepper. After this, he’d return home and do a lot of nothing for a lot of time. Peter would return days later, but work would hit him so hard that Tony wouldn’t be around to actually see him open the gift. Nor would he be around to even welcome Peter back to Malibu.

That Christmas night, while they were all standing from their chairs and shaking hands in goodbye, Rhodey tapped him on the shoulder. “You know he’s fine, right? He’s spending Christmas with his family, not rotting in a trench.”

He wasn’t fine, though, but only Tony knew that. Rhodey didn’t know that Peter had been pulling away for weeks now, slowly but surely not saying as many jokes or talking about school as often. When he’d left for Queens, he’d been so happy for the first time in a long time, so happy to be leaving.

Rhodey also didn’t know that for as much as he hated watching Peter go, Tony was doing little to get him back. He would mope and pout about not seeing Peter so often, only to turn away an opportunity when it was handed to him on a silver platter. He’d been so sure he wouldn’t let this happen.

Don’t ever, ever make him feel like he’s not wanted, he heard Richard warn.

This is a terrible idea, he heard May cry.

The worst kind of person, he heard Mary sigh.

“Yeah, he’s fine,” he heard himself lie.

Notes:

Eesh, sorry for that wait! This chapter was a toughie, eugh u._. That's it for the prologue, though! I.M. begins in the next chapter!

Chapter 13: Chapter Thirteen

Summary:

This, uh…This didn’t feel good, though. Tony (and Peter, he guessed) knew by now that this wasn’t going to be a walking-talking Hallmark movie. Tony wasn’t going to walk in with a “Hey, sport!” and Peter wasn’t going to joyously cry “Dad!” and run to his arms so he could scoop him up. “I love you, Dad,” Peter would not say, and then he wouldn’t go “I love you, too, son!” Then the credits wouldn’t roll and play whimsical flute music.

Chapter Text

Pepper didn’t hate her job, but God if Tony didn’t test her patience on a daily basis. Surprise paperwork and emergency board meetings were just a given in any personal assistant’s job; they were annoying, but she could deal with them.

Having to time and again escort Tony’s bedmates out of the house, though, that was never fun and never would be.

Usually, the women were from bars or parties, everyday ladies who had caught his attention. Hell, sometimes they weren’t even that bad to deal with. Renee, if Pepper remembered her name right, was perfectly fine. She was pretty miffed about being shooed out like an unwanted pest, but she’d left pretty quickly and didn’t take it out on Pepper. The last time he’d bedded a more “noteworthy” woman had been a soap opera actress, and it was the most awkward nightmare imaginable, having to deny left and right that they were the new “It” couple.

Christine Everhart was kind of an in-between. The everyday person wouldn’t know her name, and there wouldn’t be any “Tony Stark & Christine Everhart: THE Hottest Couple on the Red Carpet?” tabloids. It was worse, actually, because Christine was a reporter, and a damn good one at that. She’d probably had her eyes set on Tony for a while now—in the reporting sense, but maybe in the other sense, too.

Having to have a business conversation was a fresh-out-of-the-bed woman dressed only in her undergarments and a loose shirt was never not difficult.

It was just especially difficult when an unsuspecting six-year-old was in the next room, just one door away from unleashing the biggest media craze since Kim Kardashian’s tape.

That was why, when J.A.R.V.I.S. had informed Pepper of yet another houseguest she needed to tend to, she was seized by panic. They had a protocol now, for when Richard or Happy came to drop Peter off while Tony wasn’t there. Once Tony hopped into a car to return home, J.A.R.V.I.S. would be alerted. They all trusted the AI, and Peter had always been generally well-behaved, so they would sometimes let J.A.R.V.I.S. watch over him.

It wasn’t a perfect system; Pepper didn’t like it at all. The blame could also be shared with Richard and maybe J.A.R.V.I.S. for not having a better plan. Mostly, though, it was Tony, because he’d been reminded several times over that Peter would be coming back from his class trip today and he was supposed to see him before he left, did it seriously only take one pouty-lipped look from Christine Everhart for him to forget?

Best birthday ever.

Pepper had her clothes washed and pressed, a car ready to take her away, and a lot of regret for taking this job in the first place when she made it to the mansion. J.A.R.V.I.S. reported that Everhart hadn’t woken up yet, which was a saving grace. 

It was either grace, too, or misfortune that Peter opened the door just as she was coming in. It was hard to forget she’d known the boy for over a year now, because as far as she was concerned, he looked exactly the same. Still tiny, still messy-haired, still as cute as could be.  

“Hey, Pepper.” He tried to sound chipper, but his voice was soft with sleep. He started to walk out in his Saturn-print pajamas, wiping his eyes clear. 

Quick but not sudden, Pepper set the clothes on the back of the couch and corralled him back in. He obeyed, but blinked his huge brown eyes up at her, confused. 

“Hey, Peter, I need you to stay in here for just a little while, okay? I'll come get you when it’s okay; but you’ve got to stay in here ‘til then.” 

“What’s wrong?” 

“Nothing, nothing, just—” 

J.A.R.V.I.S.'s voice announced, “Miss Everhart has awoken.” 

Peter’s nose wrinkled. “Who’s that?” 

“Um...” Curse you, Tony. “One of Tony’s work friends. She travelled a long way last night and she was tired so Tony let her stay here.” 

“Oh.” Already he was backing away from the door, wary. They'd only done this a handful of times before, with a visiting contractor or stockholder or two, but he knew the drill: someone was in the house and it was time for him to hide and be quiet. “Okay.”

“Yeah. I’ll be back in just a minute, okay? Hang tight.”

It was like she could feel Everhart’s incoming presence through the very walls. Pepper took hold of the doorknob, trying to smile, and Peter let go. Suddenly, though, and too loudly, he said, “Wait!”

“Yeah?”

“Isn’t today your birthday?”

Pepper actually hoped she was crazy and wasn’t hearing padding footsteps incoming down the hall. “Yeah, it is, but I gotta go now. Stay here.”

Whispering in that very intense way children do: “Happy birthday.”

“Thank you,” she hissed, and right as the door finally shut, Everhart appeared in a very classy underwear-and-loose-shirt ensemble.

Best birthday ever, indeed.


 

Pepper gave him time, at least, and even Tony had to admit that was as good as he deserved. They talked about his almost-two-hour-late flight, that Jackson Pollock painting, the MIT speech, even her birthday that he really, truly did feel bad about forgetting. She gave him all the time up to him tipping back his espresso like a shot.

“One more thing,” she called out, not even facing him. “Peter wants to know if you’re going to come upstairs and say goodbye or not.”

He heard her, but he didn’t really process what she was saying.

“Is he upstairs?”

“Everhart didn’t see him, don’t worry.”

“I was going to call him once he got back from his trip. Why’s he upstairs?”

“Because he got back from his trip yesterday, not today—and you’re not supposed to call him, you’re supposed to see him.”

“I have no memory of this arrangement.”

“Do you have any memory of J.A.R.V.I.S. sending you an alert last night?”

If Tony’s body was as much as a computer as his brain was, Pepper probably would have seen a giant loading symbol across his face. Though he was still, the skin around his eyes pinched together—and ding, he pointed a finger upwards. “I do have a vague memory now. Very hazy.”

“Fantastic.”

“Hey, I knew I was prolonging the flight for something! It just slipped my mind.”

“How often does that happen?”

“Almost never. You should schedule me a doctor’s appointment.”

“I—he’s still up there.

“Right, right.”

Tony wiped the oil off his hands and hustled for the stairs before he could make an even bigger—well, not idiot, he wasn’t stupid. But he was kind of an ass, he had to admit that. The almost-glare Pepper pinned to his back as he left was pretty justified.

He really, truly didn’t remember this arrangement. Peter left for his trip on Friday, he’d be gone for all of Saturday, then he would be coming home on Sunday. By then, Tony would have—or should have, at this point—be on his way for his flight to demonstrate the finished Jericho Project and he’d give Peter a call on the way over.

Or…

Wait, maybe Peter had returned Saturday night instead. But in that case, he’d never agreed to having him come over to the mansion before he left. How would that make sense? Why would Peter be brought to the mansion if Tony was going to leave the next morning? That didn’t make—

Actually—

Now that he recalled it, on the last conversation he’d had with Richard last week…He’d mentioned that he was going to be doing an overnight shift at the hospital. So he’d suggested that when Peter got back to school, which would be a little late at night, Richard would bring him over to Tony’s house, then in the morning he would return to bring Peter home.

Tony had agreed to that.

And…yes, he’d had this exact thought process when he’d gotten an alert from J.A.R.V.I.S. about being Peter home. But then he’d heard “Can I ask you a couple of questions?” and his attention span had regressed to that of a goldfish.

In conclusion: yes, this was his fault, and he’d really screwed the pooch. Again.

In that one part of his mind with a very dark and dry sense of humor, he thought, I should start a punch-card for how many times I’ve done who-knows-what while Peter was supposed to be under my care.

Tony realized just how bad he’d done this time when he was standing in front of Peter’s bedroom door. Not that all the other times weren’t bad, but this was a new level of bad, this was could-have-dropped-a-bomb bad.

He’d never before brought home a woman while Peter was home. He’d gotten back into the habit of bringing them to the mansion, yes, but he’d always made sure that Peter was miles away before he did so. His son’s bedroom automatically locked down when there was company in the house. J.A.R.V.I.S. would give him a heads-up if there were misplaced Legos or a child-size jacket anywhere.

He’d never before brought home a woman while Peter was home, and he’d never been so damn reckless to bring home a woman like Christine Everhart, Vanity Fair magazine, who could have seen Peter with his big, brown Stark eyes and curly hair and realized ho-lee shit, she’d just found the story to end all stories.

So, yeah. This entire setup they had going for two years now, almost ruined because he saw a cute blonde and couldn’t be bothered to check his day planner.

Forget disappointment. Mary was probably watching him now and screaming, What are you doing?! What are you DOING?!

Tony would reflect on the crushing stupidity of his actions later. For now, Peter was waiting to tell him goodbye.

“Pete?” he tapped his knuckles on the door. “’M I good to come in?”

“Yeah,” came the answer.

Peter’s room looked, in Tony’s opinion, better than it had when it was first made. Now it actually looked lived-in. The books in the star-shaped shelf were hardly ever in any order. The whiteboard was always covered in scribbles and shapes of pretty much any color imaginable. The open box of Legos, the video game controllers on the floor, the shoes kicked haphazardly under the bed—it felt like an actual kid’s room now.

Peter sat on the bed with what Tony guessed was his ‘haul’ from the trip: little booklets and papers, crafts, toys, the whole shebang. They’d gone to the Monterey Bay Aquarium, if he remembered right, and the Santa Maria Discovery Museum on the way back.

Peter had a large, glossy conch shell in one hand, held a little parallel to his head, and looked very perplexed.

“What’cha doing?” Tony asked while he took a seat on the foot of the bed.

“You’re supposed to be able to hear the ocean when you listen to a shell,” Peter answered, “but I don’t hear anything.”

“You have to hold it to your ear, Pete. Like—here.”

Tony guided Peter’s hands until he held the opening of the shell flush against the side of his head. Peter listened, and frowned, still unhappy.

“All I hear is shhhhhhhh.”

“Well, you’re not actually supposed to hear the ocean. That’s the blood in your ears. It sounds like waves, doesn’t it?”

But Peter had dropped the shell, alarmed. “Why is there blood in my ears?”

“Because—okay. I’ll explain later.” Tony should probably be giving some kind of affectionate touch now, but with them sitting opposite to each other, he just...tapped Peter’s foot. “Listen. I have to go to that business trip now. Remember?”

Peter nodded. “Yeah.”

“Remember where I’m going?”

He pronounced it carefully, “Aff-gan-nuh-stan.”

“Remember how to spell it?”

“A-F-G-H-A-N-I-S-T-A-N.”

“Fantastic. I’ll only be gone a couple of days. You won’t be able to call me, probably, so just…hang tight, alright?” Peter nodded, and he went on, “Richard’s going to be here in just a minute.”

“Aunt May and Uncle Ben are coming down to visit. So I’ll be with—you know, we’ll all be together in Richard’s house.”

Ah, yes. The familiar feeling of May Parker nee Reilly’s visceral disappointment washes over me once more. “Sounds good.”

That was it, Tony guessed. Business had been taken care of, and time was ticking.

This, uh…This didn’t feel good, though. Tony (and Peter, he guessed) knew by now that this wasn’t going to be a walking-talking Hallmark movie. Tony wasn’t going to walk in with a “Hey, sport!” and Peter wasn’t going to joyously cry “Dad!” and run to his arms so he could scoop him up. “I love you, Dad,” Peter would not say, and then he wouldn’t go “I love you, too, son!” Then the credits wouldn’t roll and play whimsical flute music.

He just didn’t want it to end on such a neutral note. Peter didn’t seem angry, thank goodness, but he seemed carefully calm about it. Like everything he’d learned in Childhood 101 was telling him to hug Tony and ask him not to go but he really just wanted to keep hearing the “ocean” in the conch.  

“Hey, tell you what: the second I get back we’ll go to that Mexican place in Glendale you really like. Parrilla Dorada?”

Instead of smiling, Peter’s mouth wrinkled. “I thought it closed down?”

“What? No it didn’t.”

“I thought it had rats and they had to close down.”

“No, that was Parrilla de Plata.”

“I thought they got cockroaches.”

“No, they—wait, no, yeah. Okay. No more Parrillas. So we’ll just have to find our new favorite Mexican place! Hey, and, I don’t know if you forgot, but the Land of Adventure opens up at Legoland next month! We could do what crazy people do and camp out in front of the gates the night before.”

“Okay.”

Well, if that wasn’t a red flag, what was? Legoland was Peter’s heaven on earth. His home away from home. Was Peter going through a midlife crisis at six years old?

“What’s wrong? Legoland not your cup of tea anymore?”

“No, I still like it, it’s just…”

“Just what?”

“I don’t know…I like stuff besides Lego.”

Oh. Right.

That was actually a very…fair point. Peter liked space stuff, Star Wars, and Legos. He also had a knack for science stuff, too, but even Tony had to admit he was kind of chalking up his son’s interests to not even five things. He simply didn’t recall them talking about much else. That wasn’t an excuse, though; that was just another mark against him.

“Alright. What do you want to do?”

Peter thought about it. “We could go see a baseball game?”

He’d forgotten that Peter was a Mets fan. They never got around to going to that game. He made a mental note to plan one as soon as possible. “We’ll get box seats. Pinkie swear.”

They twined their pinkies together, but Peter’s gaze dropped from his as quickly as his hand pulled away. Now Tony was positive he found his haul more interesting than his departing father. And that didn’t sting. Nope. Not at all. All good.

Tony stood up. He could feel Pepper’s impatience oozing through the walls. “Alright; give me a bye-hug.”

It never crossed his mind that it was a demand. He’d said it a million times, when Peter was heading out for school, or before Richard took him home. But for some reason, this time, it was a demand, and Peter poorly concealed his reluctance as he pushed himself up to his knees and wrapped his arms around Tony’s waist. His arms were stiff. His head pretended to rest against Tony’s chest.

It wasn’t back to Square One, but it felt like a step in that direction. Tony couldn’t even deny it the next time: the easiness in which Peter focused on his stuff instead of watching Tony go hurt.


 

Tony dreamed of Mary, sometimes.

He’d had these kinds of dreams before—they wouldn’t leave his damn head alone after his parents were killed, and even today they popped up on the most random of nights. They weren’t entirely the same, however, especially since he hadn’t really lost Mary. Mary was never really his to lose.

Sometimes, they are what-if dreams. What if he’d stopped her before she left his hotel room that morning? What if she’d told him she was pregnant the second she found out? What if that car had never struck her taxi?

The third sort are the worst, because those feel so domestic and normal. His own brain never decided if they were married or if they just knew one another. He saw Mary walking into the mansion with a fresh-out-of-school Peter, Mary lifting Peter effortlessly onto her hip while they walked through whatever amusement park they were in, Mary talking, Mary breathing, Mary living. Dreams insist they’re reality, of course, so he never questioned it, just lived in the moment until he woke up with an empty concave in his chest.

He was starting to forget what she looked like. Photos from her friends hardly helped. She’d become a pair of green eyes and a clever smile, framed in brown hair but floating in a haze.

Once, he dreamed that she was still alive, but Peter didn’t exist. That one had unsettled him, because he’d felt so much that something was missing even though he couldn’t put his tongue on it.

Mostly, he dreamed that she just…came back, somehow. One way or another, she showed up at his mansion knowing full and well everything that he’d done. She called him a drunk, called him a mess, told him she never wanted him to take Peter because she knew he’d be a shit father, she knew, she knew.

If it didn’t stop at that, then she tried to take Peter. Peter always welcomed her back with open arms, as if she’d never left him—and even with her featureless face, the dreaming Tony always thought, they look so much alike. Peter wrapped himself around her, and smiled with such joy, such relief that Tony’s heart ached…and then ached harder as he reached out, begging Mary to please, please don’t take him away, I’ll do better, he’s my son, please, Mary, I love him.

Did Peter ever react, in those dreams? Did he ever reach back to Tony, or did he bury his face in his mother’s neck and let her carry him away? Maybe he just became a personification of something Tony couldn’t lose.

Whatever he dreamed, however it ended, he almost never fell asleep afterward. If he had the energy, he’d pull himself out of bed and go to Peter’s door. If he was about to break, he would crack it open and just look at the little lump beneath the sheets, the little rise and fall of Peter’s chest.

Those dreams were always his…what had Jarvis called them? ‘Momentary motivations.’ After them, he’d be reinvigorated with this sense of I’m going to do better, I’m going to be a better father, I’m going to make Peter feel loved and protected and wanted. Then that reinvigoration would fade, and he’d go right back where he was, not trying a damn thing and just waiting for another dream.

He hadn’t had such a dream for a while, but thinking about him made him, well, think. At the least, he would think until he couldn’t take it anymore. The guilt made him physically ill, even nauseous. He had to save himself, whether by a cold drink or another project to fiddle with.

After the demonstration—the heat of the explosion was still warm on his back, the air smelled like dust—Tony gave himself an out by telling the very sleepy Obie on his phone, “Keep an eye on Pete while I’m gone, yeah?”

Obie answered, “You got it.” And there it was, his regularly-scheduled bout of self-loathing. Now all he had to do was lock it up and save it for a rainy day.

Perhaps dreams were why he could never bring himself to take a nap, or why he could go literal days with no sleep. Maybe Tony Stark was afraid of dreaming.

But later, as he lied awake with ash in his lungs and smoke in the air, surrounded by hard stone and stretching darkness, the feeling of something cold and living and wrong deep and inescapable in his chest, Tony wished that he could dream.

Chapter 14: Chapter Fourteen

Summary:

Tony kept tinkering with the arc reactor and readjusted the battery wires when they tangled around his waist. The goal, for now, was to try to find a way to live. If he lived, then he could prevent a whole lot of hurt for a lot of people.

Plus, y’know, living. Wanting to not die was admirable enough.

Chapter Text

Tony still couldn’t make up his mind about the debate of fate. He’d put his jacket over his dismantled toys and now he had a scar. His parents hopped into a car and now they were dead. He met Mary Fitzpatrick at a party and now he had a son. He still believed, firmly, that there was nothing supernatural about any of it, though. Things always had some kind of formula. Even if it didn’t, stuff just happened sometimes.

He told himself this several times: when he thought about his friendship with Rhodey, when Stark Industries launched another product, and when he lied awake in a freezing cave with a car battery serving as his only wall between life and death.

The electromagnet hurt, God did it hurt, but more so than that it just felt wrong. It was a wonder he wasn’t spilling blood every time he leaned forward, it was buried so deep in his chest. The skin around it felt stretched and torn at the same time, and often Tony could swear he felt a bolt of static shoot through his veins. He was very careful with the wires that connected it to the battery. The second one of them pulled taut, he scrambled. All it would take was one hard tug and he’d be on the floor, trying and failing to save himself before the darkness closed in.

Probably. It was a car battery and some scrap metal. He was dying more and more every second.

Yinsen—he only learned his name a week later, when he bothered to learn it—said he got over his shock quickly. “Which is good. It means you can spend more time thinking now.”

As if Tony ever stopped thinking. It just wasn’t the things he was “supposed” to be thinking about.

Surely looking to your impending death had to have an effect on everyone, right? Not that death was ever, you know, timely, but knowing it was coming was hardly better than having it catch you unaware. Oh, sure, you had time to get your properties and affair in order and you get to say goodbye to loved ones—

(Not that Tony was going to be able to do either of those things)

—but in exchange, you are filled with so much dread that it leaves you unable to breathe. Tony only guessed that was what it was like for everyone; that was what it was like for him. It wasn’t like sleeping in the cave was easy, what with the icy temperatures and ashy air and the inability to lie comfortably in a threadbare cot with wires running through your veins, but it wasn’t made any easier with the knowledge that he might not wake up. That the fire-lit walls might be the last thing he ever saw, that faceless men with guns ready to shoot him down would be the last people he ever spoke to.

At least he had an actual reason to fear sleeping, now.

Perhaps he was still in shock, after all, or maybe he’d shot right through it so he could get to acceptance. Being all too knowledgeable of death’s hand on his shoulder was about as accepting as he could get, probably.

He could write a doorstopper of all the things he was going to regret—not figuring out just what was going on between him and a certain personal assistant, not finding any meaningful relationships besides a few sparse people, and pretty much every single thing to do with his son that he was never going to see laugh, cry, or breathe again—but was there even a point? It wasn’t like he was going to make peace with any of them. He wasn’t an old man in his death bed, surrounded by his loved ones. He was stuck in a cave with shrapnel barreling towards his heart.

It’s not even that him dying had to happen, anyway. If they really did just send him home like a found puppy after he built their missile, or if there was anything better around to mend the machinery in his chest, then maybe he would have had a chance.

The cave was cold, the food to keep him alive-until-he-dies was nothing but gruel, and even sunlight was too much for him now. He was not going gently into that good night, that was for certain.

What really confused him was how the hell Yinsen did so well with all of it. He didn’t just smile and chat and make jokes, the man made sure his suit still looked nice and bothered to shave in the tiny clouded mirror he’d strapped up. And he knew it, to, because when he caught Tony giving him a bewildered look, he just gave a smile meant to be calming but was really challenging. He wanted Tony to ask, he wanted Tony to use him as a role model, or something. Proof that he could be okay.

‘Okay.’

Tony felt a lot of things those first few nights in the cave. ‘Okay’ was far from being one of them.


Tony made it through a week, despite what he feared. He had no calendar to mark the days off, but a week was good. A week was something.

Their captors were taking their sweet time getting everything in order, it seemed. After that second day, where Tony had been pulled into the blinding sunlight to be given his assignment, another Jericho missile, they let him and Yinsen sit in their shared cave for a whole two days just to brainstorm, it seemed. They gave them food in cans and boxes when they needed it. Tony had shook their leader’s hand in agreement, so for all they knew, their two captives were just figuring out when and where they would get started.

Tony had finally gotten around to thinking like Yinsen said he could. He sometimes entertained ideas that might save him. Like maybe they could figure out if they had any kind of communication technology and they could re-wire it to send for help. Any of these ideas had ended with the reminder that him and Yinsen were as good as dead.

Yinsen finally gave him a hint of why he was so determined to keep going. ‘Legacy’, he’d said. ‘Defiance.’ ‘The last act.’

Well, he had had a point, and Tony couldn’t deny that. If they were both going to die, they might as well try to do something. Anything was better than shivering in their beds day in and day out.

They got to work.

The ‘Ten Rings’, as Yinsen named to him, were surprisingly cooperative with him. Whatever supplies and tools Tony asked for, he got. Captive though he was, he was also their golden goose, he guessed. In order to do what they wanted, they had to give him nothing but the best. Which they did—but in a cramped cave in the middle of a desert, a lot of things were the ‘best.’

Tony played along at first, because it gave him time to do the thinking. He sure as hell wasn’t going to be building them a Jericho, so he pretended. He was good at that; he loved taking things apart and seeing how they worked, so it was easy to act like he had a goal.

Opening the missiles, though, he began to find some breadcrumbs. Palladium breadcrumbs, that is, but they led him where he needed to go: that car battery he was lifelined to.

It wasn’t going to save him from a bullet to the skull, or being left to starve in some dark corner of the cave, but perhaps he could save himself from some shrapnel to the heart.


He didn’t dream much in the cave. Maybe four times. The other nights were just darkness.

Twice they were dreams about waking up at the mansion and discovering that the whole thing was just a bad dream. He wasn’t in a cave, there was no shrapnel heading towards his heart: he was in his warm bed in his mansion, suiting himself up for the day, waiting for coffee to finish making in the kitchen. J.A.R.V.I.S. bid him good morning, Peter left for school, Pepper told him about his appointments. Then he woke up.

Once it was a dream where they were saved by some helicopter or plane, whatever, it didn’t matter. The faceless men scrambled away from the gunfire and orders of “Get down, get down, hands behind your head!” while Yinsen and Tony are led away to the safety of the craft. They were assured that they would be fine now, but Tony still felt like it was a nightmare, because where was Rhodey? Where was Peter? Where was Pepper? Obadiah? Why didn’t he know any of these men and why couldn’t he talk to someone he knew? Then he woke up.

Once it was some horrifying mix of the two. He and Yinsen are saved, but the whole rescue is treated more as an inconvenient bump in the road than anything important. Tony does not go to crowds of reporters or the safety of a military aircraft; he just goes straight home, and everyone was waiting for him. Peter just waved from his spot on the floor because there was nothing to worry about. Pepper gave him a welcoming smile that made something inside him grow warm. Rhodey and Obadiah and the Parkers were all together, chatting about something blessedly pointless, and Mary was with them. She caught his eye as he came in and smiled, but that was it. She went right back to the conversation because she wasn’t going anywhere, anyway.

Then he woke up, and his cheeks were wet. Yinsen was kind enough not to say anything about it.


The arc reactor glowed blue, in its short flickers and flashes as Tony perfected it. It was a nice change in pace from the orange firelight or the electric white glow of the fluorescent beams.

The cameras were always watching them, but if anyone had a hunch his project didn’t have anything to do with the missiles, he never heard a word of it. Yinsen gave him curious looks and was often annoyed at being left in the dark, but Tony couldn’t really help it. Yinsen was his only light in this hellhole, the only soul who treated him with a shred of kindness, but Tony only trusted him because he had to. If he found out Tony was potentially putting their already-doomed lives at risk, Tony couldn’t be sure the man wasn’t going to lunge for his throat.

Once he realized that his idea was going to work, he let his mind wander to more calming thoughts. Wondering, even.

Stark Industries was probably being run by Obadiah, at the moment. No doubt he had a lot on his plate, what with the CEO being officially kidnapped and all. Surely his disappearance was the hot topic of the press; his face was probably on every magazine cover, black-and-white with letters reading Tony Stark: Can he be found?

He was being looked for, definitely—even Yinsen knew that. Stark Industries worked hand-in-hand with the U.S. military, and he’d been taken while he was under their ‘protection.’ For all he knew, every sand dune in the desert was being flipped upside down. Rhodey might be among the searchers. Rhodey had to be doing something.

Pepper had her own fires to put out. If she wasn’t working with Obadiah, she was working with literally everyone else, assuring them that Tony’s absence wouldn’t affect their stocks or their contracts or…whatever. She had to be worried about him. They were friends, weren’t they? Hell, she was probably the best company he had, able to work efficiently beside him, putting up with everything about him without, well, putting up with it. He wondered how worried she was, though.

Peter could be with any of the Parkers. Either that, or he had a lot of babysitters to deal with. He could still be going to school. He had plenty of adults around to protect him, even cheer him up. Obadiah had promised he’d look after him, though that was before the drive back from the demonstration had become a haze of smoke and blood.

Peter was fine, he had to be. Fine and healthy and still living his life because time didn’t stop moving for everyone just because it did for Tony.

Peter did miss him, though, right?

Peter loved him, right?

If he and Yinsen didn’t make it out of this alive—and there was a high chance they weren’t—it had occurred to him already that he had a lot of business to leave behind. Obadiah would become permanent CEO, and Pepper would be out of the job unless she worked with him. Stark Industries itself would become a hurricane, because a lot of their people made it clear they thought Tony was the backbone of the place.

His largest regret was not setting up the proper plan for Peter, because it had never crossed his mind that something might happen to him. Pretty stupid, really. Something had happened to Mary. Peter existed, period. He had to get better about considering possibilities.

Financially, Peter would be fine. Obie and Pepper could help the Parkers with any money issues they would ever need. Peter could live with Richard or Ben and May, his choice. He would be able to go to college and buy a car and do whatever it is he was going to do in the, what, seventy years on average to come?

It just meant the past two years were…pointless. The move to Malibu, every moment they spent together and every hug they shared. All for nothing.

And how cruel was that, really? How goddamn cruel? That Peter had to lose his mother, one of his constants, someone he loved, a lifeline, his. mother. and then he only got a taste of what it would be like to have a father before that got taken away from him, too? Alright, Peter, time to come home now. Go look at the mansion one last time. Say goodbye to the dad that promised he wouldn’t leave you. This was a nice vacation, wasn’t it?

…Peter loved him, right?

Tony kept tinkering with the arc reactor and readjusted the battery wires when they tangled around his waist. The goal, for now, was to try to find a way to live. If he lived, then he could prevent a whole lot of hurt for a lot of people.

Plus, y’know, living. Wanting to not die was admirable enough.


Sometimes he had to look around and remind himself that this was all his fault, directly or not. It wasn’t just about him having to suffer now—though it was true that he wouldn’t be forced to make a Jericho missile from scratch if he hadn’t made the original in the first place.

No, Tony now had to see the always-loaded rifles and the contraband weapons and realize that this, killing people, it was just business to them. They did not want him dead, they wanted him alive, but once they were done with him he’d be put down like a dog.

Tony had spent hours, days, almost weeks now knowing that he would likely die. “Likely.” Not for certain, but almost.

He had to wonder: how many people had realized that Stark Industries weaponry was turned against them and realized there was no “likely” about it, they were going to die?

He had been granted so much time to think and process. How many had only a few sparse seconds to breathe their last breaths? How many had been caught unaware, walking and breathing one second, lifeless the next?

He’d been spared it, and thank God for it, because he probably would have just shut down completely if not: Tony didn’t lose anyone to war. But his weapons, his work, his pride, his money, they had killed children. Parents. Siblings.

He thought about this so much one evening—one thought led to the next, each pummeling him harder than the one before—that he vomited his poor excuse of dinner in the quiet of the evening. Yinsen rarely touched him, but in that moment, he put a hand on his back and pushed the tin cup of water into his hand.

Yes, it did take finally being forced into the other guy’s shoes for him to realize that Tony Stark was a warmonger, pure and simple. That made it worse. It just proved that he lacked empathy, didn’t it?


It took showing Yinsen his blueprints for the man to give him an idea of what he was trying for.

(It also took a board game. They were allowed board games, because in the times where there was literally nothing to do but wait for something to cool or a tool to be found, they were encouraged to do something. To prevent insanity, Yinsen explained.)

Tony was starting to subscribe to the idea that it was just survival on Yinsen’s mind. Again, just wanting to live was admirable enough. He hadn’t thought about him having a family to return to until they were talking about it. He didn’t go into detail if he meant children, parents, or even distant cousins, just ‘family’ that he would see when he made it out. He made a point to say when.

When Yinsen asked if he had family, he said no on instinct. Because that had been the truth for more than fifteen years. His parents were dead. Even if Yinsen hadn’t just meant blood relation, Obie had been the closest thing he had for…ever. Even that was a stretch.

He regretted his answer as soon as he said it. It wasn’t until later, as they were choking down their daily gruel—maybe that was too generous, ‘sludge’ was more fitting—Tony admitted, “I lied, before. I have family.”

Yinsen didn’t seem surprised. “Oh?”

“I have a son. His name is Peter.”

Eyebrows raised up, more in response than in reaction. “I haven’t heard anything about a son. Or a woman, for that matter.”

“Yeah, there’s a reason for that.” Tony tossed back the last horrible swallow and set his tinny plate down by his feet. “Long story short: we met at a party, she got pregnant, didn’t tell me, she had a kid, she died a little over a year ago, I found out about him, and now he lives with me. Lived with me. Can’t say where he is now.”

Yinsen nodded. “Does he have your brains?” Yinsen stacked his dishes neatly, because tidiness was very important when you were being held hostage in a desert cave. “Or did you meet a woman who was smarter than even you?”

“He’s smart,” Tony scoffed. “Smart as a rocket scientist. His own teachers can’t keep up with him.”

 “You sound proud of him.”

“Only because I am.” He forgot sometimes how great a kid Peter was. Which—okay, he was Peter’s father, his judgement wasn’t impartial. Still…he was smart, kind, liked to make you laugh, well-behaved. A model kid.

“Do you miss him?”

Tony’s brows furrowed into a knot. “What kind of question is that? Of course I do.”

“Do you love him?”

Now Tony sat up straight. Yinsen’s face was calm in the firelight. “I repeat what I just said…!”

Yinsen hummed and stood to his feet, shrugging off his blazer. There were no coatracks or hangers for them, but there was a slight jut of rock above his cot that he used instead. “So why did you say you had no family, before?”

Fair point. “I’m not…used to it.”

“You said it’s been over a year now?”

“Yeah, I’m still not used to it.”

Yinsen didn’t turn to him, but he gave him a look over his shoulder Tony was quite familiar with now. When the skin around Yinsen’s spectacled eyes tightened just so, he was analyzing him. Or reading his mind. One of the two.

“I don’t have children of my own, but I have nieces and nephews I see often. My brother and sister-in-law are good parents. They’re people, they’re not perfect, but they love them. They care for them and want them to be safe. They want them to grow into good people.” He gave Tony another tight-eyed look as he unstrung his tie for the day. “I think you’re a good parent, too, but you seem…unhappy. Why is that?”

Because I’m not. Because Obie was right and I make promises I can’t keep. “Let’s just say that I do all that stuff but I have a real crappy way of showing it.” Another look. “Classic ‘Daddy’s-too-busy-to-play-catch’ stuff, you know.”

“But worse?”

“Well, ‘Daddy’s-too-busy-to-play-catch’ subtracted by the five years of his life I wasn’t around for and multiplied by his mother dying not even two years ago equals a bad ‘good parent.’”

All he got at first was a hum. “You’re right. You must be a terrible father. I’m sure your son hates you.”

“I see what you’re trying to do here—I’m going to get angry at you for saying that, and then you’ll turn around and say that that’s why I need to try harder—but just know I’ve had this exact conversation in my head a hundred times now.”

“Do you not want to be better?”

“You know the answer to that.”

“So why not be?”

“Because I’m not a good father, alright? I’m a bad father because I don’t care enough about my son but I’m not going to get better because I’m a bad father. It’s a loop. You’ve cracked the code. Congratulations.”

Tony went to his cot because he didn’t feel like being stared down anymore. It was good practice to take the sheets and bat them at least once every few hours. Got rid of the dust and ash before you needed them.

Yinsen was not a man who was dismissed easily, however, and he followed Tony until he sighed and faced him.

“I don’t know if you’re a good father,” he admitted. “I don’t even know if you’re a good person. I don’t really know you.”

“I’ve spent the past ten years of my life creating weapons capable of killing every man, woman, and child within fifty miles of them. You sure you don’t know?”

“I’ve spent the past several weeks helping the men that stormed my village and burned it to the ground. Maybe I’m not a good person, either. But as I was saying, regardless of whether you are good or bad, I’m sure you’ve heard the first step to change is admitting that you need to.” I took that first step a long time ago, Tony almost cut in, but Yinsen went on. “So since you’ve already heard that, I’d like to offer my own two cents, if that’s fine with you.”

“Go ahead,” Tony answered, and crashed down into his cot for the evening. He swore he almost fell right through. “No censorship here.”

“It’s not fair to put yourself in this kind of cage. It’s especially not fair to your son. I’d tell you that you have the chance to make right what Stark Industries has done wrong, but I don’t want you to throw up that dinner, so I won’t. It’s not fair, to be simple. But that’s just my two cents.”

Once he was done, Tony couldn’t help but think, That’s your mic-drop? I already knew that! But Yinsen didn’t give him any more looks, analyzing or satisfied, and that was it for the night. Soon after, the florescent bars all went dark, a clear “Go to bed.”

Yinsen and Tony both huddled under their respective threads, Tony unsure if Yinsen’s words were anything that would stick.


Screw it. Yinsen was right.

Yeah, Tony already knew what he’d been told. It wasn’t an actualized thought, though, more like a wordless feeling he’d written off as more guilt.

He wanted to get out of the hell he was trapped in because he wanted to live. A warm bed, real food, sunshine, peaceful nights—those would all be nice to have.

He wanted to get back to Pepper, Rhodey, and Obie, though. He didn’t want “proper goodbyes,” he didn’t want to say goodbye, period. He even wanted to see all the Parkers again. Maybe prove to May he did consider her a friend, even if it wasn’t apparent.

But he needed to see Peter again.

Something furious had taken hold in him—furious but warm. Even to just look at Peter through a screen, to see his growing curls and Stark eyes again, would be an incomparable relief. At the same time…Tony was careful not to provoke any of the Ten Rings gunmen, but if Peter was on the other side of a whole line of them, Tony would probably take on all of them with his bare hands.

What really kept him going was not unlike the very thing that had him take in his son in the first place an all-consuming, undeniable need to be there.

He NEEDED to see Peter grow tall.

He NEEDED to tell him goodnight before he went to bed.

He NEEDED to see him dressed up as Darth Vader for Halloween and wake up way too early on Christmas morning and see him make friends at school and be invited to birthday parties and try out for sports teams and study for exams and get nervous about his first crush and go on his first date and go to his first day of high school and wear an oversized tuxedo for Homecoming or Prom and shyly introduce Tony to his boyfriend or girlfriend and wear robes on graduation and move into his college dormitory and text Tony to complain about the classwork and come visit him on the weekends.

He had to prove to Peter that he wasn’t a bad guy, that he really did love him the same way Peter did him.

He hoped.

Yinsen saw it in his quick hands and steady gaze, his refusal to eat as much as a bite until he’d wrapped up his latest breakthrough. He didn’t smirk or preen about it; he was good at hiding whatever self-satisfied pride he felt at knowing his words struck a nerve.

Yinsen was a pretty good observer in general, really. He knew when to leave Tony be and when he was open to chit-chat. He was better at that then 90% of everyone Tony knew. He picked up quickly that once Tony lied down in his cot, he was to be wholly ignored.

Tony’s dreams didn’t change too much. There were still visions of returning home, or waking to see it was all just a bad dream.

Now, though, he woke not feeling hopeless or forsaken, but…affirmed. The dreams were no longer horrid taunts to hurt him further; they’d become reminders of what he had to fight for.

It was still hard work. At the end of the day, his fingers would be singed and his chest would burn from the inside-out. But then he’d think about an older, taller Peter waiting for him, and he hopped right back to work with no problem.


Their luck—or maybe time—had to run out eventually. The Ten Ringers (it was such a dumb name, honestly) watched them day and night, but let them be. Even after the new arc reactor, which pumped Tony full of so much raw energy he felt his veins pumping with it, they wrote off his and Yinsen’s nonstop work as further development on the homemade Jericho missile.

But once Tony had to put those “missile parts” on his arms and legs to test their fit and function, he knew it was just a matter of time.

Roughly a day, to be exact. That was show long they were given to finish the missile that would never be. What was Tony supposed to do? Let Mr. Clean kill his one and only companion?

So it was now or never. Tony and Yinsen were in maximum overdrive.

The suit came together like a puzzle, the wires a tapestry. Their burns and cuts were nothing. The real hurtle would be getting the reactor to power the suit without—you know, eviscerating them in a nuclear blast.

This meant their real intentions would be even clearer than ever before, so their solution was a “doorbell” on the iron hatch of the cave.

The bomb was very easy to make, actually.

There wasn’t any time to worry about anything, past, present, or future. The only thing Tony let himself think was This is it. This is it. This is it.

The only time they hesitated was when the first wire came to the arc reactor.

Yinsen looked up at him, the lens of his glasses shining blue. “For your son?”

“For your family,” Tony confirmed.

The wire went in, the reactor remained intact, and they went on.

They pushed themselves to the breaking point. They sweated and bled, hardly breathing. They were almost falling apart, but they couldn’t stop. not when footsteps thundered toward them, not when fire and smoke filled the cave.

If only Tony thought to thank Yinsen for everything.

It was the least he could’ve done.

Chapter 15: Chapter Fifteen

Summary:

For now, they would stay on the base and get him back on his feet. Tomorrow, he’d go home. Which was weird, because home was home, but he didn’t feel very much like Tony anymore.

Chapter Text

His skin was scorched. His throat was raw, dry. He was bleeding, weak, so broken each dragging footfall sapped just a little more of his nonexistent strength away.

But the arc reactor was still going strong and pumping energy through his blood. It was all such a weird combination. Hot and cold, weak and strong.

It would be awfully funny-not-funny if this was how he died. He had his chest blasted with shrapnel, car battery lodged in his heart, blazed by gunfire and explosions and finally shot out of the campsite like a rocket, but dehydration did him in. Ha, ha. Hilarious.

“Don’t waste your life.”

He was going to try, Yinsen, if he didn’t die five steps out the door.

Maybe he should have used his last breaths to leave a message in the sand. “Tell Peter I love him, tell Rhodey, Pepper, and Obie I said goodbye, it was the Ten Rings…” That wasn’t too long, right?

Wait. The wind.

Shit.

If he was lucky—and he wasn’t feeling very lucky lately—he’d be noticed by a helicopter, or a satellite, or…something. The only thing he could not do was stop moving, because he knew that the second he let his knees buckle, he would be unable to pull himself back to his feet again. It helped, a bit, to imagine he was walking just a little closer to Pepper, Peter, Rhodey…Kind of. He really hurt.

He didn’t know what time it was, what day it was, only that the sun was high and pretty damn ruthless. Even the wind was hot. Beneath the wrap he’d made out of his jacket, his neck was drenched in sweat and his hair was probably dripping grease. It would have been a relief to take it off, but looking at the patchwork burns on his arms, he kept it on.

He thought, darkly, that Christine Everhart was probably going to be happy about this. Her and every other anti-SI reporter. Sure, for a while, there’d be the typical Tony Stark: Now Gone, but Lasting Forever or some equally poetic titles on the magazines, but then people could say what they wanted to after the obligatory waiting period. Once a man who sat on a golden throne, died broken in the lifeless desert.

It was stupid, he knew, to be having the “I’m going to die out here” thoughts after all that, but that wasn’t really what they were. They were the self-hating, you’re-a-monster thoughts. He’d always had those. Nothing new.

Yinsen was dead, now, because of him.

Yinsen’s family, killed in a war he shared stock in.

Thousands of innocents, men, women, and children, shot dead in their beds or at their dinner tables with weapons branded with the Stark Industries logo.

The Ten Rings, or at least a good chunk of them, were also dead. That was all him, no ‘indirect’ about it. He was thankful he had the mask, because if watching their forms catch flame and become tongues of fire indistinguishable from their stolen treasure made him so ill, he hated to think about how it must have smelled. There was perhaps one second where Tony thought about how old those men were, if they were being forced to do what they were doing, if he was just as heartless as they were.

Then he remembered who he was confronting, and stopped feeling so bad about it. He was officially a killer and that was the thing he was alright with.

For now, he would hold out on hope until he literally couldn’t anymore. His legs hadn’t failed him yet, nor his lungs. If they did, there was nothing more to do about it, but at least he could say that he didn’t give up.

The wind was picking up now, piercing sand into his raw skin. He was starting to hate the desert more than the Ten Rings themselves. If he found water here, it’d probably be boiling hot and dirty, because everything here sucked.

Another spike in the wind, strong enough to thrum his eardrums, and Tony braced himself against it.

He then realized that was not wind, but rather something large, airborne, and mechanical coming.

It was probably his time in the cave that almost made him duck down, fearful that a squadron of the Ten Rings’ cronies were hunting him down, but then he turned and saw blades chopping through the air.

Suddenly the sand tearing his skin didn’t matter anymore. Nothing did.

Because in that moment, like a bucket of heavenly cold water pouring over his skin, Tony realized, I’m safe.

He looked like a madman, for sure. Red-skinned and dry as a rock. When the helicopters touched down and blurry soldiers came running for him, he thought he heard them talking about the glowing blue light in his chest. He didn’t care to explain. He wouldn’t have to.

For now, Tony let himself slip away, not to sleep but to complete fatigue. In no time at all, his tongue would touch cold water and his skin would be soothed, and he would get to eat real food and sleep in a warm bed. The things he’d now realized did not go away, but they faded to the background. Just for now.

The first of the soldiers came running right up to him, and Tony was prepared for the spiel. “U.S. military, Mr. Stark. You’re safe now. We need you to lie still.”

Instead, what he heard was, “How was the Fun-Vee?” and realized that it was Rhodey. He couldn’t stop himself from laughing, even if it stabbed his throat.


Turned out being trapped in a desert cave for three months—which Tony really couldn’t believe, but even he didn’t know how long it felt like—and only getting out through gunfire and flame did a lot to a guy, and getting back to the swing of things wasn’t a dream.

It was Tony’s fault, really, for making his rescue this idealized romance in his head. Oh, yeah! The soldiers would whisk him away on a helicopter and wrap him in a warm blanket and sing him lullabies while he dined on the finest of cuisines! That was how real life worked!

Yeah, no. There was no instant relief at any moment Tony was finally out of harm’s way. Injury-wise, his skin had basically been crisped. It was especially horrible on his shoulders. Tony made the mistake of looking and thought, deliriously, that his own flesh looked like a sponge. But it wasn’t irreparable. He didn’t even need skin grafts, just a lot of good ol’ doctor-prescribed medicine. There were other cuts and bruises to take care of, all relatively easy to patch up but not exactly soothe.

Something was up with his left arm, though. Not broken, but maybe sprained. Honestly, he drowned out the doctor’s words in favor of cuddling into the thin med-bay pillow. He needed to wear a sling for a while. Tony was supposed to be dead, so this was no problem at all.

They insisted, almost to the point of threatening tranquilization, on inspecting the reactor. Tony let them disinfect and salve however much they desired, but made it clear in no uncertain terms that it was not to be touched, prodded, tweaked, or twiddled. He could not emphasize enough how important it was, and they still seemed to doubt him.

There were other things. He’d dropped a dangerous amount of weight, but it could’ve been worse. He was in dire need of vitamins. Even his first meal was ruined for him. The first drink of cold water did zing him, yeah, but he was not prepared for the stomach roil that happened after a simple serving of beef stew. Too much of a change on his stomach, he guessed.

He still felt like he was dreaming—he still feared waking up to the cave’s darkness. But hey, if that was the case, at least Yinsen would still be alive.

Rhodey rarely left him. Tony didn’t want to cling, but he had to keep touching him. Patting his shoulder. One-armed hugs. Reminders.

For now, they would stay on the base and get him back on his feet. Tomorrow, he’d go home. Which was weird, because home was home, but he didn’t feel very much like Tony anymore.


Was Pepper always glowing, before?

Probably not.

She looked like that now, though. Bright. Shining. She was smiling as he stumbled down the ramp. Tony couldn’t take his eyes off her.

And yeah, he knew he should have gotten more medical attention, but he was tired—his first shower in forever and a half had also been ruined by the sting of water in his wounds. At the same time, seeing Pepper and Rhodey again had jumpstarted him. Heck, even seeing Happy standing at the door of his car filled him with relief. He was all the closer to getting to what he needed most.

He was also officially starved. A cheeseburger sounded heavenly.

More importantly, Tony was eager to start some change and keep his promise to Yinsen.

Pepper protested, always the responsible one, and sweetly concerned for him, but Tony was stubborn—that hadn’t changed.

“You’re going to scare him off if you collapse, you know that?”

“I’m peachy. But hungry. He likes Burger King, right? Burgers, Peter, press conference. Easy list.”

“Peter is fine.”

“I know. I still want to see him.”

“We can bring him to the hospital.”

“Don’t need one.”

“Tony—”

“It’s been three months. We’ve got to get caught up on work. First call whoever has Peter and then call a conference. I can call BK. Game plan.”

“You need rest.”

“Miss Potts.” Tony’s voice sounded firm but almost begging, all at once. “I want to see my son.”

Pepper’s list pressed together. She took a breath. “Okay.”


Maybe he should’ve been more precise, in hindsight. This might have been his fault.

“I meant Peter to come before the press conference.”

Pepper tucked away the phone she’d been talking into ever since they’d started moving. She seemed frazzled, but in a this-is-stressful-but-the-least-stressful-thing-in-three-months kind of way. “Obadiah said Peter is in there.”

He could already hear the excited buzz of a crowd outside. Cameras were clicking for no reason. He should’ve known there’d be a sea of smiles and cheers. It didn’t exactly put butterflies in his stomach, though. “Why?”

She looked helpless. “I don’t know; I’m sorry.”

He must have been in some kind of private room, Tony guessed. He’d be able to duck his way through the crowd—“Sorry. Mr. Stark will be back in a moment.”—and close a door. Acknowledgement of the people, then a private, happy reunion. It was a fair compromise.

Tony was buzzing so much at this point the sight of reporters outside the window didn’t faze him at all. Neither did seeing Obie, for a different reason. It wasn’t the same as seeing Rhodey or Pepper. Seeing Obie was not refreshing. Obie was turned and performing for the crowd. Tony was expecting a pang of joy at seeing Obie again—he’d known him for so long. He just felt…neutral, now.

But whatever. He’d see Peter soon.

So when the door opened, he waved to the cheers and the cameras, leaned into Obie’s hug while the older man was still grinning from ear to photogenic ear. He looked exactly the same as Tony remembered him.

Tony dropped his voice low, just the two of them. “Where’s Peter?”

“Hold your horses.” Then they had to go back. What a welcome-back.

He let Happy carry the Burger King bag while Obie led him in. At least no one was going to judge him if they noticed the kid’s meal inside. Three months held hostage in a cave? Sure. Get the man a kid’s meal.

He did kind of wish Obie would stop acting like a circus ringleader for a minute, though. The man’s smile was loud.

Getting through the crowd to the stand was nauseating. So many lights, so many voices. So many strangers clapping him on the back. And was it even real? Yeah, sure, everyone was worried about him, but he doubted anyone there had actually missed him. He swore the reactor itself was screaming, “Go away!”

So he was not going to see Peter first.

Great.

He didn’t have time to be upset, though, not when the “new era” was just around the corner. It was time. He was sitting on the floor and wolfing down a third cheeseburger, and it was time.

The world was watching as he talked, and even he didn’t think he was going to mention Howard, but he did. It was true, he didn’t know what he thought of Stark Industries, if he’d ever had a realization like Tony had. Warmongers, the both of them.

Pepper and Rhodey looked concerned, in the back. Obie looked wary at his side. The sea of reporters was rapt.

He was rambling, threating to burst, really, of all the thoughts that had been sardine-packed into his brain for the past three months.

But then he stopped. In letting his eyes search the crowd, he saw the second-floor landing and the people leaning against the railing.

Rich, as tall and messy-haired as ever.

May, eyes wide behind her glasses.

Ben, larger than life but gaze full of worry.

And in Ben’s arms, Peter.

Someone cut his hair, was the first of coherent thoughts that came to Tony, after he spent a few seconds too long just…staring. That was all he could do. He couldn’t move even if he tried. Something had hit him like a freight train.

Peter had hit a growth spurt. Finally. It wasn’t extreme, but it was there. Longer in the limbs, not as painfully doe-eyed. The sleeves of his hoodie, the SI one Obie had gotten him as a welcoming gift, still threatened to swallow up his hands. Somehow he looked exactly the same and too different for Tony to take, all at once.

His hands, still small, were braced on Ben’s shoulders as he faced Tony. He saw that Tony was looking at him—Tony saw him blink—but he didn’t wave, or smile. He stared. He watched.

For half of half of a second, Tony was disappointed at the lack of anything resembling happiness. But…no. It made sense. The next time he saw Peter was supposed to be when he got back from a business trip. Now Peter was seeing him after months of everyone questioning if he was even still alive. He might have looked as different as he felt.

And hey.

Maybe Peter wasn’t happy to see him.

Maybe he was neutral.

But Tony was happy, in the worst way he’d ever felt happy. Even as Peter just stared, and a crowd of flashing cameras separated them, he wanted to just go up there and take him into his arms and promise, promise, that he wasn’t going anywhere, ever again.

He didn’t, because this wasn’t a dream. This was real, and it wasn’t fair.

No one noticed him staring at Peter, no one asked why. Maybe it had only been a few seconds. He must have just looked thoughtful, after everything that had happened. It wasn’t the reporter asking the first question, what had happened in that cave, that snapped him out of it. It was Obie’s knuckles bumping against his arm. To the crowd, it seemed like a comforting touch. To Tony, it was a warning to get it together.

He did, enough to stand up. Then he announced the discontinuation of the weapons manufacturing and walked away before he got caught up in the shitstorm that followed.

Dawn of the new era.


He made it clear that he wanted to see Peter next. Now. Period. End of sentence. The burgers were getting cold. Come on.

It took some puppeteering for Pepper to get a room they could meet in. Only they knew where it was—them and no one else, not even Obadiah, because Tony did not yet have the energy to deal with Obadiah. Him aside, no doubt every person who had so much as a distant cousin who worked with the media would be hunting him down. The room they got was small, with no windows, but Tony felt unbelievable relief once he got inside.

He honestly wasn’t expecting Richard to grab his hand and do the shoulder-bump thing.

“Good to see you,” he said. There was a lot of sincerity. Even though Tony had never gotten the feeling that the younger Parker brother hated him, he’d been an unwilling part of Tony’s get-shitfaced-while-Peter’s-in-your-care routine.

“You too, Rich.”

May didn’t touch him—not surprising—but she didn’t even seem to believe he was real. Her head was tilted just so as she took him in up and down. They stood apart from one another, quiet, until May took just one step forward.

“You scared us,” she admitted. “We thought you were…”

She didn’t finish.

“’M not. Obviously. Do tell, how have the Parkers been?”

He got no answer, which was more annoying than anything else. He recognized this kind of atmosphere from when his parents had died: concerned, wanting to help, while at the same time not wanting to talk at all because what was there to say? It was human nature, really, but man if it didn’t grind on his nerves. As if what had happened to you was a piece of spinach stuck in your teeth everyone felt they should point out, but didn’t.

“Nevermind. Anyway…” He sat down in the nearest seat. What kind of room was this, even? A meeting room? “How’s the squirt been? How many doctorates has he gotten?”

Damn. Even Pepper hadn’t given him the How the hell are you joking right now? look.

“He’s been…good,” Rich answered. “Healthy, I mean, not—not happy.

“Where is he?”

“With Ben,” said May. “Pepper said they should come in a different way in case some reporters were tailing you.” She crossed her arms over her cable-knit sweater. “He’s been staying with us; we said Richard’s been busy with work so…you know. He’s had to go to a different school, but—are you really going to eat right now?”

Tony extended the little box while munching on a fry. “Want one?”

May just blinked at him. Richard offered. “He’s probably in shock, May, don’t…”

“How am I in shock? I ate mystery meat hash for three months straight. I’m going simple on French fries.” May’s look wasn’t angry, it just wasn’t amused. “I don’t think this is funny, Miss Parker, but I’d rather be happy about this. I don’t want Dad to be a mess when he comes in.”

For once.

He was maybe surprised to see May’s gaze soften instead of harden. He’d take it. it wasn’t that he needed her approval, necessarily, but it was nice to know he had it.

The door creaked open. Enter Ben, Pepper, and Peter.

There wasn’t even a second to catch their breath before Pepper said, “Alright, I think we’re good. Happy is keeping an eye out.”

Ben nodded at Tony as he entered. At the very least, his hesitance seemed to come more from not wanting to put a damper on things than not being able to acknowledge it. “Hey, man. Good to see you.”

Tony pulled himself out of the zero-focusing on Peter. He stood a little closer to Ben’s hip when he set him down. “Mm-hm.”

Pepper took a glance down the hall. “Do you guys want to go?”

“Yeah,” Ben breathed. He ruffled Peter’s curls. “We’ll be outside, bud.”

Quickly but not rushing, all the Parkers but Peter stepped out of the room. Pepper gave Tony one last look he couldn’t even read before shutting the door.

Had silence ever been so loud?

Tony was unsure if he should stand up or stay seated, so he went with the latter and just didn’t move. He looked tired, surely, Slumped back with his sling-held arm over his belly. He hoped the cuts on his face didn’t scare him.

Peter seemed okay with not moving, either, save for a slight sway and twiddling fingers. He still wasn’t smiling. It felt a little strange, seeing him there and real. It was as if Tony was seeing him in too much detail, down to the tiniest of freckles.

“Hey,” Tony greeted.

“Hey,” Peter replied.

How was this a hundred times worse than when they’d first met? He’d imagined this going a lot of ways and “awkwardly” was not one of them.

“May said you’ve been staying with them. That right?”

Peter nodded. “Mm-hm.”

“What school did you go to?”

“South Haven.”

Tony hummed. “That’s the one you went to before, wasn’t it?”

“Mm-hm.”

“Did they recognize you?”

“Carrie and Liam did.”

“No one else?”

A shrug. “A lot of them go to the other schools now.”

Well, it had been more than a year. Kindergarten to first grade. “Did you do anything else?”

“Uncle Ben took me to a Mets game.”

“Yeah? Did you like it?”

“It was fun. We had to sit behind the—the net, but it was fun.”

Tony didn’t want to push him into talking when he didn’t want to, but…He was supposed to be trying. He was always supposed to be trying, of course, but he’d made a promise.

“Did I scare you?”

Peter scratched his nose, not uncomfortably. “I thought you were dead.”

Well, if that didn’t spear him right in the heart. At the same time, what else was there to expect? Peter was a little too smart to be convinced that Tony was absolutely hunky-dory.

“Yeah? Who told you that?”

Another shrug. “No one.”

“So why did you think that?”

Hesitation. “Everyone was just saying that you might be, so…so I had to ‘prepare myself.’ like you might be—dead, but you might not be, so…”

He didn’t say it, and maybe he couldn’t because he was so young, but Tony got it. When you’re five, no one tells you that your mom might die one day. Then she does. So when everyone says your dad may or may not be alive, you’ve already been shown how unfair life can be, so you think, “He is.”

Tony didn’t even know who “everyone” was, but he couldn’t be mad at them. It was either be painfully realistic with his kid, or potentially set him up for the worst lie ever told. Not an easy choice.

“I’m okay. Sorry I made you worry.”

Peter seemed unconvinced at best. Tony hadn’t noticed before, but his eyes had been flickering to his arm. “Does it hurt?”

“This?” Tony bounced it. A sting of pain hit his shoulder. “Nah. All good.”

“Did they beat you up?”

Be realistic, but not brutal. “A bit, yeah. I was hurt for a while. ‘M alright now.”

Peter was still frowning, though, and had yet to come any closer. “What does ‘torturing’ mean?”

What? “Where did you hear that?”

“Sometimes the people on the-the news would talk about you and they said people were torturing you.”

Realistic but not brutal? “‘Torturing’ is when someone hurts someone a lot because they want them to be in a lot of pain.”

“Did they?”

“Ummm…Kind of. They were bad guys, so…they did bad things.”

“What does ‘comeuppance’ mean?”

“Did you hear that on the news, too?”

“Sometimes Aunt May watches it and I can hear it from my room—”

“No more news. For either of us.”

“Okay.”

Even behind the questions, Tony could tell Peter was worried. That didn’t make him happy; it couldn’t; because that was a horrible thing to be happy about. Plus, Peter had no doubt been left in the dark for all of this. The adults would talk about your dad, Peter, but they weren’t going to talk to you.

An idea came to him.

“Hey, come here.”

He did, slowly, until his little sneakers were almost toe-to-toe with Tony’s shoes.

Tony asked, “You want to know a secret?”

“What kind of secret?”

“A super secret. Some people know about it, but the only ones here who have seen it are me and Rhodey. No one else.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“You’re not lying?”

“…No.”

The door wasn’t locked, but he trusted the others to keep the coast clear, so he loosened his tie and went to unbuttoning his shirt. Only being able to use one hand made it tricky.

The reactor cast blue orbs of light into Peter’s eyes, which widened to the size of golf balls.

“Whoa.”

“Yeah. Whoa.”

“What is it?”

“You know that big blue generator thing I showed you at SI that one time? It’s like a mini version of that.”

Peter’s fingers were twitching at his side, but he didn’t say anything, so Tony did. “It’s okay. You can touch it.”

Slowly, Peter reached out and brushed his fingers against the cool metal. Tony felt his fingertips ghost across the edge, making sure that it was really there, not just stuck on.

“Why do you have it?”

“The bad guys hurt me really bad. There was a man there named Yinsen. The only good one. He made it for me. And he helped me get out of there.”

Maybe Peter picked up that Yinsen hadn’t made it out, or maybe it didn’t even occur to him. He kept his hand on the reactor.  Sometimes, in the sleepless nights in the cave, Tony had done the same. There was a small, almost pulse-like thrum inside. Peter felt it.

“What does it do?”

“It keeps me healthy. Safe.”

“Forever?”

Tony shrugged this time. “Almost.”

Then Peter pressed his hand a little harder, and Tony remembered again:

This was real.

He wasn’t going to be taken away again. More than that, he would wake up tomorrow, and the day after that, and the day after that, and Peter would be there. He was home.

“Hey,” he whispered.

“Yeah?”

“Can I get a hug? Welcome home hug?”

So close already, Peter just reached out and wrapped his arms around Tony’s neck. He didn’t try to pull away when Tony squeezed him close, or when Tony turned and kissed his head. For that moment, he let himself just listen to his son’s breathing and think that this was good. Progress was good.

Chapter 16: Chapter Sixteen

Summary:

So the mansion was really just their own little world, for as long as they had it.

Chapter Text

The new new life probably began the second he stepped out of the cave and into the sunlight. Or maybe it was when he announced the end of Stark Industries’ weapons manufacturing. Or maybe it was when he and Peter were eating Burger King and talking about what had happened while Tony was gone. Who was to say?

Whenever it started, Tony thought he’d feel a little better about it. No, he did. He just didn’t think there was going to be so much backlash.

From stockholders, yes. Talkshow hosts and their guests, sure. Obie, absolutely.

(Why wasn’t he at the airport? Why did Tony only first see him at the press conference?)

Pepper and Rhodey, though, he thought they were going to have his back. instead, Pepper had started a nonstop stream of sighs and Rhodey—who had to report back to duty ASAP, which couldn’t be helped—was answering his texts in monosyllables.

Tony wished he could make them see things the way he did. It’d be real nice to just grab them and shake them and yell, “It’s not about the money! Forget about the money!”

At the same time, he knew it wasn’t just the lost investors or stock drops. Pepper was looking at an approaching shitstorm of fury, and Rhodey was probably worried about how he was going to go about defending his country with a military that just got one of its legs cut off. No doubt both of them worried, even a little, that Tony was going delirious.

The public bit back, and very quickly at that. News anchors were jabbering on about the cessation of SI weapons on every channel, interview requests came in by floods, and Tony had to close down mail, electronic or otherwise. Even the sources who had been very anti-Stark before were trying to figure out what was going on inside his head. Tony didn’t look into what had been said about him while he was gone.

He wasn’t allowed to stop, but he let himself breathe while he still could. Board members were practically screaming for him, so he had to tune it out.

And Obie…had gone cold on him, at least for now. Maybe seeing the reactor, or confirming that Tony had gutted the weapons manufacturing in favor of the arc technology, had been too much for him. Obie had given up smoking for three years when Tony had been taken, and he’d come to meet him with a huge rolled-up cigar in his mouth. So.

In the eye of the storm, and intending to go on after, Tony tried to focus on Peter. He wanted, more than anything, to just hole themselves up in the mansion and watch cartoons and eat junk food. But they didn’t have that much time, and he didn’t want to overwhelm Peter, so he kept it simple but attentive. Burger King, Home Alone, checkers.

Peter unwound the more time they spent together, but still seemed a bit wary. Tony had his spells of unwavering fatherly attention before, and they’d all ended in him drifting away until the next one. That was fine. Tony had waited three months to see him again, he could wait for him to come around.

Peter told Tony about school, his friends, the Parkers, and so on. Pepper called him at least once a week just to make sure he was doing okay. Rhodey had even come by Queens for a visit. Tony appreciated that very much; Peter shouldn’t have to bounce between two separate worlds.

Ben and May really stepped up to the plate while Peter was with them. Almost every little story Peter had involved them and what they all did together, from camping in the living room of their apartment to swinging by a different pizza place every Friday night. It was a glimpse of what could have been if Tony had decided he was not going to take Peter in…or, if he’d never been told Peter existed at all.

But when he asked about Obadiah, on an afternoon they were spending primarily on the couch playing games, Peter just sort of shrugged.

“What?” Tony asked gently. Most of the time, he could get through Peter’s hesitance with just a little nudging.

Peter tried to re-arrange his cards in one small hand. “He didn’t want to talk to me. Do you have any fours?”

Tony passed one over. “Not at all?”

“Mm-mm.”

Tony hummed. That wasn’t awful, he guessed. Obadiah and Peter had never been very close. It was more of an acquaintanceship. “Any twos?”

“Go fish.” Peter paused, considering, and offered, “He was really mad when he called us to—to come to the—the—”

“Press conference? Maybe he was stressed.”

“Shouldn’t he have been happy?”

“Maybe he wanted to be and he just had a lot of stuff he had to do.” Tony almost asked Peter to fork over the fives he knew he had, but it was bothering him: “How was he mad?”

“He just…yelled a lot. On the phone.”

“What did he say?”

Peter hummed an ‘I-don’t-know’. “He was talking to Uncle Ben and Uncle Ben was mad but he—he didn’t say why.”

Well, that was a red flag. Uncle Ben should never be described as ‘mad’. Still, Tony wanted to offer some empathy. It wasn’t okay, per se, but Obie was always a prickly sort when he was stressed. He didn’t mean to throw Obie to the wolves, either, but that was what the press and shareholders had become: one big pack of hungry wolves.

So the mansion was really just their own little world, for as long as they had it. Peter settled back into his room, R2 roamed the halls once more, Tony once again had someone to bid goodnight and good morning to. He didn’t want to smother Peter, really. He was just very, very relieved to be back and that wasn’t something that could be vented through tinkering and repairs. Tony vented them in kissing Peter’s on the forehead just about any time he left the room, carrying him around for no reasons at times, and—if Peter fell asleep somewhere besides his own bed and Tony carried him back—just running his fingers through his hair to assure that they were both there and real.

In total, three things were on his mind. Peter was the priority, Stark Industries as a hole was the second place holder, and the third was an idea at the back of his head that was getting more and more realized, like a fire being fed more wood. It wasn’t just spending time with Peter at the top of his list, either, it was everything to do with his past, present, and future.

Wary but not quite scared, Tony wrote up a rough draft of a will—there were fair divisions between Rhodey, Pepper, and Obadiah, but the vast majority would go to Peter in the event that something happened to him and he didn’t make another phoenix-esque rise from the ashes. He couldn’t guarantee Peter a future as SI’s head honcho, but he could do for him what Howard had (admittedly) done for Tony and set him up on a path that could lead him to it, if he so desired. Obadiah had been a great interim before, he could do it again. If Peter decided he wanted to be something else—anything else, from janitor to astronaut—then Tony felt alright leaving SI to Obadiah. It was great to know they both had a wonderful supporting team.


Pepper was dreading going into the mansion now, even though she really, truly did not want to hold it against Tony.

She was happy that he was back. When she’d gotten that phone call and heard the words “We found him, he’s safe,” she was only a little embarrassed to say she had shed some tears of relief. The last three months had been a living hell. Every day entailed her inbox and cellphone being bombed with messages, meetings called ‘late-notice’ when they should’ve been called ‘panic-induced’, and everyone and their grandmother asking her for answers like she was some kind of all-seeing guru. Oh, and Obadiah Stane had been a delight to work for. Sure, he seemed apologetic and ashamed after the fact, but did anyone like having their boss treat them like a punching bag that also got them coffee every morning?

Plus…she’d been worried. She had missed Tony’s spitfire cracks and dry wit, and she even missed him being far behind schedule and getting him dinner when he forgot to eat. The image of him bleeding and broken had tortured her many times. The image of him cold and lifeless had killed her a dozen times over. Calling Peter had helped—his light had dimmed but was not extinguished—but also reminded her of how empty the mansion had become. She’d happily given him a hug when he came to the press conference.

So yes, she was happy to have Tony back in (almost) one piece. Not unlike Tony, however, she had foolishly expected IcyHot levels of instant relief. But whereas Tony’s expectations were squashed by how reality worked, Pepper’s were squashed by the fact that three months locked up and tortured in an Afghan cave had not killed Tony’s recklessness.

And occasional, blinding stupidity.

She’d been freed of Obadiah, thank grace, but now she was at the mercy of the world at large.  The questions of the future of SI had returned with ten times the urgency and a healthy dose of “What about my money?!” Pepper told them over and over that Mr. Stark was not releasing anymore statements and was healing at home—which was to say, completely ignoring doctor’s orders by taking his arm out of the sling and not getting any rest—but it was like using a watergun on a forest fire.

Pepper dreaded going to the mansion because she knew it wasn’t going to do any good. She’d come in, get some vague instructions, and tap away on her tablet until she was good to head out once again.

J.A.R.V.I.S. did not announce her arrival, and Tony was not in the sight. A red SI hoodie was draped over the couch and a half-empty pizza box sat on the coffee table.

She did hear voices, though, coming from Peter’s bedroom. Curious, she stepped closer, thankful that she was wearing flats instead of heels that day.

Tony said, “Okay, now press that.”

Peter asked, “This?”

“Mm-hm. Then…here.”

The door was open enough for Pepper to see into the room without being seen herself. Tony was kneeling on the carpeted floor—the room was in dire need of some six-year-old messiness, as its owner had left it vacant for three months—in front of Peter, and both were huddled over something. A phone?

“Okay.” Tony flipped the phone shut and open again, back to its main screen. He let go and let Peter hang onto it with hands almost too small for it. “Show me you can do it.”

Peter obediently tapped some buttons until he got to a screen Pepper could see had two big circles, red and green. “And then I hit that?”

“You got it.” Tony sounded satisfied, but shut-and-opened the phone again. Peter navigated to the contacts list, which wasn’t long at all. Not even ten numbers. “You can’t take it to school, but if anything happens and one of us isn’t there, you use this, okay? First me, and if I don’t pick up, call Richard, then Ben…you know. and you know how to call nine-one-one?”

“Mm-hm.”

“Magnifique. Now call me, just to be sure.”

More button-pressing, and then Peter lifted the phone up to his ear. “Back in Black” began to play, muffled, and Tony reached into his pocket with a raised-brow look of surprise.

He hit the answer button, held it to his ear. “Hello?”

Peter asked, “Can you hear me?”

“Yes, I can. Can I ask who this is?”

Here Peter frowned, confused. “It’s Peter…?”

“Really? My son’s name is Peter, too! I’m actually trying to teach him how to use the phone right now, so can you tell me what you need?”

And here Peter’s face finally lit up in one of those straight-to-your-heart smiles, and he giggled, “Dad!”

Tony grimaced. “Ooh, sorry, buddy. Think you’ve got the wrong number. I’ve only got one kid. Sorry again. Bye!”

He hung up and looked up at Peter with a natural, expectant face, as if Peter wasn’t giggling right in front of him. “Sorry ‘bout that, Pete, wrong number. Try calling me now.”

Peter did, still smiling. Back in black, I hit the sack—Tony answered the call once again.

“Tony Stark. Who’s calling?”

“Peter!”

A groan. “Listen, pal, I’ve told you, you’ve got the wrong number! I’m trying to teach my son an important lesson. Thank you!”

He hung up again and urged Peter on with an impatient, “Come on! I need to know you know how to do this.”

The next time ACDC started, Tony huffed and snapped the phone open, not even looking now, and Peter was absolutely pink-faced. “Now you listen here, Peter, my son needs to know—”

“Hi. Is this the wrong number?”

Tony and Peter looked up at her almost in unison. Tony looked at his phone screen, and sure enough, the caller ID read ‘Miss Potts’ and Peter had not yet hit the call button.

“Yes, it is. No biggie.”

He and Pepper hung up at the same time. Peter was still tickled, which was making Tony’s mouth curl in satisfaction, but he still chirped, “Hi, Pepper!”

“Hey, Peter. New phone?”

“Yeah! It’s got your number in it!” Peter glanced between it and his father. “Does it have to be about something bad? Can I—Can I just call if I want to talk?”

“Sure, you can.” Maybe Tony picked up on her mixed feelings about their favorite six-year-odld having her number at the ready, though, because Tony added, “But wait until Pepper calls you, ‘kay? Very busy woman.”

“Can I call Happy?”

“He. Would. Love that. Call him right now.”

Tony gave him a gentle nudge, and Peter waddled out of the room to torture the poor chauffeur. Pepper did not miss the warm, loving look Tony sent after him, but she fought down a smile.

“So!” Tony clapped his hands together and stood straight again. “What’s new out there in the real world?”

“The usual. Your business is burning into ashes and everyone hates you.”

“Yep, the usual.”

“Can I please just get some kind of official statement?”

“You can, but it’s not going to be anything new. SI will no longer be manufacturing weapons, for the reasons I’ve already listed—bloodshed, innocent lives, et cetera.”

“And everyone who has investments in said weapons manufacturing…?”

“Are more than welcome to pull out. I’m looking towards a new focus, but don’t quote me on that. It’s not official yeeaugh.”

Suddenly Tony was pressing a hand to his chest, and though dimmed by his T-shirt, Pepper saw the bright blue-white circle beneath his collarbone flicker.

Pepper only knew what Rhodey had told her over the phone: that the Ten Rings had blasted Tony full of shrapnel, and that the energy core in his chest was the only thing keeping him alive. She didn’t know how, but it was. And now Tony was clutching it with a wince of pain.

So, reasonably, she panicked. “What? What’s wrong?”

“Just…need an upgrade. This thing’s pretty much a rough draft.”

“Should I call someone?”

J.A.R.V.I.S.’s voice popped in, “Can I be of assistance, sir?”

“No to both of you. I’ve got it.” Still rubbing over the reactor in small circles, Tony narrowed his eyes at Pepper just so. “And please stop worrying about me.”

Pepper blinked. “You just—had a miniature heart attack.”

“Not that. You, Obie, and Rhodey are acting like I’ve gone crazy.”

“Well…Can you blame us?”

“No, but I can ask you to stop. I’m not going to pretend I haven’t burned a lot of bridges, but I’ve done it in a sane state of mind, I assure you. You don’t have to agree, just don’t coddle me, alright?”

For a second, all Pepper could do was purse her lips. “I’m just worried you’re setting yourself up for a lot of pain.”

“Undoubtedly. But I can take care of myself.”

“No, you cannot.”

“Fair enough.”

Then Peter came bounding back into the room with his phone extended. Tony pulled his hand away from the reactor. “Happy wants to talk to you!”

“Pardon,” he told Pepper, and took the phone. “It’s Tony.”

“Why is Peter calling me?”

“He has a phone now.”

“Why?”

“I gave him one.”

“Why?!”

“For safety, Happy.”

“Why does he have my number?”

“Do you not want him to? Hold on.” Tony beckoned Peter closer, and before Pepper could protest the strain on his arm, he scooped Peter up and put him on his hip. “Peter, Happy said he doesn’t want you to talk to him.”

“No, no, no! I swear—Peter? Put Peter on the phone.”

He did, looking quite satisfied as he carried his son out of the room while he kept chittering to Happy. Pepper watched them go for a moment, utterly torn between pleasure at seeing such a real, positive change in Tony and worry that what he’d said wasn’t quite true and that there was something going on in his head he wouldn’t say a word about.

Then she recalled why she’d come to the mansion to begin with, and followed. It might be like pulling teeth, but she had to at least try to get him to captain his sinking ship.


Well, if Tony thought Rhodey was miffed at him before, now he had confirmation that the Colonel was real and truly pissed. “Get your mind right.” Tony kept trying to be understanding. He was hurting Rhodey, he knew it. Kicking out a leg from under him. He just wished he could have his best friend’s support. Tony was feeling awfully alone.

He supposed he had Pepper’s support, in a concerned way. She had yet to say a word about his decisions and plans, but maybe that was because she didn’t know what they were. He was too in-cardiac-arrest at the time to laugh about it, but later remembering the sheer panic on her face as she pulled the used arc reactor out of his chest, he found himself chuckling.

Tony figured he had one more day, tops, before his absence at SI started to ignite literal fires. He retreated down into the workshop, the only place he still felt himself in, and mulled on the idea that had been festering in his head. It was neither a good idea, nor a bad one—neutral at best. on the one hand, it was going to take a tremendous amount of work, and he didn’t know what he was going to do with it. Revenge? On the other hand, work had never been an issue for Tony, and if revenge was in the plan, didn’t the Ten Rings deserve it more than anyone else on the planet?

Tony began with what he and Yinsen had created in the cave, but it was a rough draft of a rough draft of a rough draft. Powerful, yes, but clunky, finicky, and its last ever use was shooting him into the sky like the cork off a champagne bottle. He stripped the whole thing down to the skeleton before he got started.

When he had said skeleton at the ready, just a simple blue hologram, he heard the buzz of someone upstairs on the intercom.

“Dad?”

Tony stopped short. “Yeah?”

“I can’t get a puzzle from my shelf.”

Tony pulled his hands back at first, intending to go right upstairs to help, and paused. His first and only concern was that it would be dangerous, but then he thought that if it was just him and Peter, all he had to do was keep an eye on him. plus—for the first time in perhaps ever—he thought that he would like some human company in his workshop, especially that of his son’s.

“Hey, Peter? Forget about the puzzle. Come down here.”

“Why?” Peter asked, but the door was already unlocked and he was already padding down the steps.

Tony answered under his breath, “Because you’re going to love this.”

Chapter 17: Chapter Seventeen

Summary:

Tony wanted to have that familiar but improved life. He’d still have Peter, but he would be the father his kid needed and deserved. He still had Stark Industries, but no longer manufacturing weapons that would take the lives of those with no escape. He still had his mansion and his few companions and whatever else, but he now knew how to properly appreciate them now.

Tony could not…let go. If he’d ever told himself that he would forget about that cave, conscious or subconscious, he’d lied to himself.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Tony didn’t let Peter stick around for every single moment, of course not. He decided that Peter was smart enough not to touch anything that would cost him a finger. That didn’t mean he was okay with his kid being around open flames or spinning saws. Peter was a good sport about it for the most part-and yes, there were some moments that got a little too slow and Peter simply left.

Still, the project had almost become their shared secret. There was still school, Tony had to return to a burning ship, and life was just life. Between those moments, they sat huddled in the workshop like conspiring scientists. Tony let Peter hand him the tools. Over the flame of a blowtorch, they talked about Peter’s classes and friends and baseball. Tony did his best to have dinner together every night, even if it was just greasy takeout.

Rhodey somewhat came around in that he stopped by when he could—he and Peter acting like old college friends, honestly—but refused any mentions of S.I., the war, or anything similar.

Obadiah officially smoked one big, cartoonish cigar a day. Arc reactor development had begun and he was working right with it. His cooperation was real, but it seemed every smile he gave Tony had that “I hate this” edge to it.

“Pass the pepper, Tony.” (I hate this.)

“We’ve got a meeting on Thursday.” (I hate this.)

“Hey, Tony, how are you doing?” (I hate this.)

This was always what Obadiah had been, though. The man didn’t like wrenches in his plans or more work on his plate—as evidenced by his pushback on the idea of Peter coming to LA. That said, Tony had put forward a foundation-breaking change that could have spelled disaster. He knew the Arc technology would be phenomenal, but others didn’t. Maybe he was still a shit person for it. He was trying to be empathetic.

Everyone wanted to know what the project was, for different reasons. Obadiah probably wanted reassurance that they weren’t going to have to lay off hundreds of employees, Rhodey wanted a “sike!” and some brand-new army-issued tech, and Pepper wanted to know if she was going to have to hospitalize him for exhaustion. Tony was going one or two nights without sleep, but his body always had a backup supply of energy. Another only-him-knowing fact.

The Mark II was going to take quite a while for sure. Having an actual workshop only made him realize just how many things could be improved. Flight was going to be the major focus, but he had to establish an armor strong enough to not pancake himself after every launch.

Peter one day asked, “Are we making a robot?”

Tony answered, “No, not really.”

Then the arms and legs came together. “Are you sure it’s not a robot?”

“Nope. Not a robot.”

Peter finally snagged a look at the blueprints. “It looks like a robot.”

“Yeah. Kinda does.”

Peter often asked what they were making it for. Tony only answered, “For fun.” Because even he did not know what his plans were with this, just that he’d be a great deal happier once he had it. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d put such focus into a project. It wasn’t just passion, it was a need to see this through. As if it would prove something or another.

When the last touches to the thrusters were being made, Tony decided Peter probably shouldn’t be in the room for the first test. The reactor’s power might very well blast things to smithereens, and Tony would have liked one of those things to not be his son. It would be quite a tricky thing to explain to Ben or May or Richard. All he needed was DUM-E and J.A.R.V.I.S.

He was vindicated when he slapped full-body against the ceiling.

Peter’s disappointment was overshadowed by his concern. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Yee-up. Number three, please.”

Peter handed him the wrench obediently from his own little desk space. It wasn’t much at all, just some crayons, paper, and a Rubik’s cube (that he could solve), but it was enough to establish his place in the workshop.

Peter leaned forward. “How many fingers am I holding up?”

Peter’s vast knowledge of all things TV and cinema had taught him that this question was as foolproof as checking for one’s pulse. Thus, Tony answered, “Three and a half. Now four. Two. Five. Two again.”

Satisfied and smiling, Peter dropped his hand. So Tony returned to his tinkering—the sweat on his brow threatening to unstick the bandage on his forehead once more—but not five seconds later, Peter asked, “What are stocks?”

Tony first looked at Peter’s face, which had lost its smile, and then to the little screen on his desk. Tony hardly ever used it, as its main use was to hookup to the latest news if he so needed, from developments in the war to the stock crashes. And lo and behold, there was another photo of the Stark Industries’ logo, the article titled, Will Stark Industries Survive 40 Point Drop?

“Jar, put on Tom & Jerry.” The screen flicked away at once, and though Peter glanced at the slapstick, he kept his attention on Tony as he explained, “When you own part of a company, you have stock in it. The company gets money, you get money.”

“Is it like a video game? With the points?”

“Pretty much.”

Peter paused. “I think everyone’s mad at you.”

Tony laughed without humor. “You think correctly. Number four, please.”

“Did you do something bad?”

Tony stopped and thought. He didn’t want to lie, but he wondered how well Peter would be able to grasp more political concepts. “I made a decision that changed things for everyone else. It wasn’t fair of me, even if I did it to help.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. Don’t worry; everything will work out.”

Peter didn’t seem wholly convinced. He never did, no doubt knowing when an adult was just trying to cover up problems. He wanted to know what happened in the cave, but Tony couldn’t tell him those details.

The Parkers had never pried too much into Tony and Peter’s home life outside of check-ins and such. Perhaps they don’t want to dictate whether Tony was raising Peter “correctly” or not. Lately, though, they’d been making check-ins more frequently. Tony didn’t know if they, too, thought he was losing his mind and drowning in trauma and…he didn’t care. That was bad, but it was true. His patience wasn’t endless.

The first time Peter returned to Richard’s home, it was a surprise that Ben was there, too. The man was absolutely allowed to see his brother, but the timing was undeniable. Tony was not offended, nor did he feel “tricked.” He couldn’t, really, when Peter looked so happy to see him. Tony remembered that Ben had really, truly come to the plate to care for Peter in his absence.

So Tony was not at all unhappy to return home without Peter. Nope. Nah. This was the agreement. This was what normalcy entailed: a return to form. This was great. Fantastic. Superb. Peter was fine. Tony got some alone time. Ideal.

That didn’t mean he couldn’t call.

Ben didn’t even bother with a ‘hello.’ “You lasted thirty minutes longer than I thought you would.”

Tony leaned against the work bench. It was very unusual to not be able to focus on his work. “I’m flattered.”

“Peter’s fine. Currently stuffing his face full of popcorn.”

“Great. Star Wars?

“Jumanji. He likes other movies.”

It was a totally harmless tease, a total joke, Ben Parker-level kindness, but eesh. Right in the gut. “Yeah, I know. Just joking. Hey, if you don’t mind me asking: has Peter said anything maybe a little weird? Something I should worry about? If you think that’s invading his privacy, that’s—fine. Just figured I should ask.”

It was thoughtful silence, not judging. “Caaaaan’t think of anything outside of the usual…I mean—apparently you guys have some kind of project, but all I know is that it’s super secret.”

He laughed. Couldn’t help it. “Yeah. Super, super secret. Government-level.”

“So can I just come on out and ask if you’re okay?”

A sigh had to be choked down. “Okay in light of what?”

“Answer how you wish.”

Kind as ever. Ben would ask, but let you vent. “Okay, just not happy. Not exactly fun to have the entirety of the world dissecting your mental state.”

“You in any trouble?”

“Nothing that isn’t going to work out.” Hopefully.

Ben paused. “Is Obadiah involved in any of it?”

Tony was caught off-guard, but answered, “Yeah. Obadiah Business Stane—it’s his middle name.” So much so that he’d finally just went and told Tony to lay low while he sort-of took over for the time being. Tony was pretty sure he didn’t have to worry about security anytime soon, but he’d painted a target on his back for sure.

Ben just…hummed.

“Something wrong?”

“I, uh…I don’t know Obadiah that well, to be honest. Is he always…like that when he’s stressed?”

Tony immediately understood. “Yeah, listen…I know more than anyone how pouty he can be. Believe me. I’ll be the first to say he needs to work on it, but he’s not a bad guy. He’s just a good guy with a bad temper.”

“Alright.” Ben’s sigh ruffled the receiver. “Just making sure. I wasn’t sure if it was like some ‘true colors’ stuff or—no, crap. I’m not trying to be judgmental. Just…whatever. I believe you.”

He could have let it end there, but now Tony was curious, and a little wary. “So what kind of stuff did he do, anyway? Or was it just passive-aggressive, rolling his eyes stuff? The ‘don’t talk to me’ attitude?”

“He just…lashed out a lot. At everything. And everyone. I mean, from what I could tell. We tried to stay back from him while everything was going down, y’know? We didn’t want to make a bad situation worse.”

“I got you.”

“But we weren’t sure if there was something we should know—like if you had one of those protocols or something. We went to Pepper when we could, but she was as overwhelmed as you can get, so we tried Obadiah instead. Just…‘Hey, before we take Peter in, is there something we should know? Legal documents, stuff like that?’ and he just…blew a gasket. ‘Do you think I have any time for this? Do whatever you want with the twerp!’ Something-something, grunt-growl.”

“Twerp?” Tony had only heard of the kids in Peter’s classes insulting him, and it was stuff like saying he picked his nose or was stupid. Even in his moodiest moments, Obadiah had never point-blank called Peter something. “He called him a twerp?”

“I—yes.”

Ben tried to hide it, but Tony caught the pause in his voice. “Did he call him something else?”

“He…”

“Ben.”

“I mean…he called him a…a little shit once.” Ben must have felt the punch of outrage Tony got, because he scrambled to go on, “I’m sure he was just really stressed out and didn’t mean it. Like you said, he isn’t a bad guy, he just needs to work on that stuff. I know he’s fine with Peter. He’s nice to him. Just—Peter was stressed out, too.”

“He called him a little shit in front of him?”

“No, no, no! Peter was never around when we were talking about stuff; we didn’t want him to get freaked out. He just said that in one of his…”

“Temper tantrums?”

“Sure…?”

Tony tried to think of something to say and fell short. He was equal parts angry and confused. On the one hand, it was perfectly in-character for Obadiah to get even more irritable than usual when he had to deal with the undeniable hellfire that happened the second Tony went MIA. On the other hand, Obadiah’s moodiest lows always held a little bit of truth in them. All those arguments about being Peter to LA in the first place, when Obie told him he was not a man to do such a thing, he wasn’t masking his opinions there. Those opinions had changed, he’d given his eventual blessing, but…

Best case scenario, Obadiah really didn’t mean it and cracked under the unthinkable pressure, as any man would.

Worst case scenario, Obadiah actually still resented Peter, or the idea of him, at the very least. It took so much of everything else to get him to slip on it.

“Uh…Yeah. That’s not okay. Not okay at all.”

“Agreed,” Ben said with an awkward laugh. “But I’m sure he’s mellowed out now that you’re back, right?”

Eeeeeehhhh. “Not zen, but I’m sure he’s mellowed out a hundred times over.”

“Right. Hey, you know I’m not asking you to do anything about it, right? I’m sure you have enough to deal with, too.”

“No, no. I know when someone’s asking for favors. Don’t worry about it.”

Tony would, though. He figured a talk with Obadiah about his behavior was long overdue.

“Hey, Peter’s getting pretty annoyed that I’m not in the ‘theater’, so you mind if I go?”

“Go right ahead. Hey—uh—before you go.”

“Yeah?”

“I just wanted to say a formal thanks for…everything. I know you did a lot to keep Peter safe when I was gone, so. You deserve credit for that, at east. I owe you a hundred. Just tell me when.”

Ben chuckled sadly. “We both made promises, Tony. No need to thank me.”


School eventually came to its summer end. Babysitters returned to Peter’s life, but only occasionally, not the endless come-and-ago the last year had brought.  Laying low meant only occasional visits to SI, purely overseeing, nothing too much too fast. His own birthday came and went with little fanfare. No parties, no big blowouts, just him relaxing at home and getting some good food with Peter in just the next room.

Tony tried to get even more into the old swing of things, but it was hard. Nothing seemed appealing—clubs, yachts, anything money could buy. He could go on an impromptu vacation and not one person would judge him for it, but he just wanted to stay in the mansion with his workshop, Peter, J.A.R.V.I.S., and nothing else. He would prefer R2-D2’s presence over any reporter, any day, but oh how the press tried to break through to him.

It wasn’t that he was being lazy, either. Even outside of the workshop, he kept up his normal workout routine. His appetite was the same. It wasn’t so much that he’d gone cold sober that getting drunk just disinterested him. He wished he had said disinterest the many times he’d been left with a young son to care for.

It should have been easy, shouldn’t it? To just walk back into the life he’d left with open arms. Easier than easy. But it wasn’t.

Tony wanted to have that familiar but improved life. He’d still have Peter, but he would be the father his kid needed and deserved. He still had Stark Industries, but no longer manufacturing weapons that would take the lives of those with no escape. He still had his mansion and his few companions and whatever else, but he now knew how to properly appreciate them now.

Tony could not…let go. If he’d ever told himself that he would forget about that cave, conscious or subconscious, he’d lied to himself.

There were times when the smoke that came from the work of his own hands reminded him of the ashy air of his old “workshop”, the cavern of fluorescent lights and cold stone walls. Sometimes Peter would be doing the most benign of things, LEGOs or video games or reading books, and Tony would ruffle his hair and kiss his brow, remembering when he thought he would never see him again. When he heard or saw any and every news report of the war, the face of Yinsen—

It was only the wet sheen from the firelight that told Tony what was blood and what was ash. He couldn’t focus on that, though, not when Yinsen was speaking to him even as his eyes grew dimmer and dimmer. “Don’t waste your life, Stark.”

—would come to his mind.

Most often, it was tiny, little, simple things that made him think about the Ten Rings. They’d beaten him, drowned him, pumped him full of shrapnel, left him bleeding, like he was less than nothing. They watched him writhe in pain and smiled. They would have taken his life in an instant and never so much as bat an eye over it. And just to make all of that worse, they had done it, time and again, over and over, to so, so many others.

Tony was enraged in a way that he’d never been enraged before. This wasn’t some hot and burning flash, it was something dark that had taken root and wasn’t going to let go. The only time he ever saw any of them again was probably going to be on newspapers and news channels, but it didn’t matter. While Yinsen and his family and so many other families had their lives cut short, the Ten Rings—cronies and top dogs alike—were still alive and breathing.

Was Tony going to do something about it? He guessed not. The weapons manufacturing of SI was officially over—he wasn’t going to use them against the Ten Rings when there was no keeping them from anyone else. It was somewhat satisfactory just to be back home, as lame as that might have been. “Remember when you guys were going to pop me between the eyes when I got done making your shiny new toys? Well now I’m eating day-old takeout on my sofa watching Spongebob. Take that!

It wasn’t enough. Tony didn’t know what he was going to do, exactly, but living just wasn’t enough. He knew he was still “wasting his life”, someway or another. He wouldn’t be working on the Mark II if he wasn’t.


Do you have a minute?

No.

You did to send that text.

Don’t do this to me.

I just need to talk for a minute.

Is it serious?

Yes.

Is it related to the company?

No.

Have you thought about literally anything else?

When was the last time you ate?

I’ll send Happy over with some granola bars.

Someone has to man this fort.

Your instructions. Lay low.

I don’t deny that.

What’s going on? I’m really on a crunch here.

How much did you stay in contact with the Parkers while I was away?

Not much. They wanted Peter away from everything.

I told them to call if they needed anything but I guess they were all good.

But you talked.

We all did but it wasn’t much.

We had a lot to deal with.

It was hard to schedule get-togethers.

We were talking about it last night.

Did something happen I didn’t know about?

Like I said they didn’t reach out about anything.

No.

Said you said some things.

Like?

Insults. Dismissals. Lots of good ol’ bitterness.

I’ll admit I let my tongue slip a few times.

This isn’t just about back then.

This has been an ongoing problem you know.

What?

Saying stuff you don’t mean when you’re stressed.

Does this have anything to do with when we were talking about taking in Peter?

Because that was years ago and I apologized.

No.

I’d appreciate it if you didn’t try to spin this on me.

Apologizing is great and all but working on the actual problem would be better.

I’m just saying it would be nice if you stopped going oops when you lash out.

Obes.

Obie.

Don’t ignore my texts.

I’ll cancel your birthday party.

Don’t test me.

Obadiah.

I told you I’m busy T please.

I get it. I need to work on holding my tongue.

I’m sorry.

Just stressed.

If you weren’t you wouldn’t say it in the first place.

Just use that as an explanation not an excuse.

You might want to be extra sweet to everyone to mend some bridges.

Sure.

I’ll tell Peter I’m sorry for talking to him like that.

Talking to him like how?

Peter doesn’t know they didn’t tell him.

I meant ABOUT him.

But alright. I’ll apologize to the Parkers.

In the meantime lay low.

The fire is starting to go down.

Sure.

Take care of yourself.

Look who’s talking.

 

Notes:

Late merry crisis and a happy new year!!

Chapter 18: Chapter Eighteen

Summary:

It isn’t nearly as easy as just asking what is the problem, though, because he can’t get through the battle without ammuni—Bad analogy. It’d be much easier to tackle if he had an inkling to start with. He doesn’t, though, even after asking Peter a second time. In the midst of working on the new project, he is completely unable to focus, especially when Peter is there to help.

He should have known what the problem was. He should have. He didn’t.

Chapter Text

Peter’s birthday is not a huge deal. Not through lack of care—Tony offers him many ideas. Legoland? Disneyland? Anything? No, Peter just wants to stay home, order pizza, have the family together. He wants a colorful cake with the letters of his name as the candles. A lot of balloons. 

Tony does not question why Peter doesn’t want to do anything for his birthday. That’s not really what he’s questioning as of late.  

Tony thinks he knows kids pretty well by now, due in no short part to remembering being one himself. He'd had no problem running to his mother about bullies and boo-boos or scary sounds in the dark. If he kept his mouth shut, it was because he’d done something. Can't get into trouble if no one knows. 

Peter is different from other kids, though. He isn’t just smart, he’s observant. He reads adults easily. Plus, he’s a year wiser now. 

Also, Tony can kind of tell when Peter is hiding something. His son can’t lie to save his life. He can’t keep eye contact and can’t keep his voice even. Now, to his credit, he is a kid. No, Peter, Tony can not believe that DUM-E somehow managed to get all the way upstairs, break a glass, and get back down to the lab before Tony came to see what happened. 

Sometimes, though...he just gets quiet. Especially after assuring Tony that he’s okay. 

The birthday plan was fine. Tony won’t make him do what he doesn’t want to. Honestly, he wouldn’t have been surprised if Peter was as drained from the last few months as he was. If he just wants everyone at the mansion to hang out and eat pizza instead of walking around an amusement park for hours, that’s fine. 

There is something, though, and Tony was positive that it was everything he expected—the stress everyone’s failing to hide, or the media buzz that Tony can’t completely keep out, so Peter hears it all like cicadas outside his window. He was positive, until he asked. Is that what’s wrong, Pete? Are you worried about everything that’s going on? 

“No,” he answers, and Tony knows when his son is telling the truth.

Which means he was wrong, and he doesn’t know what’s bothering his son.

It isn’t nearly as easy as just asking what is the problem, though, because he can’t get through the battle without ammuni—Bad analogy. It’d be much easier to tackle if he had an inkling to start with. He doesn’t, though, even after asking Peter a second time. In the midst of working on the new project, he is completely unable to focus, especially when Peter is there to help.

He should have known what the problem was. He should have. He didn’t.

Peter’s birthday party was going fine. They were all together, eating pizza, R2-D2 rolling around with a party hat, watching Peter ooh-and-ah over his presents. All three Parkers were in attendance, Rhodey walked around out-of-uniform and basically carrying Peter everywhere like he was a king. Tony was striking up a good balance between being social and pulling away when the subtle look of Everything is wrong and I don’t know if we should talk about it in the others’ eyes got a little too not-subtle. Happy was avoiding him—more specifically, he was sitting cross-legged beside Peter to snap open tight bows for him like it was his God-given duty. The only person who could talk to him like a normal person was Ben, and Tony couldn’t expect him to stay glued to his hip.

Then, while everyone was meandering around post-pizza-and-presents, a certain guest arrived without J.A.R.V.I.S.’s announcement. He was one of the few people who could enter the mansion without one.

“Sorry I’m late,” Obie announces with the air of a father coming home to a set dinner table after a long day at work. He has his blazer slung over one shoulder and is holding a gift bag stuffed with polka-dot tissue in the other. “Very unexpected business to take care of.”

Everyone tried not to let the tension set it. That made it set in thicker, behind all the smiles-not-smiles and hums-that-aren’t-quite-greetings. Ben was trying the hardest, and looked maybe the most uncomfortable. Richard regarded Obie with neutral wariness. May looked like smiling pained her.

Pepper, though, she mirrored Tony’s look. Something is wrong here but it’s Peter’s birthday, so nothing is wrong here.

(Rhodey looked like he had no idea what the hell everyone was acting so weird for.)

“Glad you could make it,” Tony said in a thinly veiled attempt to hack off some tension. “There are party hats on the counter. Required for attendance.”

“Very funny.”

“Did I stutter?”

Obie just chuckles, and then he crosses the living room over to Peter. Ben looks at Richard, Pepper looks at Tony, May watches Obie, and Happy watches Peter.

It was that moment that Tony got his first inkling. The moment in which, watching Obie approach, Peter just ever-so-slightly leaned back and let his hands drop to his lap. In leaning back, he did so just slightly in Happy’s direction, as it to assure himself that he was not alone. Tony watched, and Tony worried.

Obie handed the gift bag to Peter with a big, crinkly-eyed smile. “Happy birthday, sport.”

Peter smiled probably the most horrific, gut-twisting smile Tony had ever seen. Not because it was monstrous or uncanny, but because a seven-year-old should never know how to give a fake smile. “Thank you.”

The rest of the party goes off just fine as long as the elephant in the room went ignored. It was hard, but they did so in hopes of giving Peter a reprieve from watching adults share pointed looks so as not to actually talk in front of him. Peter went to bed, seven years old, safe and tired and in his new star-print pajamas.

Obie’s gift was a Nerf gun. It is the one toy Tony never sees him use. Just like he never wears the SI hoodie anymore. Or the hat.

Tony has been picking up on the behavior around Obie for a while now, but he'd chalked it up to lingering fear of Obie’s Tony’s-disappearance-era anger. Ben had said he wasn’t around for any of the heavy talk. Peter had confirmed (in that murmured, “yeah” way kids do) that Obie had apologized if he’d hurt his feelings about anything.

Obie has gotten better. No more sarcastic smiles or snippy responses. Perma-grin Obie seems to be here to stay. Yes, his frustration peeks through sometimes. He seems to have a plan, though, or at least he knows how to deal with the more panicked board members.  

Obie has made a point to stick around more, too. He swings by the mansion at least once a week. If Tony had noticed any hesitance on Peter’s part to interact with him before then, he hadn’t really Noticed. They only ever saw each other for a few minutes when Peter was coming in from school, or Obie was about to head out.

He gets what he thinks is the answer one day, when Peter is in the lab with him, watching the screen load all the information into the computer system, and he asks, “I’m not supposed to tell Obie about this either, right?”

“Right. Top secret. Me and you, no one else. Did he ask?”

“Yeah.”

“What did you say?”

“It’s a secret.”

“Mm.” Tony hesitates. He doesn’t want to push it, but he doesn’t want to drop it either. “Was he upset?”

Peter keeps his eyes on the screen. “He keeps asking.”

“Yeah?”

“Kinda.” Peter doesn’t miss Tony’s silent look to explain. “The first time he asked—he just—he asked what we were doing and I said it was a secret. He hasn’t said—he hasn’t asked that again, he hasn’t asked what we’re doing in the lab, but he…”

Peter falters, not out of unwillingness to continue. Tony had this struggle when he was around this age, too. He knows what he wants to say but he doesn’t yet have the vocabulary to actually say it.

“Hey, do you know what the word ‘imply’ means?” Peter shakes his head. “Okay. When you ‘imply’ something, that means you’re saying something without really saying it. So if a teacher looks at you kind of angry and tells you to go to the principal’s office, they’re implying that you’re in trouble, right?”

“Okay.”

“Has Obie implied that he wants to know what we’re doing down here?”

“Yeah. I think so.” Peter visibly thinks. “He just…he says stuff like—he says stuff like he wished he knew what we were doing. He said he bets it’s really cool.”

Okay. Well. Question answered, then. No, Tony doesn’t like the idea of Obie nudging his seven-year-old for the answers Tony refuses him, but that isn’t anything to crucify him for. It’s maybe even funny, Obie’s not-too-subtle desire to get not just in Tony’s lab, but his head, too.

Peter is a good confidant, which is unfortunate for Obie. Tony has not once been confronted about what they’re doing by Pepper, the Parkers, anyone. Which doesn’t necessarily mean Peter’s a good liar, but that he can keep his mouth sealed for a secret.

So Tony settled that Peter’s hesitance of Obadiah stemmed from the man’s attempts to pry into his and his father’s secret.

Another good thing: Peter isn’t miserable. He’s not walking around with his head hanging and his feet dragging across the floor. He perks up like a firework every time Tony tells him it’s lab-time. He’ll talk for what feels like hours about school and a book he’s reading or his favorite TV show. Heck, Tony even likes the return of such seven-year-old traits as wanting to stay up past bedtime, or being too messy, or rolling his eyes when Tony tells him to do something. He’s happy to know Peter is still a kid and he hasn’t been aged by everything that has happened.

It does occur to Tony, however, that while he is fine being cooped up in the mansion—yes, Rhodey; yes, Pepper; he is fine. He’s not getting cabin fever—Peter probably isn’t. He doesn’t actually say anything to Tony about it, but it does occur to him that it’s been more than a month since they’ve actually gone out to do something like they used to do. Tony’s determination to finish his project burned as bright as ever, but he could put that aside for the two of them to get some much-needed R&R.

He asks Peter when they’re working in the lab one day, Peter dutifully handing him every tool he needed from the rack. “How about you, me, and the Parkers all make plans to go out next weekend? We’ll do anything we want.”

Peter smiles, and it warms Tony’s heart.

It ends up being a boys’ night out in the end—the Parker brothers, Peter, and Tony. The soup kitchen where May volunteers is expecting a rather large rush that particular weekend and they need all hands on deck. She tells Tony this when he calls to ask, and her wish for them to “Have fun!” is genuine. So Tony is more and more assured that maybe May Parker is okay with him now.

Ben agrees to come with enough sincere happiness to make Tony wish he could clap the man’s back in person. Richard agrees with a tentative “if he can” and just a little hint of I still question your mental state.

And Peter, he is so excited. So wonderfully excited.

“Where are we gonna go eat?”

“Anywhere we want.”

“Are we going to go see a movie?”

“Sure, if we have time.”

“Can we go to an amusement park?”

“We sure can.”

The thruster set up behind the sheet of Plexiglass roars up, and the two of them spend a second just watching the bright blue flame stream out of the end. Tony ups the capacity, the jet brighter and longer, and when it finally starts to flicker, he makes a note and shuts it off.

They are tantalizingly close now, almost too close for Tony to handle. It felt bad in a good sort of way to be excited for two things. Tony is excited to go have a Boys Night Out with his son, the mellow-tempered Richard, and King of Making You Feel Like an Actual Person Ben Parker. At the same time, he kind of knew that the Mark II was going to be on his mind the entire night, niggling the back of his brain. He wasn’t getting his priorities screwed, he was just excited.

Peter looks out at all their work for a moment. Tony usually likes his workspace clean and tidy, but he can’t help the organized chaos this time around. It isn’t horrible. They can clearly see just how far everything has come together.

“Why are you making this?”

Tony’s fingers paused on the computer screen. It wasn’t the first time Peter had asked ‘why’, but it was the first time he’d asked it generally. Not ‘Why do we need to screw that in?’ or ‘Why do I need to stand back?’, but ‘Why are we doing this whole thing?’

He answers, “Just because. It’s like when you draw a picture. You just want to.” And see, Tony isn’t trying to lie. The answer came out easily, but once he’s said it, Tony knows that he’s just lied.

Peter knows it, too, the clever little guy, and he just says (in a tone that is way too implicating for a kid who just learned what that word meant not too long ago), “This is a lot of work for wanting to do something.”

Tony leans back in his chair and crosses his arms, not angrily. He turns the chair to face Peter, who does the same—albeit he does have to push against the counter to turn. They do this sometimes: just regard each other, not upset or awkward. Just taking a second to silently say ‘I hear you, but I’m thinking.’ Peter patiently kicks his legs beneath the chair. Tony should probably get him a custom one.

“I don’t know why I’m making it,” Tony tries again with a bit more honesty. “I just want to, even though it’s a lot of work.”

Peter glances at the image on the computer. It spins in place for a full 3D rotation of what will eventually be real. “Are you going to do something with it?”

“Yeah. I just don’t know what, though.”

“You’re going to be fly, right?”

“If I can get it to work right, yeah.”

“If you do, you can just do that.” A little lazily, Peter extends his arms out to his sides and tilts his body like a plane. “Just fly around whenever you want and never have to take a car anywhere.”

He’s old enough now that he is a little wary at the idea of the suit flying instead of being in starry-eyed awe, but young enough that he doesn’t understand that even if it works, Tony’s not going to be able to just fly around all willy-nilly. Tony loves him. “There’s an idea. Every time I want Burger King, I’ll just zip on over.”

“You can take me to school.” Peter holds a hand in front of his face. “You’re going to have a mask, so no one would be able to see you.”

“You just want to fly, too, don’t you?”

“Yeah.”

“And all the other kids to think you’re cool.”

“Yeah.” His son’s face pinches together into an expression that’s probably supposed to be intimidating. “So everyone would know to never mess with me.”

Tony’s smile drops just a little bit. “Do the kids mess with you?”

“No, but they’d know not to mess with me.”

Tony nods and taps a finger against his temple. “Ahhhh.”

Peter does the same. “Ahhhh.”

For the next week, Peter goes back to school and Tony hoards himself up in his laboratory. He’s starting to feel lonely, honestly, between Rhodey being kept lock-and-key at work (and also, still pretty pissed at Tony even if he did call neutrality for the birthday party) and Pepper letting him be in favor of helping out Obadiah and SI in general. Tony can’t lie and say he doesn’t miss Pepper being around at any given moment with her quick brain and refusal to take Tony’s bullshit, but he’s not going to keep her with him like a service animal when she could be doing actual work elsewhere.

The suit is also so very, very, very, very close now. Just behind the curtain. All it is now is a matter of tests and practice, and Tony usually isn’t so cautious but recent events have somewhat changed his mind. Peter spends most nights with Richard—the now-official physical therapist having been so busy he’d hardly been able to see Peter at all for two weeks, so it was a matter of swapping time—and Tony questions if he wants to wait to do the first launch until Peter comes back.

He knows that the suit isn’t going to go nuclear or anything, but his last couple of flight tests have been far from perfect. After giving the hoods of his cars a nice toasting, he really, really, really doesn’t want to do the same to his son. Still, if Tony is careful enough, it’d be such a huge moment for them to share.

Also…Tony is impatient. He feels like a kid that was just handed a big wrapped present and told “Don’t open it.”

Obadiah swings by at least once a day, and Tony is more and more impressed by his improvement. If he comes by around noon, he brings lunch, and he and Tony will take a minute to sit in the kitchen and eat. Once Tony tries to gobble it down to get back to the shop (rude, but helpless), and Obie chides him in a way that is almost fatherly.

They talk about work, of course, but in a much better way than they had before. Obie is just updating him, really, not trying to guilt him into doing one thing or another. If he brings up the board’s impatience with Tony’s continued absence, it is because Tony brings it up first. He asks maybe once a visit what he’s got going on in the workshop and drops it.

Tony considers asking him to stop asking Peter…but thinks against it.

The more that Obie comes over, the more Tony sees and understands just how much this is taking out of the old guy. It had been Obie’s decision to take over, yes, and the whole situation is just one huge shitstorm media attention, panic, stock, etc. But Tony has to remind himself sometimes that Obie is in this just as much as he is. If Tony’s out of the picture, it’s on Obie to shoulder all the responsibility and backlash. There shouldn’t be one, singular person for everyone to point fingers at and blame, but there is, and it’s Obie.

Tony is so grateful that Obie is letting go of his habit of letting his stress vent out in snippy remarks and snaps of impatience, but there’s no way he can just command the man to not be tired. When Obie sits, it’s with a breath of relief. When he stands, it’s with a groan to brace himself for more work. When he talks of work, the occasional sigh slips through his words, and Tony knows they’re all genuine.

He owes Obie an olive branch, probably, not just for the past few months but for all the months Tony was locked in the cave, unable to even dream about helping SI. He wonders if Obie thinks he resents him for anything. He doesn’t.

In one of Obie’s visits, the day before the big hangout, the two of them are sitting on the sofa of the living room, drinking fresh-brewed coffee and watching the latest Mad Money. Jim Cramer is finally talking about something besides SI, but no doubt he will be back to it soon. Probably not the most relaxing programming.

An idea occurs to Tony. “Hey, we were all thinking of going out this weekend.”

Obie took a slurp of steaming coffee. “Who’s ‘we’?”

“Me, Peter, Richard, and Ben.”

“Mmm. Boys’ Night Out.” Obie glances at him and smirks. “You know you can’t bring Peter to a strip club, right?”

“Wasn’t in the agenda, but thanks for the footnote. You should come with us.”

Obie finally takes his eyes off the TV to look at him. “Sorry?”

“Yeah, you should come with us. Get out on the town and stretch your legs. Wear something besides a three-piece. Particularly, that one. That has to be the fourth time you’ve worn it this week.”

“I have several suits in slightly different shades of gray and I won’t explain that to you again.” Obie pauses for a second and takes another, much quieter sip of coffee. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea, Tony.”

“Explain.”

“Well, in case you don’t have working eyes, the Parkers aren’t particularly sweet on me.”

“I thought you apologized?”

“I did. Doesn’t mean we’re going to hold hands and skip through the daisies.”

On the one hand, Tony wants to build some bridges here and get this whole…not really a family, but ‘unit’ working healthily. On the other hand, he is suddenly a little grateful that May isn’t going to be able to make it now.

“Hear me out: for the first time in forever, no one is going to have to worry about work or deadlines or board meetings—”

“First time in forever for us, you mean.”

“—and we can all just relax and talk and do whatever it is four grown men and a seven-year-old boy do for fun in town.” Tony paused with the lip of his coffee cup just inches from his mouth. He dropped it back down to his lap. “That sounded much weirder than I intended it to.”

“It sure did.” After a brief chuckle, Obie’s face twisted just so, his nose wrinkling as he swirled his coffee around in his cup. “I don’t know, Tony. I don’t think a night on the town is really in my schedule right now.”

“Then force it in. It’s probably not even going to be six hours, Obie. Come on.”

Obie downs the last of his coffee—in a swallow so big Tony blinks in concern for a second—and with a loud pfwah, answers, “Fine. But if I need to leave, I’m hightailing it out of there with no questions.”

So for once in a blue moon, everything was looking pretty alright. One night to have fun and maybe mend some bridges, and he got to spend some good out-of-the-house time with his son as a bonus.

Peter is spending that night at Richard’s, too, and the plan is to ride with him and meet up with Tony and Ben at the rendezvous point. Tony had texted Richard and Ben both earlier that day to tell them that Obadiah would be joining them. Ben answered with a simple thumbs-up emoji and after a simple ‘Will he be able to?’, Richard agreed and left it at that.

Oh, Tony knew for a fact that there was going to be lingering tension, but the point was to get through it. If they were all at least civil with each other by the end of the night, Tony would be more than happy.

As for Peter, he figured that Obie would at least have the sense not to bring up the Secret Lab Project on their night on the town. If not, Tony would easily find away to just stem the conversation away, and maybe then he would tell the older man that Peter just didn’t want to talk about it, so please stop asking. Peter had no reason to be wary of Obadiah and Tony wanted to prove that to him.

But then.

A little after eight, Tony’s phone rings. He almost does not catch it over the hum of the processing computer, but he manages to pick it up right before the call ends. The caller ID reads Richard Parker. Tony had picked a stock image of a tiger as the photo.

“Hey. Sorry for not picking up sooner. Working.”

“It’s okay. Um…I—Listen. I have some bad news.”

Tony pauses the processes so the computer quiets down. He can hear Richard perfectly fine, but he suddenly feels like he can’t have a whisper of noise interrupting them. “What’s up?”

“Peter’s just…not feeling good right now. He says his stomach hurts.”

Already, Tony is striking through the entire schedule for tomorrow. Disappointment settles heavy in his chest. “Oh, man. Is he taking any medicine?”

“Yeah, I gave him some, but—you know—tomorrow, he might not…”

“Yeah, yeah, no. Absolutely not. It’s no big deal. Nothing important.” Tony licks his teeth for a second. “Hey, can you hand the phone to him?”

“He said he doesn’t want to talk right now…sorry.”

That there is no pause in the answer tells Tony Peter had preemptively told Richard that. For some reason.

“No, it’s alright. Just, uh…Tell him not to worry about it. We’ll see if he’s feeling better tomorrow.”

“Yeah. Alright.” A pause. “Sorry, Tony.”

“It’s fine.”

It’s…probably fine.

Chapter 19: Chapter Nineteen

Summary:

He's made it clear as crystal that he isn't going to be making any first moves. It is all on Tony to put the first foot forward. Peter has almost left no ambiguity that he is angry, bitter, even prickly, and he won't welcome him with open arms. He has to strategize about this, because again: boundaries and going too far beyond them. Pushing the envelope without breaking it.

Chapter Text

There aren’t many things he can honestly look forward to anymore. What pulled him through those months of darkness in the caves, tightrope-walking between life and death, was the need to survive and right what he’d done wrong. In certain moments—when the barrel of a gun pressed against his temple, as he watched Yinsen’s eyes go dim, as he forced his legs to stumble through the desert sand—he had to imagine specific scenes of what life would be like once he got back home.

Tony knew he’d idealized it far past unrealistic, but he figured that was for the better. The more perfect the idea, the more tantalizing. He created imagery straight out of a Disney film. In his imagined scenarios, everything was in bright color, everyone was smiling, there were no imperfections to be seen. Stark Industries only existed as that vague thing Tony had to do before he came home to spend time with his son.

He knew it wouldn’t happen even before he was taken into the grueling medical care of the military. His more-than-awkward reunion with Peter, Obie being more focused on business than him, Rhodey dismissing him when he announced the discontinuation of weapons manufacturing—they weren’t stabs in the heart, in hindsight. More just continuous reminders not to get in over his head.

In a way, he just kept lowering his standards a little bit. It was easier to take it bit by bit than diving straight to rock bottom and wallowing in how horrible everything was turning out. He wasn’t going to get his familiar comradery with Rhodey back, but they could still have minimal conversation. He couldn’t get Obie to stop using Stark Industries as a personality trait, but he could be supportive of his changes to be better.

Most importantly, he couldn’t get Peter to have a picturesque relationship with him where he smiled every time he so much as looked at Tony. He could work on having a good relationship, though. Muuuuuch better than what it had ever been before.

Every day, he’d just lower his standards a little bit more. It wasn’t easy. More than once he’d been filled with a burning urge to just hunt down the rest of the Ten Rings and kill them all with his bare hands—impossibility of that be damned. He couldn’t accept anything less than perfection when it came to the Mark II, but he reasoned that that had to do more with craftsmanship than his own wants and desires.

Tony had thought that perhaps he had unknowingly hit the lowest point and was now on the incline. Obie was getting better, the Mark II was coming together, Rhodey was talking to him in more than two syllables at a time…When the plans for their little impromptu “Guys’ Night” had been cancelled, he had a knee-jerk reaction at first like everything had just gotten worse. It was child-level immaturity, really. Like, “What? We can’t go to the park because it’s raining? Life as I know it is over.”

That weekend, while Tony worked on the Mark II at maybe a little slower of a pace, he had to splash some cold water in his face and wake up. It had nothing to do with lasting resentment of anything. Cancelling plans because you got sick happens to literally every person on Earth. He had to get over it.

But then Peter comes back from his stay at Richard's, and he's...different.

He's only talking to Tony if he starts the conversation first, and it's only short responses, "Yes", "No", "It was good." Tony invites him to the lab for some more development on their "project", but he declines. He has altogether stopped approaching Tony for anything, whether it be getting something from a high shelf or just those questions that come to kids sometimes, like "Where do babies come from?"

(Side note: they have avoided that conversation thus far. Thank. God.)

Tony asks him a couple times what's up, but all he gets are shrugs and "Nothing." All in all, he seems like he's avoiding Tony as much as he can with them living under the same room. If Tony enters the room, he'll leave soon after, often with R2D2 in tow. What really has Tony confused is when he finds out that his son's video game system has glitched some way or another and won't play games anymore. He doesn't know why Peter didn't tell him.

He tries to be an actual, functioning, reasonable person about this. That something is wrong is clear as day, but it might be as simple as he might've broken something. Even that idea has him hesitating, because it's not guilt he's seeing, but no—It's fine. Peter is a kid, and kids can have secrets.

Then—then—Peter asks if he can spend the weekend at Richard's. Again.

That is also fine. There is no reason for Tony to feel offended by that, maybe he just wants more time with his honorary uncle. When he calls Richard about it, he just agrees without any underlying tone of the other man knowing what the secret is, if any.

Tony thinks all this to himself, and is almost proud of himself for not immediately diving into the deep end and deciding something is incredibly wrong and his son must hate him. Then he realizes that all of the thoughts of "this is fine" is just another form of doing just that, and just chides himself. He even tells J.A.R.V.I.S. to tell him "Calm down, sir" just so he can hear it.

For all this time, Pepper has kept up her routine visits to the mansions. To her knowledge, Tony has been holing himself up in the lab day in and day out, and she offered some hobbies to otherwise occupy his time. Writing a journal, for example. Tony had shot that down almost immediately, but he wasn't sure why until around this time:

If Tony documents every thought that bounces around his skull in a book, he and anyone else who could possibly lay eyes on the words would think, "This guy is such a pathetic drama queen."

So he settles on slapping himself in the face, pulling himself together, and dealing with it. He can never, ever, ever again try to imagine that Disney-esque setup for them.

Just when he thinks that he has finally got himself up and running again, he gets that message from J.A.R.V.I.S. that he had so hoped he would never have to hear again for the rest of his life: "Peter is crying."

Tony runs back upstairs faster than he's probably run in his entire life. He barely constrains himself from bashing down the door, instead knocking with his knuckles and trying not to sound so out of breath when he speaks. "Peter, are you okay?"

The response is non-verbal. He hears a hiccup. There is no shuffle of movement.

"Peter, can you open the door for me? Open the door and I'll help."

There's the telltale sound of someone trying to breathe when there are tears in the way—a shuddering, painful huh-huh-huh-huh followed by a wet sniffle. "I don't want to!"

He's used to Peter snapping at him, like when he's just gotten a scolding. He's used to Peter crying, like when he's just hurt himself. But Peter has not just been scolded, and J.A.R.V.I.S. has reported no physical harm, so Tony can only assume that something is very wrong. Judging by the vitriol, he has a part in it.

He tries one more time, "Peter, please open the door."

He does not open the door.

Tony knows that all parents can and will make mistakes, some more than others, some less than others. He falls into the former category. He has royally screwed up too many times to count at this point. Even if he hadn't, he's just wary about setting boundaries like this. He has to put himself in Peter's shoes: he doesn't want to talk to anyone or be talked to, especially not the person who is (probably) the problem in the first place. But he also has to acknowledge that he's the adult here, and he can very well just demand the door be opened or open it himself. There's your kid being mad at you and then there's your kid being pissed at you, and are they justified, or are they just emotional because of their youth?

Tony does not get into the room that night, and after, Peter goes back to the new, bad normal. No talk, no smiles, just shrugs and "Nothing."

Just when he thinks he's about to snap and go from Parker to Parker to figure out if anyone has spotted a negative difference, if they're positive that nothing has changed, he gets it served on a silver platter. Or rather, via a "Back in Black" snippet on his phone.

Ben goes through the trouble of breaking the ice first, but that's fine. The oldest Parker brother is a courteous fellow who doesn't like to pounce and bombard you with what he really wants to talk about. He at least wants you comfortable at first.

In any case, it's all extra fine because Ben asks him a question that has Tony sighing in relief, despite being a question that would normally have him on edge. "Has anything...I don't know...not-good happened over there recently?"

"Well." Tony throws the oil-stained towel off his shoulder before he answers. "Can I first request that you tell me why you're asking?"

On the other side of the line, Ben clicks his tongue.

"Well, uh...You know, May and I—we video chat sometimes, you know? Just...whenever. To keep in touch. Especially when it's been a little while."

"Yeah."

"Well, we did that this past weekend, and Pete seemed just a little distracted about something. He wouldn't really talk about what's going on over there and just—kept asking questions about over here. Like if we've changed anything about the room he and Mary used to sleep in when they stayed over." A few too many seconds of Tony digesting this go by. "I'm not saying this to freak you out or anything, but I thought maybe if you knew if something was wrong, maybe you could tell us so next time we talked we could help him?"

"Yeah, no. Yeah. I've noticed but I thought maybe it wasn't anything..." He runs a hand down his face and off his chin, and recovers way too chipper and way too quick. "No problem! I'll uh...I'll let you know the word as soon as I get it. Scout's honor."

"Great! Great. Just give me a ring whenever. I'm always here."

So now Tony had given a sworn word to get to the root of the problem, not just to himself.

He spends time in the lab tweaking little things on the suit, tinkering with scrap, doing chickenscratch work, all in the hope that it will jumpstart his mind in the right direction, but no dice. He spends hours on end racking his memories for something he said or did, but he comes up short at every end.

This all seemed to start after Guys' Night was cancelled, so he thinks that maybe it's that. Maybe it upset Peter so much, and maybe that was because they hadn't done anything worthwhile in so long that it just made the blow hit harder.

Actually…as Tony goes down the rabbit hole, it makes more and more sense.

Working on the suit has been their main source of entertainment and time together for so long now. No trips to amusement parks, no going here, no doing this or doing that. He’d been so sure that Peter liked working with him—and he did, Tony didn’t think he’d misread any of his smiles and trills of excitement—but had that enjoyment been underlined with just going with what his father asked? Not so much to comply, but to keep Tony from being upset, to preserve the thing that kept them together the most.

So Peter has to deal with all the adults in his life talking in hushed voices, always worrying about the things he’s not allowed to know about, and he doesn’t get that much reprieve. Did getting sick and having to miss out on an actual, fun outing just remind him that that outing was an exception and not the status quo? Was staying at Richard’s an escape? In calling Ben and May, was he remembering what life used to be like for him?

Thing is, assuming that his suspicion is even correct, actually approaching Peter on it is going to be a whole new nut to crack.

He's made it clear as crystal that he isn't going to be making any first moves. It is all on Tony to put the first foot forward. Peter has almost left no ambiguity that he is angry, bitter, even prickly, and he won't welcome him with open arms. He has to strategize about this, because again: boundaries and going too far beyond them. Pushing the envelope without breaking it.

He figures that maybe he can do what most do and lead in with some casual conversation, how-are-you, oh-cool-picture-you-drew. Then he can just calmly ask. Emphasis on the calm. He doesn't want to come off like he's interrogating Peter, or that he has in any way, shape, or form done anything wrong. Should he be paying mind to his body language, too? If he sits between Peter and the door, will he think that he's caging him in? If he crosses his arm, is that an instant sign of anger? If he squats down, is that condescending? Perhaps he shouldn't have thrown out You've Got This after all, he would've sat through five hundred more tree metaphors if it meant getting at least a little guideline—

"Tony?"

Pepper stops just a few steps into the room, and has a very Pepper expression of furrowed-brow concern on her face when Tony turns around to face her. She looks as prim and tidy as ever, even has a clipboard in hand, but there's nothing prim or tidy about the to-go back in her hand. There's so much grease on it, it's practically transparent.

Tony comes closer with his hands in his pockets, the image of fake nonchalance. "Si?"

She blinks and comes closer, step by slow step, until her lips have pursed back together and she's relinquished the bag unto him. "I was going to say, 'Here's your lunch order, I think they forgot the extra ketchup'...but then I saw you looking out the window like Jay Gatsby and I thought maybe I was in for another Tony Stark-brand conversation."

"Tony Stark-brand conversation." Tony sits down on the sofa, she sits in the armchair. Judging by her look, she doubts the cleanliness of eating such a greasetrap on the fabric, but she says nothing. "How would you describe that?"

"I enjoy my job immensely, and I wish to keep it, so I think I'll keep that to myself."

"Shucks. I was looking forward to a vocabulary lesson." He pulls out his cheeseburger and digs in, table manners be damned. It's his house, he'll eat greasy fast food like a starving wolf if he pleases. While he's chewing a motherlode of a bite, he takes a peek at the other burger, extra pickles, no onion. Peter will be happy when he gets home. With the food.

Pepper sets her clipboard on the table and just sits there for a minute, cross-legged and hands on her knee, watching him eat. She was pretty open about her condemnation of his table manners before, but seems more forgiving as of late. She has seen him a thousand feet lower, he guesses.

"So," she says at long last, when the silence has shifted from acceptable to awkward to uncomfortable. "Can I ask what's on your mind, or just...leave you to your Burger King?"

"Nah, go ahead."

So he waits, and she realizes he isn't going to go ahead and say it. She sighs, looks off into space for a moment, annoyed. "What's on your mind, Tony?"

"Oh, the usual. Crashing business, targets on my forehead, world on fire. Lack of sleep due to trauma-induced nightmares." Pepper doesn't even smile, but since when has she ever? "It's dark comedy."

"I don't like it."

"Humor is subjective."

"Alright, well, forgive me if I'm crossing a professional line here, but I'm going to take a little stab in the dark and say that's not the whole truth."

"Well, first of all, if there was any professional line to even exist in the first place, it was evaporated the first time you found me post-New Year's Eve. Second of all, what gives you that idea?"

Pepper tucks a length of coppery blonde hair behind her ear. Tony watches it a little too closely and catches himself. Her...brightness hasn't dimmed a bit since he saw her again at the airport. She's too blinding to look at too long now.

"I'm not trying to insult you or anything here."

"You're not," he says, not sarcastic, reassuring.

"I can just kind of tell when you're stressed on a work level and when you're stressed on a personal level. When it's work, you lock yourself up in the lab and are always in a rush to get back, and then when the problem is solved you celebrate in one way or another. But when it's personal stress, you're just...quiet." Pepper lets that hang for a second, then flicks her pen at the windows. "I didn't even have to say all of that. You don't Jay Gatsby when you're work-stressed."

Tony isn't surprised. He knew all that already. It's not that it isn't nice to have someone actually ask him what's wrong, but neither has he ever been the type of person to wear his heart on his sleeve and lean on a shoulder as soon as it was offered to him. He takes another scarfing bite of burger before he speaks again.

"It's personal."

"So do you mean that as in, 'Yeah, you were right, it's personal,' or do you mean that as in, 'It's personal, so don't ask about it.'"

Tony hums. "Are you asking about it?"

"I'm not not asking about it."

"Careful, Miss Potts. I'll get the impression that you care."

He gets the classic Pepper Potts look, eyebrows furrowed, lips parted, knowing that he's being sarcastic but still not appreciating the humor. "Did you just—forget that I pulled your reactor-thing out of your chest?"

"So you do care?"

"Nevermind." Not huffy and not not huffy, Pepper crosses her legs the other way and turns her blank stare to the view outside the windows instead. The tiny shake of her head is almost unnoticeable. "I'm sorry for interrupting your meal."

Tony raises his hand in surrender and cleans his fingers off with the papery brown napkin in the bag. They sit there in silence as he does it, Pepper watching him. This is one of the many, many things he appreciates about Miss Potts: she knows him well enough to know all his quips and jabs aren't actually at her expense. Even if he toes or even crosses the line sometimes, she's mostly accepting when he waves the white flag and doesn't double down on him. She somehow tolerates his behavior and refuses to at the same time. It's unique.

"It's about Peter," Tony finally admits. It takes a little weight off his shoulders, if only for a moment. Look, chalk it up to him being prideful or steely or whatever other synonym would better suit his father than himself, he's just never found too much use in venting when a solution could be found instead.

Then again, he hasn't found a solution. So.

The last remnants of annoyance on Pepper's face evaporate instantly. She doesn't coo or fuss, and Tony is eternally grateful for it, because he would have otherwise shut the conversation down at once. She just asks, sincerely but calmly, "Did something happen?"

"I don't know," he answers honestly. "I've been thinking about it, and I've gone over everything I've said and done for the past couple of weeks, but I'm coming up short. I think it has to do with us cancelling our get-together."

"So he's...angry?"

"Or sad. Or worried. Or all of the above. I don't know the specifics, but something's wrong. I can tell." Pepper just tilts her head just so. "He's quiet, you know. Doesn't want to talk about anything. He asked if he could go back to Richard's this weekend."

Pepper considers this for a second. "If he's not talking about it, maybe it’s something else? Maybe he's guilty? Like maybe he broke something?"

"Jar would've reported it. Besides, guilt on him is as obvious as an open book. One with big letters for kids." Tony leans forward and rests his elbows on his knees. Behind the fabric of his shirt, the arc reactor sends a little electric tingle through his chest. Not painful, but maybe he should look into it later. "Now if all the other details were that easy to read, I wouldn't be Jay Gatsby-ing."

“How do you know it has to do with the get-together?”

“I don’t. I’m just assuming.”

"Well, what did he say when you asked him?"

Tony shrugged.

Pepper's eyebrows furrow a little further. "What do you mean, you don't know?"

"No, that's what he said. He said—" Tony shrugged again, more emphasized.

Her lips form a little 'o' for just a second, and then she thinks about it. It isn't cartoonish, but Tony can read her thought process on her face. First there is consideration, then an inaudible "wait", then more consideration just before she asks, "Did you ask what was wrong like, 'Hey, Peter, I've noticed you've seemed pretty down lately, what’s the matter?' or did you ask what was wrong like, 'Hey, something wrong'?"

Tony's knee-jerk reaction is to rib her for her very terrible impression of him, but he stops himself for two reasons. For one, this isn't a ribbing sort of conversation anymore. For two, Pepper is right, and he knew this before they even started talking, so Tony can't even act like he just had an "Oh, maybe that was it" moment. He hadn't even been looking for a talk like this when he'd sat down, but he especially hadn't been looking for a talk where Pepper unknowingly asked questions the way an archer shoots an arrow at a target.

Pepper's palm goes upward, urging him to answer, and Tony takes a deep breath. "I am trying to find a...course where I can ask him that without crossing a boundary."

Pepper blinks one, two, three times. "Boundary?"

"Boundary. He obviously doesn't want to talk to me, so if I try to force it, even gently, I don't want him to think that I don't care about his feelings. Just because I'm his father doesn't mean I am entitled to all his secrets, and he needs to know that he has his rights to privacy—" Tony cut himself short, stuck a finger into the air. "I just realized I am unironically quoting that shitty parenting book and I'm going to stop now."

"So just so we're clear," Pepper says, very slowly, "you haven't actually asked him what the problem is."

"I am strategizing."

She rubs her brow for a minute, clearly wanting to facepalm instead but restraining herself. Tony can't find it in himself to be offended, just ashamed. He holds to what he says, but he's also aware that explaining this to someone who doesn't share his brain probably makes it sound like an incredibly lazy excuse.

Finally, Pepper moves her hand back down to clasp them both together, and turns just a few inches in Tony's direction. Tony braces himself for impact.

"I am telling you this—" Pepper's voice dipped a little lower, a little warning. "—because I care about both of you."

Tony waves a hand for her to continue. 

"When...these kinds of things happen...You have this tendency to shut down." Again she pauses to let the words hang in the air for a moment, letting him digest before she goes on. "I'm not saying that you have to do all of this perfectly, of course you're not going to. Being human isn't the problem. But even when it's difficult and maybe even scary, I don't know, I just think that it's important that you...push through on stuff like this."

It's pathetic because Tony knows that she's right, but there's still a defense bubbling in his mind. He wonders why that is, and he can only conclude that he still has some stupid, childish, selfish pride hanging on inside of him. Pepper is as right as Pepper usually is, and yet there's still a voice crying "Hey!" in offense.

He doesn't say it outwardly, or even make an expression from what he can tell. As if reading his mind, Pepper hammers in another point. "If you're scared of making a mistake, just be cautious. If you make it anyway, just make up for it. I'm just saying, if he's hurting, and you decided not to say anything...He's going to remember that."

The last shield crumbles to dust just like that. Tony honestly feels stupid.

He can't read his son's mind, as much as he'd love to be able to, so there are things he can say that might upset him and he'll never know until he says them. But that's a human thing, not a Peter thing. Looking back on his plan to plan, he feels ashamed for considering his son the way he considers a tricky problem in his labwork. As if he was going to get to the bottom of this by process of elimination, or experimentation.

Peter can't read minds, either, so he also would never be able to guess what Tony was considering or afraid of. All he would know is that he's been feeling some kind of pain for so long now and even though his father so obviously knew it was there, it only took him forever and a half to decide that he cared enough to actually ask about it. Tony would not be able to hold it against him for thinking that.

Tony knows that he's gotten better, much better, but he can't help but wonder if he's ever going to get better without someone telling him to get better. Obie pushed enough buttons to convince him to take Peter in. Yinsen advised him to fight, live, and return home to be the father Peter deserved. Now Pepper had to sit him down and tell him how he's hurting Peter, because even though it might be obvious to so many others, it's not obvious to Tony.

Pepper's hand moves forward and hesitates, like she isn't sure if she should even touch him or not, if she should touch his hand or his arm or his shoulder. It's a little funny how she's still clearly trying to figure out what kind of boundary there is between them. She'd just pointed out that she all but pulled his heart out of his chest. He can't see any reason for her to be holding anything back still.

"Please don't—" She swallows. "Don't beat yourself up over it."

Tony shakes his head, but he isn't even sure if it's to disagree or to clear his head. Being told to not beat himself up over it reminds him that he always gets into whiny, depressive episodes whenever things with Peter go a little sideways, and that reminder is in and of itself him beating himself up. If he could just invent something that could clear his thoughts when they got too muddled, that would be his greatest work. Better than the Mark II.

"I won't, Scout's honor," he tries to tell her, but she doesn't even let him get the word "Scout's" out before she goes on.

"I mean, I don't have any kids myself and I'm really not that great with them—I mean, you've seen me with Peter—so I'm not trying to tell you how to parent, I'm just trying to talk to you...human-to-human.”

He holds up a hand in an attempt to stop her. "You're right. I agree."

"Good. Good, good, good. Just—also." She closes her eyes, visibly chiding herself for her rambling. It's very endearing. "I don't know if I've ever said this, and maybe I've given you the opposite idea, so I just want to say that I know that you love Peter to death and you really, really try for him. I see that. I don't want you to think that I don't see that."

He nods slowly, trying to keep her calm, but inside, a warmth that isn't from the reactor spreads through his chest. It's not a stroke to his ego, it's just reassurance. And maybe it's just a combination of everything—what's going on with Peter, how so many people are both with him and against him, the restless nights, not knowing what's coming next—but it helps a lot more than a reassurance should.

But seeing that some levity could be used, Tony half-jokes, "I see that you see that. And it is incredibly appreciated. Thank you, Miss Potts."

Pepper nods with clear relief across her features. He wonders if it's a talking-like-this-to-Tony thing or a talking-like-this-to-anybody thing. Either way, he won't hold it against her in this life or any other. He's not going to be getting a medal for emotional openness anytime soon.

Tony sees a need for levity, and Pepper sees a need to return to normalcy, so with a click of her tongue, she looks back to her clipboard. "So I'm just going to be in here and look over a couple things. I'll be going back at around two, but for now, I'll just...stay."

"Mi casa es su casa." Tony stands up and takes his greasy garbage with him. She's never said it point-blank, but the living room is Pepper's preferred place to conduct business, due in no small part to the quiet and ocean view. He walks away, trying to get that warmth to calm down enough to get his jitters out of his system. "If I don't see you before you go again, tell Obie I said hello. Or don't. It might annoy him."

"If it's anything that matters..." Pepper pipes her voice up, but when he turns to look at her, she hesitates again. Boundaries. "I promise this is the last thing and then I'll let you go do—whatever."

"You promise?" Tony takes a look at his watch, teasing. Pepper just sighs before straightening up again.

"I know he probably tells you this himself, but you know. Peter loves you, too."

"Yeah?" The way he says it is almost dismissive, like he already knows but doesn't want to stop her. He certainly doesn't need Pepper or anyone else to tell him this, because of course Peter loves him. Of course he does...

...And then he remembers being back in the cave, the sweat on his brow almost dripping into the work that was going to save his life, and he remembers he did ask himself that question.

Peter did give him the answer many times. "I love you, Dad." Thing is, Tony said that to Howard many times, too. He doesn't know if he ever meant it, but he wants to say he didn't.

"As much as a kid can love his dad, I think." Pepper looks over her shoulder for a brief second, as if Peter himself would appear to witness their conversation. It was just them, of course, and she relaxed. "I'm going to ask that you don't tell him I told you this, obviously, but he was...pretty heartbroken when you were gone. Inconsolable. I'm not telling you that to tell you to get it together, I just figured maybe you'd like to know.”

It is completely unacceptable to be pleased about that, so Tony doesn't let himself be. Even if it does please him, it breaks his heart ten times over. Any time Peter was upset, even about the most benign things like not being able to find his jacket, it hurt Tony's heart. His kid had softened him up almost too much.

And it isn't like he hasn't thought about what things had been like for Peter while he was gone, but he'd thought more of stress. Adults cutting conversations short the second he walked it, watching them fail to hide that they were watching him, how his family was so stressed and tired but they wouldn't talk to him about it to "spare him." Tony had just avoided thinking about grief, because he was unsure if he'd earned it.

Tony is not pleased. He's not lying to himself, either, he is not pleased about it.

In fact, knowing that Peter loves him only reminds him of how he's been straying so far from the situation at hand—

Okay.

He's going to make a list.

Item Number One:

Stop being such a self-pitying piece of garbage

He doesn't have any words left for Pepper anymore. He just nods and keeps quiet. If Pepper is the pleased one here, she doesn't show it. She neither smiles nor frowns, she just turns her attention back to her clipboard, having given her two cents. She closes the conversation with a simple, "So I'll be in here if you need me." He ends it with a "Sayonara" and descends the stairs into the sanctuary of the laboratory, whether to work or ruminate, it doesn't matter.

He doesn't make the list physical, but he's always been good at keeping mental lists, anyway. That first item ends up kind-of, sort-of not exactly crossed off, but for an entirely different reason than what he'd put it there for in the first place. As Tony sits down at his desk to do whatever, he remembers how he'd forgotten Pepper's birthday and left her to buy a gift for herself.


Thankfully, for all the stress, time, and pull-yourself-together talks that had preceded it, getting to actually talk to Peter is not the uphill battle he'd expected of himself. It's a good sign that he doesn't literally sweat as he thinks how he's going to go about it.

In all the times he’s actually had to face the music and talk to someone about the elephant in the room, she has to admit that just getting the first words out makes the rest of it easier. Kind of like climbing a ladder to the slide. So after he gets the last bit of woe-is-me out of his system, he splashes some water in his face and sets a plan.

He sees the best time come when Peter returns from Richard’s and with his new-normal quietness. Tony asks how the visit was and he answers that it was fine. Tony gives him his burger and Peter answers “thanks,” eats it quietly, and retreats. He doesn’t close the door to his room, but he beelines for it.

Tony lets him stay in there for an hour or so, only occasionally hearing a boop from R2 or some sound or another from a video game. He thinks that’s ample time to not look like he’s chasing after his son.

After that hour, he pokes his head in through the door. Peter only looks up at him for a brief moment before turning back to the book in his hands. Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, Pepper’s edition. He doesn’t move or speak as Tony comes closer. Even so, the walls couldn’t be any clearer.

Be grateful for it now, the part of Tony’s brain that supplies his dark sense of humor chuckles. Just wait until he’s a teenager yelling for you to get out of his room.

Peter is not a teenager, however, and he doesn’t have that kind of anger regardless.

Charlie again, huh?” Tony leans against the control board at the end of the bed. He neither wants to stand and be intimidating nor sit and cage him in. He doesn’t think he’s going into too much detail on that. “How many times have you read that now?”

Peter shrugs, as he expected. “A couple.”

“Is it still your favorite?”

“Mm-hm.”

“Have you ever seen the movie?” Finally Peter raises his eyes up to him, and Tony smiles, humming, “Come with me, and you’ll be…”

“Mom said it was too scary.”

Tony blinks. He doesn’t recall Gene Wilder waltzing around in a purple top hat and little orange creatures singing loop-a-dee-dah being remotely scary. “What for?”

“The part where they’re in the tunnel.”

Oh, yeah. That was scary as shit. “Well, on second thought, I don’t disagree. You know, when I was a kid, my mother and I would watch those old happy musical movies, like Mary Poppins?” Peter nods, familiar. “There’s this one called Chitty Chitty Bang Bang about this magic car that goes to this kingdom where no kids are allowed. There’s this guy that catches all the children for the king—”

“The one with the weird nose?”

Tony’s face falls flat with disbelief, which has a smile fighting its way onto Peter’s mouth. “So that’s fine but Willy Wonka isn’t?”

Peter finally gives up on trying not to smile. “I couldn’t watch Pee Wee’s Big Adventure cause—”

“Okay, we’re not talking about that.” Peter giggles as he goes on. “New house rule: we don’t talk about that scene in Pee Wee’s Big Adventure. Never ever.”

They take a second to just laugh and breathe, and after, Tony reaches over and touches the corner of the book. Not to move it, but to chuckle at how almost every page has been earmarked to the point of snapping. How odd that Peter was okay with this, but not leaving paperback books tented open.

The ice broken, Tony takes the first step. “So how is everything lately?”

The smile leaves neither quickly nor slowly. Peter shrugs again. The walls are rising. “Good.”

“You sure?”

“Mm-hm?”

Peter’s eyes go back down to the words he’s read several times over. He knows enough about body language to hope that his father will get the message and leave him be. Tony doesn’t. He still doesn’t take the book away, but he kneels down beside the bed and props his elbows on the mattress, just to show he’s hunkering down.

“Well, can I be really honest with you for a sec?” Peter just glances up at him. “You haven’t seemed that okay lately. You’re really quiet. Not saying that much.”

Peter shrugs.

“Is there something making you upset?”

Peter shrugs.

“Does it have to do with Guys’ Night being cancelled?”

Peter doesn’t shrug.

Taking that as his cue, Tony finally pushes the book down, gently, one finger on the corner. Peter obeys without an ounce of joy. His stare on Tony is concerningly blank. There’s no glare or spark of annoyance. He is just looking at Tony like he isn’t much to look at.

Tony chews on the inside of his cheek for a moment, eyes flickering down to his hands, and says, “I know we haven’t really been doing a whole lot of fun stuff lately. The lab, sure, but other stuff. Stuff we used to do. And I know that even though everyone is saying that there’s work to do and things to take care of, that doesn’t really make it any better. There’s a reason, but you don’t have to be happy. You won’t be in trouble for being upset.”

Now Peter’s big brown eyes have tightened around the edges, still not quite a glare. In response, Tony pats a hand on his son’s foot.

“Having to just…sit back and deal with everything going on isn’t fun. I know it. But I just want you to know, you can tell me stuff like that. You don’t have to worry about me getting upset or anything.” Peter’s eyes tighten more. “I just don’t ever want you to think you can’t tell me about the things that are making you unhappy.”

His son’s eyes shift from him to his foot, where Tony’s hand still rests. He twitches beneath his palm but doesn’t move away. Tony doesn’t squeeze or try to hold firm.

“I’ll tell you what. Sometime soon, we’ll try for Round Two. And we’ll make it twice as better to make up for it. How about that?”

Peter does not smile.

Peter pulls his foot away and moves to hop off the bed on the opposite side of Tony.

Tony is left blinking for a second, and he’s not someone who’s used to being left blinking, but his mind and body take a second to compute what is happening. He has misstepped. Somewhere in his words, he said the wrong thing.

“Pete? Hey.” Peter looks up at him as he’s grabbing his book off the covers, and there’s the glare. And there’s the thin line of moisture in his eyes. “What’s wrong, bud?”

Peter doesn’t say anything. He grabs the book.

“Peter.” Tony leans forward, voice lower, a little straighter. “I need you to tell me what’s wrong, okay? I need you to tell me.”

Peter tries so hard to keep his voice even, the poor little guy. “I don’t care about doing ‘fun stuff.’”

“Then what?” Peter starts to walk for the foot of the bed and no doubt, the door after that. So despite being on his list of things he did not want to do, Tony has to let his tone get a little sterner. “Peter. Look at me and tell me what’s wrong.”

And Peter asks, “Why?”

“Because I want to know what’s making you upset so I can fix it.”

“No you don’t. You never do.”

For a second, Tony thinks that maybe his arc reactor has begun to malfunction, because he feels a sudden, sharp hit right in the chest, like a hard blow. But no, that’s just him. That’s just his heart.

His brain doesn’t even let him try to speak up and get Peter back. He doesn’t stumble so much as a syllable out before his son runs out of the room, off to one of the guest quarters to lock himself inside because he knows his dad won’t try and open it.

Chapter 20: Chapter Twenty

Summary:

His mind is still running in step-by-step mode. He’ll get to the bottom of this, but for now, he has promised Peter some space to himself, time to think. He could use some of that himself.

Chapter Text

The plan has always been for Peter to be there when the Mark II took flight for the first time. Just as an audience member, of course—there was no way on this green Earth Tony was going to carry him around in the sky anytime soon. And really, there was no better cheerleader to ask for.

As-is, the Mark II is ready to go. Tony can say with about 90% confidence that he isn’t going to be crashing into his cars this time around. As-is, however, Peter isn’t looking to cheer for him anytime soon.

Since his pathetic failure of a one-on-one talk with Peter, the little chitchat that had been granted to Tony had died off. If he entered a room, Peter left. If he still gave his one-word answers (“fine,” “good,” “okay,”) then his son made sure to inflect just how much he did not want to keep talking about it. Somehow, on a mission to talk about what was bothering Peter so much and at least better their situation a bit, Tony has managed to bury the coffin deeper.

It has been two days since then. Two days since he’s seen Pepper, because there’s no way he’ll be able to look her in the eye and admit he’d screwed up again. She’d probably figured it out by his messages telling her she didn’t need to come to the mansion, anyway.

Tony does not want to wallow in his own self-pity, he has to stop doing that, he can’t keep doing that whenever something goes wrong, he has to make up for it, he has to be better, he has to try harder, he has to keep his promise to Mary and Peter and the Parkers, he has to not be a father like Howard Stark, he has to slap himself in the face and pull it together already, but he doesn’t know what the hell to do now!

He’d spent so much time whining when Peter was upset but approachable. Now Peter has all but point-blank said I’m mad at you, don’t talk to me, so Tony’s fear of the hypothetical scenario of Peter feeling interrogated and trapped, like Tony was disregarding his desire to be left alone? Yeah, that wasn’t irrational anymore. It was a given.

But, see…Tony isn’t allowed to do this anymore. He’s said it a million times by now, but no. No more woe-is-me, I’m-a-bad-father. No more bullshit.

So, because he cannot loathe himself anymore while simultaneously being unable to actually do anything about this situation, Tony decides that the best thing to do is to just be upset about something else.

How convenient that he has so many other options to choose from!

Oh, the things that have led Tony here have not been forgotten. They’re practically scars now, always there even if he isn’t thinking of them every living second of the day. Instead, Tony just keeps getting these bursts of them, at the strangest moments. He could be brushing his teeth in the morning and suddenly he’d remember his head being dunked under water over and over again until his lungs were crying out.

He still isn’t even sure what he made the Mark II for to begin with. From a purely psychological standpoint, Tony wonders if it was the adrenaline rush. After weeks of living in the dark, choking down sludge for food, feeling gun barrels in his temples, and hearing his ears ring with gunfire, it was probably watching Yinsen go limp that had the dam breaking open.

Sure, he could talk about the morality and hypocrisy in the fact that taking out the Ten Rings members in fire and smoke felt good. Truth was, Tony didn’t care. For all they’d done, it was karma at minimum, and Tony refused to feel guilt no matter how ruthless he’d let himself go.

Basically, after everything he’d gone through, the rush of escaping and taking revenge had probably done more than was healthy. Was making another suit in hopes of taking flight and re-living that experience worse? Probably, but here he is.

In one ear he hears a voice reminding him that however good this might feel, this wasn’t acceptable. Trying to drown out the issues with Rhodey, Peter, Stark Industries, and the Ten Rings with the Mark II was almost like a moody teenager cranking up the volume on his headphones to drown out his parents.

Then in the other ear he hears a voice saying, “Screw it.” He hasn’t listened to that one in a while.

Whether or not he’s proud of it doesn’t change the fact that Tony’s hands are practically shaking by the time he decides that he’s just going to go for it. He’s excited to a fidgeting degree to just be able to breathe and forget, if only for a little while.

He hasn’t gone fully heartless, however. The night that he decides to launch—the lab is practically screaming for him downstairs—Tony goes to Peter’s door and knocks twice with his knuckle. Not to be let in, because Peter’s made it more than clear at this point that if his door is locked, it’s staying locked.

“Hey, Pete?” No response, not that he was expecting much. “Listen—the suit’s ready to go now. I’m going to launch it. If you want to come watch, you can come.”

He ends the sentence with a dip in his voice, not a questioning lilt. He isn’t even scraping the surface of the issue, but he still doesn’t want Peter to think he’s being beckoned. He’s being asked.

In any case, Tony is not answered. “I’m going to keep the alarm on the lab door on just in case. I promise I won’t take too long. J.A.R.V.I.S. will still be hooked up to the house if you need something.”

Despite the finality to it, he still waits ten foot-tapping minutes just to see if Peter will come around after all. He does not. Tony’s determination wanes after that, and whether he’s pouting again or not, he somehow manages to hold back that night. He thinks that maybe, just maybe, he’s getting some of his self-control back.

Not the case. He still spends the rest of the night and well into the morning in the lab, somehow not noticing that the sun has risen again until J.A.R.V.I.S. tells him that Happy is taking Peter to school. Tony tries to get up the stairs in time, but it seems like Peter ran out at top speed, and he barely gets to see the car wind its way down the drive. After school, Peter will go to Richard’s.

After that, Tony’s just waiting for the sun to fall again. There are no more hesitations.


Ten seconds into flight, and Tony thinks he’s proven his hypothesis correct: he is now an official adrenaline junkie.

He didn’t think it was possible to feel so many polar things at once, but he does. He is heavy and weightless. He’s terrified and he’s elated. He’s escaping from everything, and yet it’s like this is all he’s ever been.

It isn’t wrong to say this is a dream come true. It is.

He’s had those dreams, especially as a child, that suddenly he had the ability to fly, soaring over oceans and between skyscrapers with the weightlessness of a feather.

Now, he can. He is. He’s zipping miles above the Malibu skyline and he’s invincible. The buildings look like toys. The lights are like stars. He can’t even comprehend that there are people down there: he feels like the only person who exists in that moment.

It’s not even perfect—not between the alien feeling of nothing beneath his feet, the way his stomach flips every time he dips lower, the grip of instinctual panic his body can’t shake—but somehow that makes it better. It makes it more real.

In a sickening way, he was worried that he wasn’t going to live up to the “first” flight. That taking down Ten Rings lackeys left and right with the smell of blood and ash in the air had been part of the thrill.

Blessedly, this one is better. Infinitely so. Because that first flight had been a mission to escape from Hell, and this is just a moment outside of time.

Tony is exhilarated, exuberant, ecstatic.

Tony is happy.

There is, however, one moment, not very long after spiraling around a sparkling Ferris wheel on a coastal carnival, that he has a memory. Not a memory that has his mood plummeting faster than a stone through water, but…you know, a memory. Tony isn’t some ethereal spirit observing from The Beyond. He’s a living person who has memories of things people have said to him.

Specifically, he remembers the words of his mother, tutting over him after a twelve-hour straight lab night with no sleep and hardly a drop of water or crumb of food: “Remember who Icarus was, dear.”

It’s funny—

(MUCH, MUCH LATER)

—that in a way, he ends up doing the opposite of Icarus: he flies too close to the Moon and his wings freeze.

After that moment, Tony thinks he’s encountered three different kinds of adrenaline. First was fury-fueled vengeance; second was elating escapism; third was pure fear.

In the moment, he’s not so philosophical.

The second he starts falling instead of rising, Tony feels the most primal sense of terror of anyone who has ever lived.

He’s not just falling, he’s falling, falling, falling. His suit has become a shackled weight and the air has become an ocean: he’s plummeting down in death’s direction almost faster than he can think.

Then it became a nightmare come true, because yes, sometimes those flying dreams had ended in the opposite way they had begun. He suddenly dropped out of the air like a shot bird, and just before he’d hit the ground, he’d jump awake in that awful body-seize that took his breath away.

He’s falling head over heels, left and right, no sense of up and down. And now that his display screen is lost, it’s dark, and now that it’s dark, all he can see is outside the two narrow slits of the mask’s face. There is no J.A.R.V.I.S. to advise him in his ears, just the wind whistling through the gaps. He might as well be blind and deaf with nothing but his useless limbs to sense anything.

For seconds that feel like forevers, Tony thinks that this might real and truly be how he goes. Except there’s no build-up this time, no woeful thoughts of leaving behind his loved ones and a life unfulfilled. No, all his mind can process in those forevers is that he is going to die and it is going to hurt and he’s going to spend his last moments in the living world in such agonizing fear that he’s almost wishing death would hurry up.

But then those forevers pass, and Tony’s brain finally kicks into gear. It isn’t easy, getting the plates to move to break the ice, not with one arm going against every direction of gravity.

It works. The screen returns, and the rocket thrusters roar back to life.

It’s like another hit.

Tony isn’t even ashamed: he screams in delight, it’s involuntary. The push from his hands and feet that send him piloting in the air once more has his nerves electrified out of control. The adrenaline rush is almost possessing him. He instantly forgets almost beelining into traffic seconds after.

It’s almost enough for the adrenaline to turn into fury that he hasn’t had this for so long. Not the suit specifically, though it would’ve been a welcome gift at any point in his life.

He realizes that he has spent—spends—so much of his life just trying to forget things. He camps out in the lab, he goes into bars with full intent to get drunk out of his mind, he does things out of nowhere to break routine. And yes…it is an awful, awful thing to admit, but sometimes he goes to the company of women he has no intention of keeping around to forget.

Nothing had ever before even come within miles of working as well as this had.

Oh, if he could only stay up there forever and ever. No more Tony Stark, no more Stark Industries, no more anything that ever was or every would be. He’d just live out the rest of his days soaring and never stopping until he just faded from existence.

Reality is a cruel mistress, however, and Tony knows that he should return to home base, especially after the stunt he’d just pulled with the ice. Even coming back down to Earth (literally and figuratively) is better now. Remembering that he’s Tony Stark, CEO of Stark Industries, Father of the Amazing Peter, Partner of the Reformed Obadiah, Friend of the Distanced Rhodey, …Something of Pepper Potts…it’s more like sinking into a warm bath, not getting a bucket of ice water dumped on him to wake him up.

It's almost like the rush has decluttered his head for the moment, because when his mind inevitably goes back to Peter, it’s not to bemoan how horrible the situation in. He’s immediately just thinking about solutions, taking what he knows and trying to find an answer. Being able to think in a clear headspace is such a breath of fresh air, truly.

He doesn’t want to talk to me, thinks Tony, but neither can I just ignore it, it’ll just get worse…I need to let him know I want to help him, not that I want him to fess up to something…

It doesn’t take long at all for the mansion to come back into view. It’s so bizarre, seeing it from up so high. He can only imagine that this is just a semblance of what astronauts feel, looking at the Earth from the stars. It’s nothing short of amazing how the space between his thumb and forefinger contains fully furnished rooms and even people.

From so high up, it’s easy to see where Peter’s room is. Now, it’s not like he can snipe drones out of the sky (…yet), but Tony has always taken measures against any camera trying to snap a shot of his mansion, least of all before he had a secret son living with him. So even if he can’t get rid of them, he has managed a system to instantly dim all windows once a suspected drone has entered a certain radius.

Though all he sees is a flat black screen where the floor-to-ceiling windows would be, he knows that behind them are the many, many colorings of robots and aliens; the board of controls at the foot of an unmade bed; books well beyond his son’s reading level, but a copy of some Roald Dahl book still at arm’s reach somewhere. But no Peter.

An idea springs up into his head, a lightbulb idea. He thinks for a second, Maybe I shouldn’t, the suit probably needs maintenance ASAP, but then he thinks, Screw it, I just sailed around Malibu like Peter Pan and I’m fine.

“Hold on, Jar,” he says aloud. “Taking a detour.”

J.A.R.V.I.S.’s silence is as disapproving as a subservient AI’s silence can be, but Tony steers back to the sky regardless.

The speed at which he’s going makes it a shorter flight than he’d been worried of. It’s a distance that still has J.A.R.V.I.S. finally tutting his concern, but it’s smooth sailing from here.

Tony almost misses the roof of Richard Parker’s house, which is actually a good thing. He’d had privacy in mind when he’d picked out the house for them in the first place, and if the tree-filled distance between the other houses doesn’t give him cover, the darkness will.

Peter’s window is glowing yellow, not that he didn’t already know where it is. He sees the curtains, but Tony hesitates at coming closer. He doesn’t want to scare the hell out of his son, so he approaches it sideways, inactivates the thruster in his right hand and taps on the window, “Shave and a Haircut”-style.

It takes more than a moment for any kind of response, and Tony can’t blame Peter for it. Even if he did know what’s tapping on the glass, Peter would be miles away from skipping over with a click in his heels to see him.

Finally, already in his pajamas, Peter is a mere sheet of glass away from him. Tony faces him head-on.

At any other time, Tony would almost laugh at how much of an open book his son’s face is. Like the flick of a light switch, Peter’s face goes from wariness to amazement, his already huge brown eyes blowing wider and his jaw slacking almost in a gape. He takes a second to just look at the suit up and down, head to toe, from the fire flaming from Tony’s feet to the Arc reactor’s light in the chest to the slits in the mask.

He’s worried for a moment that Peter might get scared: he told his father during one of their many lab nights that he thought the mask was “kinda creepy.” Thankfully, when the shock gives way, Peter’s face just shows attention. He might still be a bit cautious, but he isn’t afraid.

They both spend a moment there, Peter in his room with its Legos and glow-in-the-dark stars, Tony in the open air held up by a suit inspired by the one that had gotten him out of that cave. He’s thinking, in that way he used to think before he was alone in a bullet-hailed Humvee with corpses for company: step-by-step, no thoughts overlapping each other in a panic.

He could probably just gesture to get the window open, but he’s afraid of letting his tongue bury him deeper in his grave. For a split second, he’s hit with the cringing memory of how badly he’d done before, and while thinking of how stupid he’d been, he thinks ‘dumb’, then DUM-E, and then a second lightbulb goes off.

The fire extinguisher had been a last-minute, just-in-case addition, nothing special at all. He had plenty of things to make fire and nothing yet to put them out, so he’d figured it’d be a good call.

The last glimpse he gets of Peter’s face as he raises his hand is a blink of confusion. Then the window has gone opaque again, this time in a frosty white sheet.

Tony writes out the letters carefully, lest of all because they’re backwards.

I’M SORRY

I KNOW YOU’RE MAD

IT’S OKAY

As the metal tip of his fingers etches the words on the glass, Peter’s image comes in little slivers like a puzzle not yet assembled. Other than his pajamas, Tony can see the brown of his hair, and though he can’t see his face, he knows he’s reading.

I LET YOU DOWN

I DON’T KNOW WHAT’S WRONG

BUT I SHOULD

I’M SORRY THAT I DON’T

He lets those words hang long enough for Peter to read before doing another sheet of ice. Now he’s really thinking of how to put this into words.

I WANT TO MAKE IT BETTER

IF YOU WANT TO TELL ME WHAT’S WRONG,

THAT’S OKAY.

BUT IF YOU DON’T WANT TO TELL ME,

THAT’S OKAY, TOO.

Even as he’s writing the last apostrophe, Tony knows that he isn’t quite saying enough. A point was to be made, but he didn’t want to be so to-the-point to be blunt.

IT’S NOT OKAY THAT I MESS UP SOM—

“Sometimes” echoes away in his head.

—SOMUCH

YOU DESERVE BETTER

AND I NEED TO BE BETTER

WHATEVER YOU DECIDE TO DO,

JUST KNOW THAT

I’M SORRY

I WANT TO HELP

I LOVE YOU

Satisfied though he is, Tony’s nerves are starting to fire off when he retracts his hand again. Deep down, though, he knows that if this fails, he’s just going to try again. And again, and again, because everything he said was true.

The message lingers long enough that when Peter’s vague image disappears, Tony considers taking off to let him be, until he sees movement through the transparent letters again. He realizes that Peter had attempted to wipe the ice off with his sleeve, realized he can’t, and is chastising himself for it. Tony very, very carefully holds his other thruster up just enough to melt some of the frost away again.

For all the expressions he’d expected or dreaded to see on his son’s face—anger, discomfort, that cold look he’d given him as he fled from the room—sadness was not one of them. Worse than that, he almost wants to say his son looks world-weary. It’s an uncanny expression to see on a child.

Peter presses a sheet of paper covered in red crayon to the glass.

DON’T WANT TO SAY

And though Tony’s heart does sink just a little bit, it’s not an impossible pill to swallow. He can tell Peter isn’t being stubborn or hostile, he’s not trying to punish Tony still.

Yet this begs the question that Tony moves to the frosted edge to ask:

CAN YOU TELL ME WHY?

Peter’s face sinks more. Though Tony is minimally pleased with how this has gone, he hates that he can’t reach out and touch Peter right now. No, he didn’t have to tell Tony anything, he’d made that promise already. The fact is that seeing Peter anything less than happy had always hurt him on a near-physical level.

The paper goes back to the glass so Peter can write more on it, and even then, he hesitates as he flips it back around.

DON’T WANT TO MAKE YOU SAD

It’s one of the larger curveballs Tony has ever had lobbed his way, enough to get that brief moment of chaos between his ears.

His heart is aching because no matter what it is, Peter should never, ever have felt responsibility for how he feels. He shouldn’t even be aware that something could sadden Tony to the point that he decided to keep quiet about it instead of telling him. He’s always been a smart kid, maybe a year or two older in his mind, but no child should be this…jaded.

His mind, meanwhile, is on a record-repeat of What? He almost has to physically refrain himself from writing more, all but begging Peter to tell him what’s going on, because he promised, didn’t he? He told Peter it was okay not to tell him, but this certainly isn’t okay, and now Tony is just experiencing a different flavor of internal conflict.

Peter must know it, because he scribbles one last message:

LOVE YOU, TOO.

He stuffs the panic away down his throat and deep in his mind, because this is the better than any I forgive you and he isn’t going to ruin it.

There are no more written words after that. Peter smiles without much light, almost apologetically, and waves to him. Tony takes the message clear as day, waves back, and takes off once again to let Peter enjoy the rest of his stay with Richard in peace.

He isn’t dropping this from his to-do list anytime soon, of course. This is just one card in the stack: his awful attempt as solving the issue has been remedied, not the issue. For all he knows, Peter is still being hurt by something, and he still doesn’t know what it is, only that it is something that Peter feels a responsibility to keep from him…which is an unprecedented nightmare.

As the mansion comes back into view, though, Tony isn’t panicking. His mind is still running in step-by-step mode. He’ll get to the bottom of this, but for now, he has promised Peter some space to himself, time to think. He could use some of that himself.

He feels lighter, now. In hindsight, he should have taken flight sooner. At least now he can work on improving what he has, so the next time will be even more transcendent than the first.

Also in hindsight, Peter probably shouldn’t have been there, after all. Peter didn’t need to see him crash through the roof. And the piano. And on top of a car.


So…Better?

Better.

Not perfect but yknow.

We’re working on it.

Want me to ask him?

He might tell May and I what’s up.

You ever told someone a secret when you were a kid

and then your mom or dad came to you about it later

and even if it was just out of concern

you felt betrayed?

Very vivid point.

But thanks for telling me this.

This operation runs with a kid, his dad, his pretend-dad, his

honorary aunt and uncle, an AI system, and R2-D2.

We should probably strike a balance between confidence

and communication pretty soon.

Well in that case we should probably

talk about what Pete can and can’t watch now.

He really wants to watch the Willy Wonka movie.

We’ll make up a rating system to gauge content.

1 is like Teletubbies.

10 is Watership Down.

My dad let me watch that when I was a kid.

Thanks for agreeing that’s off limits

Good god

Lord almighty

The nightmares

You care about Peter’s well-being for sure.

 

Tony glances up from the screen of his phone to his work bench for just a moment, just long enough to catch a glimpse of the silver words glint under the fluorescent lights: PROOF THAT TONY STARK HAS A HEART.

Much appreciated.


Just to be clear: Tony is clear.

Of mind, that is. Which is especially good, considering how he crashed through two layers of solid concrete at least before collapsing on top of a car. He knows he’s lucky to come out of it with a sore shoulder at best.

His time in the lab after is what it used to be, an escape without the capital E. Relaxing, yes, but he didn’t feel like he was running away from something anymore. It’s maybe even better, because he takes the time to shower—which he admitted with some disgust at his own self that he’d been neglecting for close to two days at that point—and get some food in him. Not that protein shakes with enough green additives to look like something out of a witch’s cauldron should ever count as a meal, but the point still stands.

There are definite improvements to be made to the Mark II, and he’d known there would be the second he decided to launch. He was certainly going to need more practice at the thrusters, and probably he’d need something just a little lighter just to make the likelihood of crashing to the center of the Earth a little smaller. And true, he probably didn’t even need to work on a way to prevent the ice build-up, because he couldn’t think of a reason that he would ever need to be going that high into the atmosphere anyway, but also: his suit, his rules.

This is basically what he’s doing for a while. Running more tests, slurping on a protein shake, relaxing. It really does feel like his battery is being recharged; he swears even the Arc Reactor itself feels like it’s pleasantly buzzing.

So once more: he’s clear of mind, and when the television screen talks about the charity ball—his charity ball, his annual charity ball—he’s not angry. He’s just confused, and even though Tony Stark doesn’t like being confused, he almost lets it go.

Until the words “posttraumatic stress” come out once again, so familiar, said in that tone that feigns severity, that tone that’s just an invitation for more speculation and gossip, all on top of an image of Tony with his arm in a cast and his face not quite there. And then the addition of “bedridden.” Then he decides that actually, a charity ball sounds nice.


Being Tony Stark, CEO of Stark Industries, once again feels awkward. It’s a practice he’s fallen out of.

Everything is familiar, but having been away for so long, it’s all a little too now. Weeks and weeks of being in oily T-shirts at best have the tuxedo feeling like a costume, the flash of camera bulbs sting his eyes. He’d thought he would never tire of hearing trills and exclamations as he approached, and now? Nails on a chalkboard.

He can deal with it all, though, because for as different as Tony is now, he doesn’t want to be the person the media is making him out to be. His view on SI’s future has changed dramatically, but he’s still competent, he’s still the Visionary. He’s not a frail old man, shrinking in his bed with one foot in the grave.

Every single face he comes across is lit with surprise before welcome. Tony supposes he could give some benefit of the doubt: even if they didn’t think he’d become a filthy hermit losing his mind, he’s somehow managed to be the hottest topic in the news without being seen by the human eye for forever.

Even Obie, dressed to the nines in a white scarf that only he could pull off, blinks when his eyes land on him.

But then he smiles that familiar smile, and Tony breathes a sigh of relief. He doesn’t think the older man even realizes how comfortable he’s made Tony just by being there.

The thought…does occur, to ask just why Tony didn’t get an invitation. Or, considering this is a man he’s known for the better part of his life, why he didn’t just bring it up to him at all.

Tony answers himself: Obie—and probably Pepper, and Rhodey, and maybe Happy, too—probably just pulled the “for your own good” card. He’s still got that spinach stuck in his teeth, and just because everyone can deal with it more now, it doesn’t mean they’re okay with it. That’s a whole new can of worms, whether or not they have to be okay with it.

He didn’t come to start a fight, though. He’s just here to prove something that needed to be proven, and honestly? “I didn’t tell you about the party because I’m still worried about you” Obadiah Stane is much better than “I didn’t tell you about the party because only I knows what’s best around here!” Obadiah Stane.

In short, Tony lets it go. He takes solace in Obie’s grin one last time before ducking inside.


Dancing with Pepper Potts wasn’t in the plan. To be fair…He never had one.

Yeah, for how much gusto he’d had going into this mission to prove himself to still be the Modern-Day Da Vinci, he realized the second he walked through the door that there was no game plan.

Most detrimental was the fact that he just did not want to talk to anyone. He didn’t want to approach women who eyed him across the way, he didn’t want to “catch up” with strangers costumed like old friends, and he basically kept a ten-foot radius from anyone who gave the air of approaching him to figure out just what he’s been doing locked up in his mansion. It’s everything just to talk to the bartender. And don’t even get him started on Agent Debrief.

He thinks about pulling out his phone and texting one of the Parkers, or maybe even Peter. Given, his son is almost definitely asleep by this point, but he’s dying for interaction from familiar faces and he doesn’t want to run back to Obie with his tail between his legs.

He’s starting to think against it, figuring the “Look at phone to avoid social interaction” look would not look good on him, and then he sees Pepper.

That’s really the end of that sentence. What did he do with his drink? What was the Agent saying? How did he go from being at the bar to being in front of her? No idea. That time frame is as warbled as someone hitting fast-forward on a DVD.

Those details don’t matter, because he’s still “clear”—and he’s using quotation marks now, because this is a one-track-mind kind of clear, and that track goes nowhere else but the vision he’s swaying across the dance floor with.

Maybe if this was a different person, and a different time, Tony would be more able to put into words how he’s gotten so stupefied. And don’t get him wrong, the long back dipping into the blue silk of a ballgown and the strawberry blonde locks curled instead of pin-straight, those definitely had an effect on him. He has his fingers crossed that he hasn’t gone full Loony Tunes mode, with hearts beating out of his eyes and his tongue rolling to the floor.

It’s that—brightness again. It started at the airport and hadn’t stopped since, and now she’s just a supernova he can’t take his eyes off of. Tony just feels so amazingly lucky all of a sudden, not just to be holding her, to be dancing with her, but to simply know her.

Just to be clear, he knows that this isn’t going down any Hallmark Channel route. He knows Pepper, but he knows her in a way that they cannot just jump into anything. This isn’t them. They aren’t walking out of this place holding hands, they’re walking out of there as a boss and his employee. Whether or not this has been building up since…whenever, it’s new, and it’s complicated.

He knows as much before Pepper spells it out for him. He wishes this didn’t upset her, but he won’t fault her for it.

When she leans in, with her hand on his elbow and her eyes closed, close enough for Tony to feel the warmth of her breath spill onto his face…It’s not good. Somehow, despite having the perfect formula for the romantic climax:

Slow dance at a ball + Privacy under the night sky + Years and years of something they never quite talked about = Kiss, fireworks, hooray!

Nope. Not only does Tony not kiss her, he even pulls away, which is not something he ever thought he’d be doing with a beautiful woman. This isn’t right; this isn’t them. Pepper doesn’t even seem offended when she feels him shift backwards—by the look in her eyes, it’s like the movement has just woken her up. Makes her realize what they were doing and has her shooing him away.

Tony goes not just for his own sake, but for hers, because the last thing he wants her to be is uncomfortable, or wary, or scared. They can figure this out, and if anything, that’s what keeps his head clear (no quotation marks, this time.) Tony hangs onto the knowledge that nothing has been ruined just yet and keeps a hold of that feeling of a weight being lifted off his shoulders.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

He needs to be a little honest.

In that moment, he is with Pepper Potts, one of the people that kept him fighting in that cave, a person who knew him better than himself, a woman he’d trust his life with.

She is bright and smiling. She’s warm to the touch. She’s dressed in a vision of a blue dress and her curled hair is brushing the chest of his tux. the band is serenading them. She’s nervously giggling about not wearing deodorant while Tony is praying she doesn’t smell Scotch on his breath. She is Pepper Potts.

There is a flicker. A skip on the record.

She is outright laughing, snorting even. They aren’t touching, but she’s close. Her uniform is a white shirt and a black skirt and she has dimples. She’s the first to notice the band’s repetition and she chides the bartender for how he makes a rum and Coke. Tony tastes cheesecake and wine. A door slams shut.

Tony pulls away because she’s Pepper Potts. That’s the problem.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Tony’s last moment of clarity is when he puts the bill into the tip glass.

It was nice while it lasted, that’s all he can say.

Actually, no. He’d liken it more to taking a deep breath of air before he started drowning again.

It is not sudden, it isn’t all at once. It comes bit by bit, and it’s just cracks in glass, splintering more and more with each blow.

His mind, which he’d so wonderfully repaired after he thought it couldn’t get any more broken, crumbles once again.

There are no words at first, just the images. The barren and the empty streets, the horses dead on the ground, the smoke that he swears he can smell, faceless men walking about like it’s all nothing, the buildings and houses void of all life, and over and over, in bright white text screaming in his brain:

STARK INDUSTRIES

STARK INDUSTRIES

STARK INDUSTRIES

Christine Everhart—who dissipates as she stands in front of him—is speaking, and he’s replying, and he gets it without hearing anything.

“Your company” he can swallow like a large pill, because the logos on the boxes already knocked the wind out of him. “Yesterday”, though, that hits him in the chest like a freight train. The realization that this—the smoke, the blood, the fire—was all happening while he was holed away in his ivory tower. Because he was stupid enough to believe it was over.

What does the damning blow takes a moment. He hears “Gulmira” and thinks it might sound familiar, but he almost loses it, because the photographs just about drown it out. So quickly does it fade that he swears he would have forgotten it, if not for a memory cracking his skull with no mercy.

Yinsen.

After that, everything is just one last attempt. Everything is crumbling in his hands faster than he can keep it together, the walls are crashing down, the water is flooding in. He even swears that as his feet cross the way into the night air, it’s almost as though the floor itself is giving way and he’s stumbling through the fall.

Tony’s grip on everything is slipping until he’s holding onto a mere thread, and then he sees Obie.

What he does is ask him, interrogate really, for the answers. He ignores the cameras at first, and even agrees to the picture.

Inside, though, Tony is desperate and drowning. He is all but physically clutching onto Obie, fallen to his knees, just—begging to save him. Wake him up, prove him wrong, slap some sense into him. Just say whatever it’s going to take to make everything repair itself again, because Tony cannot do this, they cannot do this, please, Obie.

Because Obie will save him, won’t he?

Because Obie wants to save him, doesn’t he?

In the end, though, Obie lets him go—

“Who do you think locked you out?”

—without even looking him in the eye.

Chapter 21: Chapter Twenty-One

Summary:

There never was an Obie. Every time he gave Stane the benefit of the doubt, it was for a man who didn't exist. He wasn't misguided, he wasn't just prickly. Tony had lived with a snake draped across his shoulder for years now.

Notes:

Whoo, boy...So sorry for the wait on this one, but I do have legitimate reasons! On top of just not feeling 100% lately (NOT because of COVID, thank goodness), this chapter gave me a lot of pacing trouble about what was going to happen, when it would end, etc. The good news is that because of that, the next chapter will be ready soon!

Chapter Text

There is blood and smoke and fire.

There are screams, but he only listens to some, just hearing others.

He is surrounded by people and things that just look like people.

The things have the nerve to look scared.

He's in pain. Every starburst from his hand wracks the length of his arm with a jolt of pain.  He doesn't stop, because it feels good.

His name is just—everywhere. It’s burned into his retinas. It's the purple blob in his eyes when he looks at a bright light; everywhere he looks, it follows.

STARK INDUSTRIES

STARK INDUSTRIES

STARK INDUSTRIES

"They stole my name" is the nightmare he wishes he could say was true. They didn't steal anything, it was given to them on a silver platter. Not by Tony, but the person Tony did business with and trusted and grew up with and loved and knew.

He cares, and he hates himself for it.

Why now?

Why do you only care NOW, Merchant of Death?

He can't believe what the Ten Rings have done, and he can't believe what Obadiah has done, and he can't believe what he's done he's done he's done he's done he's done he's done.

And for months now, his brain has just been this stupid broken record, that stupid bird toy that dips down to drink the water. Get better, Tony. You have to do better, Tony.

Now the record's been replaced and the rhythm's been changed, and he's thinking, Stop it, Tony. You have to stop it, Tony.

Time stops making sense, but that's okay, because time stopped mattering a while ago. What matters is progress.

This place is Gulmira. This is where Yinsen lived, with his family, peaceful and happy. He never knew that much about them…He wished he’d asked. He hoped they were together.

He sees a plume of fire blacken the sky and he thinks, Yinsen’s family.

He sees a child struggling to get back to his father and he thinks, Peter.

He sees how many there are and how they work together and he thinks, Obadiah.

He sees the destruction of a home and he thinks, Tony Stark.

In all things, he doesn't feel guilt in this. He refuses to feel happy, but he also refuses to feel guilt.

He leaves when the job is done. He knows it won't be as simple as this, however much he wishes it could be. The Ten Rings is an organization just like Stark Industries. One small pack of them isn't going to bring down the whole colony. Killing a worker bee doesn’t kill the queen. He'll have to take care of the rest later.

When the smoke settles, the people are staring at him. Most are afraid, which is okay. They are covered in soot and blood and sweat. All of them are in awe. Others still look almost thankful.

They shouldn't.


It takes until he's flanked by F-22 Raptors for him to snap out of it a little bit.

"Snap out of it" not as in, "Oh my god, what did I just do?" He's still not happy and he's still not guilty.

"Snap out of it" as in, "What was I thinking?"

This is not going to be easy. The Ten Rings managed to deal with SI right under his nose for what could have been years now, there's no way he can just go to every sighting of them guns blazing and think that'll solve the issue.

There's going to be a lot of struggle to get this over with once and for all, and yes, keeping a low profile is going to be one of those struggles. Hell, if he was in Rhodey's shoes and he saw what was very, very clearly a weapon heading towards the U.S. from the heart of the Afghan desert, he'd have pulled all the same moves.

He'd kept...a lot from Rhodey. He didn't realize until he was "home free" (and had successfully prevented a pilot from Wile E. Coyote-ing down to the Earth) that, whether he'd been willing to admit to it or not, he'd been holding onto bitterness towards his best friend.

Rhodey had told him to “get his mind right.” Tony thought he'd just taken that in disappointed stride, but no, that stayed with him. The whole Stark empire was built on blood and bones, and it doesn't matter if the Air Force are the "good guys", James, innocents are going to die because of it.

He just hadn't been thinking about it so much that it ever occurred to him that he was even still bitter about it. In all honesty, does Tony even get to preach to someone like Rhodey?

His time with the Ten Rings may have only been a taste of what Rhodey had to choke down on a daily basis. Firing his way out of the cave, ceasing weapons manufacturing, and speeding back just to wipe out another slew of them, that was Tony's vengeance. He was desperate and starved and those were his resorts to just make his world a slightly better place. It never occured to him that maybe he'd taken such a thing away from Rhodey.

Point being, Rhodey is an issue and Tony respects him more than anyone else in his life at the moment. His mind works in a linked chain: first he's thinking about the obstacles he's bound to face, like the U.S. Army, which makes him think about Rhodey, which makes him think about how wrong he was about his friend, which makes him think about Obadiah.


Even when he was just a kid, he thought Obadiah was just the person everyone made out to be the bad guy.

Obadiah was far from a cuddly teddy bear, he was willing to say that much. Even for all his charm and suave words, there was always something a little off-putting about him, something that intensified when things didn't go as planned. Or, rather, when things didn't go as planned and there wasn't another plan to back it up.

But really, Obadiah was mostly the person who had to say the things no one liked to hear. He could very well be right, but not everyone liked to face what was "right", so it was just so easy to paint him as the jerk who caused all the trouble.

After his parents died, Obadiah couldn't have gotten on his nerves more. It was his company that his father built up, and here this guy was, telling him what had to happen and when and with who. Tony was the exact opposite of an idiot, so why Obadiah felt the need to calmly break down everything bit-by-bit was beyond him.

In the end, though, he'd had to admit two things. The first was that just because it wasn't sugarcoated, Obadiah's advice tended to always be right. There could be no such thing as risk in Stark Industries. They had to break everything down to its tiniest little pieces before they could make any decisions, from the one board member who disagreed to the slightest change in an invoice.

The second was that Obadiah's blunt truths had made it so easy for Tony to trust him. Obadiah would never bullshit him on anything, because they were standing on the same rug, so there was no use in trying to pull it out from Tony's feet. He got so used to people honeying their advice and (to be frank) kissing his ass that he'd just accepted that whatever anyone said, he'd just have to fact-check it himself. Not so with Obadiah. The man found such an inspiring balance between charm and frankness that Tony had to admit he might have picked up after a while.

After his parents, the only time Obadiah had ever worn Tony's nerves raw so much was when Peter came up. Afterwards, when the waters settled, Tony had looked back on everything Obadiah had said and done. At the time, he was so certain Obadiah was wrong, but he just tried to see how he was wrong. Yes, a child was going to be a monumental secret to keep. Yes, Tony had no obligation to raise a son that had been kept secret from him. No, Tony was not father material. Obadiah worked in the matters of money, not the matters of the heart.

And time after time again, no matter how business-blinded he was, no matter how blunt his sentences got, no matter how much Tony puffed up in annoyance, Tony had always come out the other side giving Obadiah credit at least and being thankful at most.

Now, looking back on all those times he'd said "well..." and "to be fair..." Tony had been a goddamn stupid, naive child who didn't want to admit that his favwit person in dah whole world was anything but good. Because all those times he'd thought to himself, "matters of the heart", he was more right than he would ever acknowledge.

Obadiah Stane is a moneysucking, warmongering leech who doesn't give a damn about anything but his own wallet. He doesn't give a shit about all the blood that's being spilled with their weapons. He doesn't give a shit about Peter and whether or not he should be with Tony. He doesn't give a shit about Tony and he never did.

He knew, he knew, that Tony trusted him and believed him and he used that. He's just as convinced as everyone else that Tony has gone insane, so it was just so simple to convince him to lay low and out of the public eye so he could pull the strings as he pleased. He wrote the narrative that Tony's cessation of weapons manufacturing was the act of a madman, he had the board shut Tony out and turned around and "broke the news" to the trauma-ridden idiot. Why would anyone doubt him? Obadiah Stane and Tony Stark were thick as thieves, if anyone knew whether or not the Stark Industries CEO had lost his mind, it would surely be Stane, wouldn't it?

Everything the he's ever seen Tony do—all those many low points he's hit over the last few months—Obadiah saw it all and he could've used any of them up his sleeve. He could have used Peter, too, but that was such pure hypothesis even Tony didn't think he would do it. Obadiah had such a strong "Tony Stark is Over" case, and there was no way to add the "Secret child proves he's hiding things from everyone" subbullet without also admitting he was in on the whole thing.

Strange how Tony figured they would draw the line at that. He wondered just how many board members had happily agreed to the idea. Surely they all watched the same news channels as Tony. So many people Tony had to persuade and please for all these years, and they heard whichever anchorman report whichever death toll of whichever latest attack made with their weapons and heard cha-ching, cha-ching.

Tony had made the right decision never to tell Obadiah about the suit, let alone allow him into the lab. He thought about Peter telling him how Obadiah had asked, and his stomach felt full of lead. He was just watching him. Keeping tabs so Tony could never do anything that surprised him.

From the death of his parents to taking over the company to finding out about Peter and taking him in to being taken by the Ten Rings and dealing with the falling out, Tony had sidestepped every one of Obadiah's falters because Tony only had so much family left.

And through all of that, Stane just looked at him and saw an opportunity.


As the world crumbles down around him, there is something that Tony can't figure out that's eating him alive: How does Obadiah and Stark Industries deal with the Ten Rings under the table while Tony gets taken hostage?

Oh, the freight train has already hit him. They gouged his heart out and drowned him and bled him like a pig until he fought his way out, the only one between him and Yinsen to see the sun again, and Stane

kept

dealing

with them.

Tony knows this. He—knows this.

This also tells him that something is wrong. Or, was wrong.

Because that does not add up to him. One leech teams up with a whole bunch of leeches for a plan that will benefit them both, sure. Fine.

But then the Ten Rings kidnap Tony, the CEO of Stark Industries. And whether Stane and the rest of his pack likes it or not, Tony is Stark Industries, and Stane couldn't lose him if he wanted to keep all the goddamn blood money. The scenario of anything happening to Tony was talked about like any hypothetical disaster—everyone in the world knew that the whole empire would collapse without him, even those within it.

Perhaps Stane did something that pissed them off. Maybe they decided that hey, with Stark right next door to them, why not grab him while they can to try and get Stane to sweeten the pot?

He was in the cave for months. Was the ransom so huge that it took that long and longer to accomplish, or did Stane decide that actually, screw it, they could keep the spoiled brat and he'd figure something out? Or did the Ten Rings decide that with Tony Stark right there with them, there was no point in having to deal at all, and Tony could just make all the weapons for them?

There are so many hypotheses and questions and the best part about all of this is that Tony doesn't have a single person on this entire blue planet to help him.

In the end, he just...goes home. Nowhere else is safe.


He never doubts Pepper for a second.

Even if she's been Stane's psuedo-secretary for months now, she still wouldn't have a clue about all the under-the-table exchanges. Stane wouldn't let her know, of course, but on top of that, Pepper is a secretary. The best damn secretary who ever existed, but she was never even present for any board meetings. There was no chance in hell she ever caught so much as a whisper.

Also—it’s Pepper.

The only, only moment Tony starts to lose the last bit of composure he has left is when he hears the words that never stuck before, only ever said in an exasperated sigh: "I quit."

His head starts to fill with a million accusations just like he did with Rhodey: that she doesn't care about the larger picture, that she can't just throw in the towel over this, that all that stress and chaos she'd gone through...Well, not only was it nothing compared to what wracked Tony's mind every second of every day, it wasn't for nothing. He'd been so empathetic to how much she'd carried on her shoulders for him, but this wasn't for him anymore.

Then she says she won't watch him kill himself. Reminding Tony that he can't accurately judge someone to save his life.

For a second, while he still has the grime and sweat on his skin and she's on the other side of the room, as immaculate as ever but with the steeliest look she's ever given him, he wonders that question again. What are they?

She was his secretary who put up with his shit better than anyone else, had to deal with the fallout he created, knew things about himself even he didn't, but kept him at literal arm's length in public because she is more than aware of how she needs to look. She is not going to be another woman Tony Stark got his hands on. More than that, though, Pepper knows that she's the best secretary who ever existed, and she rightfully prides herself in her work, so like hell she is ever going to allow a single soul to ask if she got where she is through her boss's bedroom.

But also, she supported him every step of the way when he took in Peter, she consoled his son when he couldn't, she was one of the dreams that got Tony out of the cave, she'd fretted and fussed while he was recovering, she told him that she saw how hard he tried just because she wanted him to know that she saw, she danced with him at the benefit, and she was the one who leaned in before he pulled away.

Tony doesn't know what they are. What he does know is that Pepper sees him, and she doesn't just hear him, she listens. So when he tells her why he has to do this, why he needs her to take this risk for him, she listens.

She takes the hard drive and leaves. Tony misses her the second she's out the door.


Tony has gone longer without sleeping, eating, or in general just taking care of himself while he's in the lab. Even so, after only so long of working on the suit to get it in prime shape for the hailstorm that's about to follow, his head starts to feel light, and his vision is starting to spot.

Finally he collapses on the living room sofa, and when he awakens, it's dark outside. Maybe it was when he went to sleep; he doesn't know. He hasn't looked at the clock, or the TV, or his phone. Like the tiniest new bit of information is going to break him.

He hates it with every fiber of his being, but he just has to wait for now. Until Pepper can get what he needs, he has to stay in one place. He has no idea where Stane is or what he's doing, but he isn't going to do anything out of the ordinary. Anything else, that is. He wouldn't be surprised if the Air Force has already released a report about his...stunt.

Tony wanders around his mansion in a haze, somehow pent up with energy and exhausted at the same time. J.A.R.V.I.S. is there, and he talks to him, but even a technical marvel like him isn't a replacement for human interaction.

He thinks about calling Ben Parker just to hear someone's voice, but changes his mind just as quickly. It's not like he can tell him what's going on, and Tony doubts he'll be able to fake small talk right now.

In his wandering, he finds himself standing outside his son's bedroom door. He pushes it open, but the room is empty, of course. Peter is still safe and sound at Richard's house, so there's nothing to find inside but glow-in-the-dark stars and the control-board bed.

R2 is there, too, dormant in the corner. Waiting for his owner to come home, Tony guesses.

Tony steps inside the room, turning on the lights. Peter never bothers cleaning up before he leaves, though Tony doesn't see a point to, to be fair. There are still LEGOs on the floor and video game controllers sprawled in front of the TV. The bed is half-heartedly made with the comforter thrown across the mattress.

It's a very lived-in room, and Tony likes it like that. He remembers designing the room and being almost upset by the result: so new and clean it looked like it came out of a magazine. He'd looked forward to Peter tearing the place apart.

He sits down at the end of the bed, feeling heavy. Despite heading down that path, he doesn't spend an eternity ruminating on the past. Everyone has these moments every now and then, don't they? Just looking around and remembering the past few years and how they got here. Right?

The reprieve doesn't last. As Tony thinks back on the time when he was dumb enough to hesitate about taking his son in, he remembers all the...warnings Stane gave him. Time and time again he'd tried so hard to dissuade Tony from taking in his motherless kid, like Tony just couldn't think straight and Stane knew what was right in the end.

It's so hard not to grab the nearest whatever and throw it against the wall, but he refrains. This is Peter's room, anyway. It's not his stuff to break.

There never was an Obie. Every time he gave Stane the benefit of the doubt, it was for a man who didn't exist. He wasn't misguided, he wasn't just prickly. Tony had lived with a snake draped across his shoulder for years now.

Thankfully, he hasn't jumped into the deep waters of questioning everyone in his life. He knows Stane is the exception, not the rule, and Pepper and Rhodey and the Parkers don't need to be reevaluated, too. If anything, the fact that he was closest to Stane out of all of them makes it better. He thinks that in the impossible case that he is surrounded by buzzards, it'll hurt just a smidgeon less when he has to cut them loose, too.

This train of thought crashes into another one on the tracks, and now Tony just can't stop picturing everyone he holds dear just—being in the same room as Stane. Pepper had been carrying on with her work with him for months now. Rhodey, he sat right next to him every birthday dinner and holiday celebration, not close but connected through Tony. And the Parkers, who were once upon a time just an innocent family going about their lives, they'd chatted and bantered with Stane because why should they ever doubt him?

At best, Stane was just keeping up his harmless facade, and at worst, he'd used their every conversation to keep more tabs on him.

And God...Peter. Just a damn child. Stane was Dad's best friend, so even though he was a little scary and a little mean sometimes, that was okay, right? Dad trusted him so that meant he was a good guy, right?

He just hoped Stane wrote Peter off as a bump in the road at best. There weren't enough years for Tony to think through every time he'd been with his son when he wasn't there.

And—

No.

No, when he was gone...

Tony mashes the balls of his hands into his eyes. A headache is hammering at his temples, and if he didn't know J.A.R.V.I.S. would ask if he was okay, he'd have let out a groan of immeasurable decibels.

Days and weeks and months he hadn't been around when Stane was. Everyone had made little murmured remarks that he'd just been kind of snappy, a little too stressed out, but no one would ever assume it was anything else than that. He knew the Parkers' reception had gone a little sour, but no one had approached him about it, no one had given him a warning on what they'd seen.

"He called Peter a 'little shit'," Ben had told him, in that unsure, hushed tone of someone who wasn't trying to cause trouble.

That was a slip of the mask. That wasn't just a man stressed out with work, that was someone who'd hated the child from day one finally getting a word out.

Tony almost laughed. He'd talked to Stane about it like a teacher worried about his student's behavior. He really, truly, stupidly believed that the shitbag just needed someone to tell him to cool it down. And Stane had apologized for it just to please him and look like a human being with flaws. He gave Peter a Nerf gun for his birthday because everything was fine now!

Even Peter knew something was off with Stane. A very smart kid, yeah, but a kid. That's how shoddy Tony's radar has gotten—

Wait.

Wait, wait, wait.

His head blanks for a moment. Autopilot kicks in, and he reaches for the phone in his pocket. The thought that has occurred to him hasn't even solidified yet and he's already reacting to it.

It takes him a moment to get to his and Stane's messages with his fumbling fingers, but he gets there. Seeing all the lighthearted, meaningless exchanges just makes his stomach churn just a little bit more. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

He finds what he's looking for.

I'll tell Peter I'm sorry for talking to him like that.

 

I meant ABOUT him.

Now Tony is convinced that he's been possessed. He's had the words "You're an idiot" playing on repeat between his ears for hours now, but record scratch: He was never THAT big of an idiot, was he?! That he wouldn't catch a slip like that.

Goddamn. His rose-tinted glasses were opaque.

And now this leaves the question, what did he say to Peter? Peter hadn't told him anything, and surely he would've told one of them if Stane had threatened him, insulted him, hurt him...

"Sir."

The AI's voice cuts through the silence like gunfire, and Tony flinches. Now he actually does wish, just a little bit, that he was wholly alone.

"Yeah, Jar?"

"It's been quite a while since you've last eaten. I'd advise you to do so soon."

Yeah, right, like Tony was going to be able to keep anything down with his stomach in knots. J.A.R.V.I.S. carefully tracked his sleep and eating schedules to avoid actual, serious health issues, and though Tony often dismissed him like hitting the snooze button on an alarm clock, he was wondering if he could program a "Not now" protocol into his AI.

Shouldn't be too hard, he thought dully. He already has eyes and ears all over the house…

Then it happens again. His thought cut off short, autopilot switches on: "J.A.R.V.I.S."

"Yes, sir?"

"You kept everything up and running while I was gone, didn't you?"

"None of my operations were changed during your absence."

"So you still have all security feed."

"All data collected by my security system in your three-month absence has been archived. There were no attempts at forced entry, theft, or trespassing to be reported."

"Hold on."

Tony beelines out of Peter's room to the living room in a one-track daze, unsure if he's even breathing right. Once he's in front of the television, he commands, "Show me."

The screen fills with files and files and files, for every day that he was gone, filling the monitor in rows. It wasn't comforting. The days in the cave had passed by in haze and smoke, but they had been days still, and the world had gone on turning without him.

"Get rid of everything when no one was here."

A good chunk of the files flit off the screen. The remaining ones are snipped and split apart. Some are back-to-back, others are days apart. Tony bites back a sigh. Some could just be days of Pepper stopping by the place to grab something for all of two minutes.

"Show me the days when Stane and Peter were here."

More files fly away into nothing. Only four remain.

"The last date was when Master Peter went back to New York with Mister and Missus Parker," explains J.A.R.V.I.S.

Tony slides a hand down his face, squeezing his jaw. "What about when Stane and Peter were alone?"

There is a pause that Tony first assumes is just the AI processing the data to find such a case. But after just a few too many seconds too long for the supercomputer, Tony realizes that he's actually hesitating.

"Jar?"

There's a quiet beep that only Tony would recognize as the man who created the system. It is the sound of a protocol or order being overridden, but he has no idea what it could be, and he doesn't get an answer before the file blows up and takes the screen from corner to corner.

The feed starts at exactly 12:00:01 AM on that very day, and J.A.R.V.I.S. flits through the video just fast enough so Tony can catch everything. First the Malibu sun rises and turns all the shadows into oranges and yellows, and there's a static view of the living room Tony is standing in now for a few hours more.

Finally, Ben, Richard, May, and Peter Parker come through the doors at zipping speed. Even in split-second flashes, Tony sees the identical expressions they share on their faces. Stress is etched deep into their features, but every time Peter so much as glances their way, they put on a tired smile. If they're too exhausted to manage even that: neutral at best.

The adults carry Peter's belongings out of his room in boxes and bags. Clothes, toys, books. Tony would've been gone for a little over three weeks at this time, without so much as a hint to where he'd vanished to. He was eternally thankful to all of them for taking in Peter to a safe, loving home, but really, how light do you pack for a trip like this?

Finally, Stane walks in through the door. Tony only saw the man in person just yesterday and even so, the smaller, past version of him on the screen makes bile rise up in his throat. Stane looks as himself as ever. Gray suit and a gray face. His entire disposition is sour as spoiled milk.

Whatever short exchanges he has with the Parkers, they aren't warm. There's not a smile to be seen. He doesn't stay long, though. His phone rings, and he coolly dismisses himself to the other room to answer.

Watching them, Tony's eyes glance over at the tiny image of his son. He's smaller than Tony has ever seen him, in more ways than literal. He is so horribly aware that he's just there, the problem everyone's trying to solve. He keeps out of the way, wringing his hands, tucked into the corner.

Right as impatience is starting to creep in, there's change. Ben slips out of the door, calling to his brother and wife over his shoulder. Then Richard is carefully stepping out of Peter's room with a huge cardboard box in his hands, but one slight misstep with his prosthetic leg has it crashing. Peter and May both jump, and May assigns Richard to door-holding duty while she takes care of it. It's a slow process getting the box out even in a fast-forwarded video. When the two make it to the door, they both cheerfully nod for Peter to just hang tight.

A second after the door closes, Stane hangs up his phone in the other room. Everything slows to normal speed. Peter is sitting on the couch in the living room—in the real, present world, Tony's eyes flit over to it at his left.

Stane storms into the room huffing smoke, and Peter seems to shrink just a little bit smaller. It almost works, but in the midst of his enraged pacing, Stane finally spots him and falters just so. He has his hands on his hips and his tie askew. Tony remembers the look well. Somehow, that was when he was always his scariest.

“Where’s everyone?” Stane grunts.

Peter’s reply is so quiet J.A.R.V.I.S. has to ramp up the volume. “Aunt May and Uncle Richard had to—they’re carrying something outside.” He pauses. “Uncle Ben’s getting lunch.”

Stane’s tongue slides over his teeth behind his lips. Peter casts a quick look at the door the others disappeared through.

“So.” Stane almost sighs literal steam. “You gonna be happy to get out of here? Go back to New York?”

Peter shrugs. Stane doesn’t accept it. “Yes? No?”

Quieter than ever, Peter relents, “Yeah.”

“Good. I’ll be happy, too.”

The bite in his voice shoots right into Tony’s chest, but the past version of Peter doesn’t understand. He just knows Stane is angry, and angry at him. It’s bad, but what is Peter to do? He’s just a kid and Aunt May and Uncle Richard is gone. All he can do is be scared, which he is.

Maybe in the future Peter will get his father’s quick wit when it comes to comebacks, but in this moment—that moment—Peter has no idea of how to do such a thing. He doesn’t feel the outrage to respond, he just sits there on the couch, small and quiet.

Whether Stane’s pissed or confused or what, he pauses in his footsteps and just looks at Peter. It must have been a rarity for him to be able to lose his temper without offending any business partners or media reporters. And for them to just sit there and take it because they don’t know any better.

“You know,” Stane goes on, his voice filled with a restrained rage that doesn’t match his words, “you’re causing an awful lot of trouble. We—” He makes a jerky gesture in the other direction. “—have a lot of stuff to deal with now that your old man’s gone, and you’re just…Well, you’re just another item on the list, aren’t you?”

Peter continues to just sit there and take it in. Tony wonders in his sickened state how much he’s even understanding.

“Let me ask you something.” Stane takes a step forward but keeps a distance between them, and bends down just so. His stance is overpouring with so much condescension Tony’s fingers twitch like he can reach through the screen and sock him across the jaw. “Did you want to come down here? When your dad asked you to come live with him, did you really want to, or did you just do it to make him happy?”

Peter shrugs again, and Stane’s gray face only darkens. “Don’t just shrug. I asked you a question.”

Now Peter’s voice is so quiet that even with J.A.R.V.IS.’s volume at its top, Tony can just barely make out the quiet smack of his lips.

“I don’t know…”

“Yeah, of course you don’t know.” Stane straightens up again and rolls his eyes to the side. His hands slide down to his pockets. “But you want me to tell you something?”

Peter does not respond, but neither does he shrug. Stane rolls his eyes a second time. Peter’s every breath is wearing on his nerves.

I think you should’ve stayed in New York. I mean, I always did, because I knew from day one your dad was going to do a shit job at being a dad, but I knew you were going to be a problem, too. And you were. And you are.” Stane runs a hand down his face. His eyes are pinned on Peter’s form. “Things would just be a little easier if we didn’t have to figure out what the hell to do with you. And it’s not just me, you’re a problem for everyone. I know all the Parkers like to smile and laugh like they’re the goddamn Brady Bunch, but they’re sick and tired of hopping from place to place just to make sure someone’s dealing with you. And if you think for a second that Dad was happy to have you here, I’m sorry, but no. I’ve seen it on his face for months. He hates having you around.”

When he was pushed straight from the plane to the press conference, before he could even catch his breath or feel the ground beneath his feet, Tony had seen Peter being held by Ben up on the balcony and he’d thought to himself, He’s gotten bigger. He just hadn’t appreciated how much bigger he’d gotten.

The Peter sitting on the couch is tiny. He looks as easy to break as porcelain. His eyes are not brimming with tears, but they’re staring at his father’s huge, seething best friend as he spits and snarls at him just for—existing. He is scared, but what is he thinking, in that moment?

Does he wish he’d never left home?

Does he miss his mother?

“I’m sorry.”

The black rage that had steadily clouded over Stane’s face halts for just a second as confusion takes over. “What?”

Peter’s voice had again been so quiet it was hardly more than the movement of his mouth. He raises his voice just so. “I’m sorry.”

Stane’s lips pull back from his teeth in pure and simple disgust. “Don’t say you’re sorry.”

Peter doesn’t say anything else after that. Stane sighs for the hundredth time since he’d entered the room.

After that, J.A.R.V.I.S. hits fast-forward again, at a slightly lowered speed. The Parkers return, some silent, terse words are exchanged; Ben returns with two Domino’s pizzas in his hands. Stane leaves not long after, and the Parkers mingle around the kitchen island in the tense silence of people not wanting to be so somber but not knowing what to say.

Peter doesn’t say anything to them about Stane. Not that Tony can hear him, but he can tell because nothing changes. His mouth opens and closes in quick responses and the Parkers never stop still to listen to the horrible thing the little guy has to tell them.

The screen goes black.

In the dark mirror, Tony looks completely blank. He doesn’t look alive.

The first hot strike of hearing Stane talking to Peter like that burned out into numbness—he’d watched and listened to the rest in hardly more than a daze.

He doesn’t need the television to replay all the memories from the months since he’d returned.

He was playing cards with Peter, and asked about Stane, and his son had shrugged and said that he “didn’t want to talk to him.” That he just yelled a lot on the phone, that he’d said something to Uncle Ben, not him. He’d called Ben, and he had told him that Obie had gotten explosive in his rage, calling Peter a “twerp” and a “little shit”, but no, not to Peter. About Peter.

Except Stane said “to Peter”, verbally backspaced, and Tony just ate it up without a second thought.

Tony was watching Peter as Stane gave him a shiny new toy wrapped in birthday-party paper, watching as his son just sort of smiled shyly and gave a thank you. It never crossed his mind that it was anything other than shyness. It never crossed his mind that it would ever be fear.

Peter told him how Stane was asking about what they did in the lab, and just like that, the tiny little concern Tony had at his son’s newfound quietness around “Obie” was snuffed out.

Tony decided that it would be just wonderful if he and Peter could get out of the house together, and even better if his beloved uncles could come along, and even better if Stane came, too. Peter got sick just after that, and they couldn’t go.

Then he came home quiet and distant, crying behind a locked door, but lips zipped shut. Tony tried to coax out a response from him and he got nothing. He point-blank asked what the problem was and Peter lashed out, furious, and Tony didn’t get it back then and only now is he realized that that was exactly the problem.

He didn’t get it. He was completely blind.

In the midst of falling into oblivion, a question pops into his head: “Jar, why didn’t you say anything?”

The video pulls up once again, and only briefly skips forward. The Parkers are huddled around the front door of the mansion, practically one foot out the door.

Peter is still just floating around them with no direction, until May pushes back a length of hair that’s slipped out of her unkempt bun and asks, “Do you want to go back one more time? Say bye?”

Silent, Peter nods.

“M’kay. Go on.”

Peter turns and goes. He slowly wanders through the living room and kitchen, quiet as a ghost. His big brown eyes are gliding over everything with some consideration. Just getting one last image into his head, more details so he doesn’t forget anything. It was (is) his home, but soon he’d be heading all the way back to New York, unsure if or when he was going to be coming back.

He makes it to his room in enough time for Tony to think he just beelining there the whole time. Not that he can blame him for holding it a little closer to his heart, it was the place in the house that was wholly his. Actually, Tony never thought of it much before, but now that he’s watching the angles of his house flit by on the television screen, Peter’s room sticks out like a sore thumb. The mansion was built and designed for and by a bachelor with no family in any future—sleek, gray, simple. Peter’s room is bursting with colors and disarray.

Tony sees it the way it was before Peter got there. It’s been picked clean, the star-shaped shelf an empty husk and the bed made just—too nicely. Even the ocean view past the windows is oddly blank now. The blues are too close in hue.

The past version of his son takes slow, tiny footsteps. No doubt a million times more unnerved by the sight than Tony could ever be.

While Peter is there, J.A.R.V.I.S.’s voice—so clear Tony thinks for a split second that the AI is speaking in the present—comes through. “Master Peter.”

 

His poor kid just about jumps out of his skin, but calms quickly enough. “What?”

“I believe what Mr. Stane said has caused you distress. It is protocol for me to inform Master Tony of such a situation, but in his absence, would you like for me to inform one of the adults present?”

 

Peter hesitates for a moment. “No.”

“Understood, sir.”

For a second Peter just stands still, maybe trying to figure out if he’s really alone or not. “J.A.R.V.I.S.?”

“Yes, sir?”

 

“If Dad comes back, are you going to tell him?”

J.A.R.V.I.S. processes the question. “When Master Tony is out of contact for an extended period of time, I inform him of things that occurred while he was away. He has not specifically ordered for me to do so in regards to your health or wellbeing being harmed in his absence, but neither has he specifically ordered for me not to do so.”

Peter does some processing of his own. “You do stuff when I ask you to do stuff, right? You—you turn on the lights and open the windows and call Dad when I want you to.”

“Yes, sir.”

 

His son’s throat bobs up and down.

“Can I tell you not to tell Dad?” He pauses. “When he gets back?”

J.A.R.V.I.S. hesitates again. It’s almost funny. The AI has run so smoothly for years now, not missing a beat, but he’s stumped time and again by this small child. “Only Master Tony is authorized to change any protocols.” Another pause. “That is, only Master Tony can tell me to stop doing what I normally do.”

 

“But you don’t. ‘Normally do.’”

This time, Tony can almost hear the computer’s non-existent gears grind. What to do, what to do?

“I believe,” J.A.R.V.I.S. answers more slowly than he’s ever spoken before, “that if something extremely critical and/or life-threatening happened in Master Tony’s absence, I need to inform him at the soonest opportunity. However, given there is no severity to this situation, I could refrain from telling Master Tony of it unless he asks.”

 

Peter considers this response carefully. “Unless he asks.”

“Unless he asks.”

 

“Promise?”

“Promise, sir.” Tony would swear to the highest heaven there’s almost a fond sigh lacing the AI’s voice.

The screen cuts out for good. Tony is again looking at his blank, lifeless face, with the ball of his fist pressed against his mouth.

“I apologize for my poor judgement, sir.”

 

“Nah, it’s alright. You’re fine.”

Looking at his dark reflection in the television, he’s hit with the memory not two nights ago, the shape of the Mark II on the glass of Peter’s bedroom window. The words Peter had pressed against the frost.

Chapter 22: Chapter Twenty-Two

Summary:

See, if Tony was just a little smarter, with more time and resources, maybe he could’ve been pouring his blood, sweat, and tears into a time machine. That would be a worthwhile goal. He could go all the way back to the day Mary left the room. He could stop her from leaving, tell Stane to get the hell out of his life, and raise his son like an actual father and not just a joke trying to be one.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

He doesn’t know whether to be relieved or not that Stane considers Peter more of an inconvenience than an actual problem. He’s always hated Tony’s son, probably from the moment he found out Tony had one. He wanted to sweep him under the rug, urged Tony to keep it at college savings and cut the cord. Peter had stayed, of course, but when Tony had been taken and Stane was left with an oblivious empire to save, he just wanted Peter gone. Back to New York, out of mind.

It might be good that he doesn’t care about Peter. Stane never cared about Tony, either, but he’d not cared so much that he kept his eyes on Tony at all times. Stane might be willing to just forget about Peter the second he was out of his sight.

With Pepper out on the front lines, and the suit made known to the U.S. Army and the Ten Rings, Tony has zero seconds for another—episode. At the same time, all he can do right now is lie in agonizing wait for the next step. So he can’t stop, but he can think.

For so long he’d wished for a window view into his son’s brain, and now that he got it, he didn’t want to see it.

Tony had been blind to Stane’s true colors for years and years, and Peter had gotten a front-row seat in a fraction of that time. He knew that Stane hated him for just existing. He knew Stane’s every smile and joke was just the Big Bad Wolf trying to be nice to Red Riding Hood. True, he might not have always known, not before that conversation. That didn’t change the fact that his father’s closest friend who’d been around since they first met was a slimy, hateful monster—the kind that lived under his bed, invisible to everyone else but him.

It occurs to Tony that despite what Stane had said, Peter had not always spoken of him in fear. In fact, when he talked about how Stane “yelled a lot” or how he’d asked what was in the lab, he was so casual about it Tony would never in a million years think that something was up.

Tony’s not a psychiatrist—if anything, he could use one—but he thinks that he just might have a clue what happened.

Stane said those things to Peter, and then he’d left for New York. Never saw a hint of the man for months. It stayed with him, but he didn’t have to be afraid, not when he was all the way across the country.

Tony came back. Peter returned. Stane was there. Everyone is tired, but happy. Stane acts like their little “talk” never happened. Peter doesn’t forgive him, he doesn’t forget about it, but he can keep him at arm’s length.

For all the people he’d met by virtue of Tony being his father, there was always some separation between them. It wasn’t like the Parkers, with Ben Parker, husband of May Parker, brother of Richard Parker. It was Pepper, the nice lady that Peter saw almost every day; Rhodey, the awesome colonel who came around a few times a year; Happy, the guy who drove him places and was either grumpy or awkward, one or the other, at any moment.

Connected to Tony, but not inseparable. Their own people. Stane was the scary man who lived in the shadows, not Dad’s best friend and honorary family member.

Stane “just” yelled, and he was “just” grumpy, and he “just” asked about what was going on in the lab. He made Peter nervous every time he stepped into the room, but Peter could be brave. He was scary, but he couldn’t hurt him, like the dark, or loud thunderstorms.

What Stane said, about Tony never wanting him in the first place, it still sounded off at the back of his mind every now and then, but Peter ignored it. Ignoring it became easier as they spent time in the lab working on the suit, stayed up eating takeout food, played card games and put together puzzles. Stane was just a bully who said things that would hurt the most, not the things that were true. He was just the bad guy.

And then! Tony wanted them to go out and just have a fun night! Himself, Peter, Ben and Richard, just doing fun things to do fun things. Sure, the lab was cool, but Peter was starting to feel a little cramped, and to get out of the house, do a whole night’s worth of whatever they wanted, and with some of his favorite people in the world? Dream come true! He was excited, jumping on his feet, counting the days until it came.

Tony invited Stane.

Tony invited Stane, without telling Peter. Without realizing how that would ruin the night. If Stane hadn’t said what he’d said, if he was just another grumpy guy in the world, it would still be awkward. Stane wasn’t like any of the other adults in Peter’s life, he didn’t give him nicknames or hug him or even smile at him.

But Stane had said those things, and he wasn’t just another grumpy guy in the world, he was the shadow lurking at the corners of Peter’s life and Tony had just invited him along like everything was going to be okay.

So Peter realized that no, actually, Stane was a part of Tony. He couldn’t have Dad without Obie. He was always going to be there.

The voice got a little louder. Tony never wanted him around. Is that why he invited Stane along? Was Peter just an excuse to go out at all? Something that Tony had to figure out how to deal with?

Peter was angry, and confused, and scared, and he knew that Tony saw it. And maybe he saw Tony’s concern, and maybe he saw the way he reached out to Peter, and maybe that gave Peter just a little glimmer of hope. It could be that Tony was just like him, and saying it aloud made him scared. No kid likes to confront a Bad Thing. They don’t like talking or arguing or even comforting, sometimes, even if they knew what the problem was.

So if Tony knew what the problem was, and he was just waiting to say it, that was okay. He was just scared, and that was okay.

Tony was not scared. He was not avoiding it. Tony didn’t know. Tony had told him, with a gentle voice and a soft smile, that Peter didn’t have to be scared to tell him anything.

Tony didn’t see it. Tony didn’t say anything because he didn’t like dealing with Peter. Peter was annoying him with his quietness, and he’d finally snapped, but he had to be the adult and act all nice about it, so he asked Peter to just tell him what was wrong so he could get the problem taken care of.

It didn’t matter if they made the suit in the lab together, or watched old movies, or made Lego sets. It didn’t matter if Tony had brought him all the way out here and gave him a fancy room with fancy toys. He just—felt bad. Peter made him feel guilty, and not in a way that made him want to get better or be nice, it was in the way that made him angry and cold and put on fake smiles to make things better. He was nice to Peter because Peter was a problem and Tony didn’t like problems. He liked being by himself and being friends with scary people like Obie. He liked finding ways to make Peter a means to be around Stane, like going out on Boys’ Night or inviting him to birthday parties.

Tony tried to act like that wasn’t true, that he was a good guy. He’d said, “Because I want to know what’s making you upset so I can fix it.”

But Peter was just done with it. He was done giving Tony second chances. “No you don’t. You never do.”

And yet—

And yet…

Tony loves him. Peter knows Tony loves him, he believes him when he says it. Even if he thinks Peter is a problem. Maybe Tony just did all the things he did to make himself not feel bad anymore, but Peter couldn’t take away the good in those memories. He still liked being in the lab and playing card games. It made him happy, even if it wasn’t real.

Peter made Tony feel bad, and that makes him feel bad in return. He stresses Tony out. That’s why he started going away for so long, that’s why he stopped wanting to hang out as much. He came back from…wherever he went to, bruised and bloody with a hole in his chest, and even though playing with Peter and working in the lab and all that stuff made him feel better…it was still taking care of a problem. It was tearing your room apart just so you could find something, it was getting your hands dirty and greasy so you could fix a broken pipe.

Peter didn’t want Tony to feel bad about him anymore. If he knew about what Stane said, and if he knew that Stane had hurt Peter, that would make him feel worse. Another problem to deal with.

Tony isn’t a psychiatrist.

It’s just a theory.

00000000000000000000000000

“Yeah, I’m—I don’t think anything’s wrong, but I don’t know…He just really wants to come over now. Is that okay? I told him we’d have to ask you first…”

“Absolutely. I’ll send Happy over ASAP. Just hang tight.”

“Are you sure? We can still wait until tomorrow if it’s too late.”

“I’m sure that I’m sure. Don’t worry about it.”

“Okay. I—thanks.”

Tony hangs up with just “Mm-hm.” He isn’t absolutely positive just what Richard thinks of him anymore. Their contact had been reduced to the topic of Peter, and if he had noticed his son’s quietness and reluctance to return to Tony’s before, he hadn’t said anything…Plus, considering he didn’t start the call with “WHY THE HELL WERE YOU OUTSIDE PETER’S WINDOW IN THAT METAL ROBOT THING?!” Peter hadn’t told him about their window conversation.

Point being, Peter wanted to come back over, and he wanted to come over that night. It gave Tony some distraction from the agonizing wait of Pepper’s response. It gave him some relief, too. True, Stane had kept up his ruse for this long, and he hadn’t shown much interest in outright hurting Tony or Peter himself. Still, the fact that he finally just gave up and told Tony his true colors out of seemingly nowhere was putting him on edge. Past the edge.

Happy comes in a little after eight, and being on the very short list of people able to come into the mansion without J.A.R.V.I.S.’s announcement, Tony jumps a mile out of his skin when the door opens. Happy notices, and his entire face furrows with concern as he shuts the door behind him. Peter is limp against his shoulder.

“He passed out on the way over,” explains Happy. “Everything okay?”

“Mm-hm.” Tony gently takes Peter into his hands. He groans in sleepy protest. Tony shushes him as his head falls into the bend of his neck. “Thanks, Hap. You’ve fulfilled your duty.”

“Are you sure? If there’s anything else, all you have to do is tell me—”

“Seriously, Hogan. Get out of here. Take it easy.”

Happy gives an incredibly unconvinced nod, gives Peter one last gentle pat on the back, and turns. Once the door closes, Tony counts all the way up to fifteen. Then Happy comes back in to give him the dinosaur-printed backpack forgotten on his shoulders.

Feeling Peter’s heartbeat against his shoulder and hearing the little breaths exhaling by his ear saps some of the pain out of Tony’s body. He feels a fleeting disappointment that Peter is not awake. He’d happily listen to his son babble about his favorite cartoon show or make a million-piece LEGO set—to distract Tony, to see him smile again without a lace of sadness.

Peter will sleep now, though. Tony has some standards.

He carries his son through the halls and gently nudges the bedroom door open with his foot. The warmth and color of Peter’s room makes it a little easier for Tony to let him go. He knows his kid isn’t made of porcelain, but he can’t help the tenderness of his arms as he unwinds them from beneath Peter’s back.

It isn’t until after he’s pulled away that Peter stirs. His eyes only flutter open a few millimeters, a tiny little sound coming from his throat. He’s not awake, not fully.

“Dad?”

Tony shushes him again. “S’alright. Go back to sleep.”

Peter doesn’t have to be told twice. He’s back in deep within seconds.

He’s still so little. Is he ever going to stop being little?

Tony wanders back out into the monochrome halls. Figures, the one time he’s actually willing to get some sleep is the one time he can’t afford to. He’d much rather collapse on a sofa than keep uselessly meandering around with his thumbs twiddling. He’s not a waiting person.

Against his better judgement, he starts going down that checklist of all the pieces he has to put together again. The Ten Rings are his top priority, or at least, cutting off the help that his company is giving them is. As much as he’d love to personally oversee the hunt of every last one of them, that’s not a one-man job, even if that one man is Tony Stark. After he stops the trading cold, Stane is getting cut. Out of the company, out of his life. If Tony can find a way to never think about the man again, that would be amazing.

Then he has to fix what he’s broken with Peter. Maybe he can’t, not with all the damage he’s done. It might be that one day now, Peter might just decide that he’s done with this, and he wants to go back to New York with the family that doesn’t hurt him on a daily basis. Tony isn’t going to stop trying, though. He’ll never stop trying to make it better. He’ll never put his son through this kind of pain again.

See, if Tony was just a little smarter, with more time and resources, maybe he could’ve been pouring his blood, sweat, and tears into a time machine. That would be a worthwhile goal. He could go all the way back to the day Mary left the room. He could stop her from leaving, tell Stane to get the hell out of his life, and raise his son like an actual father and not just a joke trying to be one.

Just to see if maybe he can get his head out of the stormclouds, he says, “J.A.R.V.IS. Play something from the playlist. Just—anything.”

Immediately, he hears the slow drum beat, the crawling guitar strums, building up and up until:

“Has he lost his mind?

Can he see or is he blind?”

 He decides after a few seconds he’s not in a Black Sabbath mood, and flicks his wrist in the air. “Something else.”

“If I leave tomorrow…

Would you still remember me?”

Closer, but he didn’t have time for the buildup to get to the best stuff. “Something else.”

“Everybody, yea-ah…

Rock your body, yeah-ah…”

“Off. Off. Nevermind. Just cut it.”

 

 

 

He should’ve stopped her. Why couldn’t he have just been two seconds faster and stopped her from leaving? Why did he just shrug it off, why didn’t he try to find her after?

I’m sorry, Mary, he thought. I’m sorry for doing this to our son in the first place. But I’ll make it better.

 

 

Then, for just one split second, he thinks to himself: Maybe I shouldn’t have taken him in at all. Should’ve left him with the Parkers.

 

 

 

But no. No, no, no, no way. Just—that’s crazy talk. He’s diving off the deep end. His wrongdoings are a list longer than The Odyssey, but taking in Peter wasn’t an item. He should’ve just done better. Tried harder. Kept a firmer grip.

He shouldn’t have let Stane’s insults pull the trigger. He should’ve been more prepared. If he’d kept his composure and waited until he was ready to be a father, he could talk to his son when he knew something was wrong. He could comfort his son when he wept behind a closed door.

…If he had brought Peter over to Malibu and done everything right from day one, there’d still be damage. He took Peter from his lifelong home to a new planet. He distanced himself from the only family he had left. He did all of this when the death of his mother was still an open, bleeding wound.

 

Keep going, Tony. Keep beating yourself up. Keep listing all the should-haves and shouldn’t-haves. You’re good at it, because you’re an expert.

 

Give it a week. Give it a day. You’ll hurt him again, and after the damage is done, you’ll come right back here to hate yourself and lament your sins. As long as you acknowledge what you’ve done, that’s enough “getting better” for you.

 

You’ll sweat and bleed to try and save the world from the weapons you’ve created, but all you can do for your own son is throw a pity party and call that effort.

 

How many times do you think he’s cried because of you?

 

Well, it doesn’t matter, does it?

 

He can cry and hurt and wonder why his did treats him like this. What matters is that you need him.

 

Because you have to prove to no one but yourself that you’re not a bad person.

 

You’re fucking pathetic.

 

The ringing of his phone fires off like a gunshot in the silence.

Pepper’s face in the tiny little screen just hits him like a tranquilizer. He can move on to the next step. He’s got a job to do. And he’s got Pepper, and Pepper can’t let him down.

He hits the answer button and lifts it to say hello.

He doesn’t say hello.

He doesn’t say anything.

 

 

His jaw—glues shut. He cannot open his lips.

 

 

Tony gets one clear thought of “What is happening?” before his entire body collapses.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Every tendon and ligament in his body pulls taut—rubber just one tug away from snapping. His ribcage shrinks and crushes in on his lungs. He can feel his heartbeat hammering against his sternum. He cannot breathe. He cannot blink.

Every last fiber of his body, from the tips of his eyelashes to the soles of his feet, has gone brittle and dry and dead.

Tony is still there. He is sitting on his living room sofa. The sky outside of the windows is rich blue.

Then his view is starting to tilt, his eyes rolling up to the ceiling, but his head does not crash to the back of the couch. He is led there. He is gently laid to rest.

He can no longer feel the phone between his fingers, but neither has he felt it tumble down his side. The hand that held it falls against his chest, stiff and lifeless as a corpse’s.

I’m dying. I’m dying. I’m dying. I’m—

 

“Breathe.”

 

In every useless, brittle part of his failing body, the veins that he thought had sapped dry run ice cold.

His mind has lost all control, caught up in the frenzy of a body trying to make sense of what’s happening to it, doing anything and everything in an adrenaline-fueled frenzy to stop stop stop. He can almost feel the broken wires lashing around his skull. Still, he can think. In the hellish cacophony ringing between his ears, he can pick out one thought like a single instrument:

Why the hell didn’t I tell J.A.R.V.I.S. to announce him? Why didn’t I take him off the list?

 

 

Just moving his eyes is a struggle, but he doesn’t need to to see the device Stane waves around his fingers like a shiny toy.

 

 

 

 

He’s going to kill me he’s going to get rid of me he got into the mansion to cut off loose ends he never cared about you Tony how long has he wanted you dead how long has he been looking forward to this he hates you Tony he hates you so much he wants to kill you you’re just a nuisance to him he’s going to kill you right here in your own home The Sonic Taser. It uses sonic frequency to trigger short-term paralysis. Proposed for military use, or even hospitals, a means of restraining an unruly patient. Never approved. More harm than good. he’s going to kill me he hates me he wants me dead I trusted him I loved him how could I have been so stupid you’re going to die and it’s your fault your fault your fault you’re never going to make up for what you’ve done you’ll be gone before you can finish what you started the Ten Rings won and more people will die because of you you you you you you

 

 

 

 

The—thing that stands in front of him, smiling, grinning like he’s still trying to charm someone, the light of an anglerfish, he takes the earplugs out with all the time in the world because this means nothing to him and says, “When I ordered the hit on you…”

Tony doesn’t care. Tony doesn’t care about his motives or his thought process or any of his plans anymore. He was wrong—Stane hadn’t just tolerated Tony’s torture by the people he had a partnership with. He’d asked for it. Wanted it. This was never about going with the flow. It was the plan from day one.

He wasn’t keeping an eye on Tony, waiting for him to crack so he could take over. He was waiting for when he was going to finish the job.

As he keeps prattling on, and as Tony’s eyes begin to go dark from the burning hatred for this goddamn leech, a desire to break free of the invisible bonds and slaughter him the same way he did for all his friends back in the cave until he couldn’t lie or cheat or smile anymore so strong he could have screamed…Stane pulls out some metal contraption that Tony can’t identify until it’s aiming for his chest.

No, no, no, NO, NO NO NO NO NO—

 

 

 

 

It’s too late.

Every last bit of life still left in Tony drains away as Stane pulls the Arc Reactor out of his chest.

He’d thought there was nothing more grotesque than seeing the car battery wired into his veins—carrying his own heart around in his hands with nothing but flimsy cords to keep it in. This, however, is a nightmare he’d only experience in his most feverish episodes. All he can do is sit there and watch as Stane pulls his soul out of his chest and coos and fawns and gushes over it like it’s just the prettiest damn thing he’s ever seen in his life. He sits next to Tony. He throws an arm over his shoulders. The light of the Reactor shines in his irises. Tony feels blood running from his ears down his neck.

“This is your legacy.”

No this isn’t my legacy this isn’t how it’s supposed to end I’m supposed to make things better I didn’t survive just so I could die later I’m supposed to right what I did wrong I promised Yinsen I would I can’t die before I make things better people will die children will die and my name will be stamped in their blood he can’t kill me now I have to live I don’t want this to be me I don’t want to go like this I don’t want to die a warmonger I don’t want to go—

 

He keeps talking about plans with that   stupid                   goddamn             smile on his face, packing Tony’s heart away in his suitcase, and he says something or another about a prototype, but the blood rushing in Tony’s ears drowns him out. He wills something, anything, on him to move and do. Something. But he can’t. His every vein is shackled and bolted. He can’t move. He can’t remember what it felt like to move. He can’t even try anymore, with each second that passes, a little bit more of his life saps away.

“Too bad you had to involve Pepper in this. I would’ve preferred if she lived.”

 

No no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no leave Pepper alone leave Pepper alone don’t hurt Pepper she didn’t do anything she didn’t do anything don’t hurt her please don’t hurt her not Pepper not Pepper not Pepper

 

“Oh. One last thing.”

Stane sets his suitcase down and walks away, and Tony can’t see him anymore. He’s still fighting to just move, to get his finger to so much as twitch, but no. He’s too far gone. He has no more strength to give, he doesn’t have anymore life left. He’s already a corpse and he can’t even put up a fight before it ends.

Tony’s not giving up, there’s nothing left to give up. As Stane’s footsteps approach again, Tony feels his throat swell with the need to scream and shout and roar. His fingers, too, need to do something, the need to grab Stane, they need to hurt Stane, they need to get rid of him and erase him.

Finally, Stane walks back into sight.

Peter is slung over his shoulder, still asleep.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

no

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

not Peter

 

 

 

 

 

 

“I didn’t want to do this, either, Tony, but I’m also not going to pretend this isn’t your fault.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Don’t—

Let him go

 

 

 

“Look, if you’d just left him back in Queens like I told you, he wouldn’t have been a problem. He could’ve gone the rest of his life, perfectly safe and happy, and the only bad thing you would’ve ever done to him was give him your brains.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Let go

 

 

Of my son

 

 

Let go of my son

 

Don’t

 

Hurt

 

My son

“But no, you just had to prove a point, and you got him involved.”

 

Stane readjusts Peter. He holds him like he doesn’t want to hurt him. The blood running down Peter’s neck disappears under his T-shirt.

 

“If you hadn’t come back, I could’ve just sent him back where he belonged, but now I don’t know what he’s seen or heard, and what do I do? Get him to pinky-promise?”

 

 

 

 

Not Peter. Don’t hurt Peter. Don’t hurt him.

 

 

 

 

 

Leave him alone let him go let him go home don’t hurt him please let him go

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“I will say, though…I already had this whole narrative planned out. You sent the Reactor to me with a suicide note, yada-yada-I’m-crazy-yada-yada, finally proving to anyone with any doubts that yeah, you did go off the deep end, and I’d have more than enough stories to prove it.”

 

 

 

 

 

Peter wake up wake up wake up and get away Peter please let him go let my son go let him live he didn’t do anything let him live

 

 

 

 

 

 

“I was going to have a couple of the guys figure out how to get, uh…” Stane swirls a finger up at the ceiling. “J.A.R.V.I.S. disconnected or whatever, maybe rebooted. You didn’t want any recordings, whatever. But now…I’ll slip a mention of the little guy into the note, the Parkers will come forward to lose their minds, they’ll fish through the whole Pacific, no dice.”

 

 

 

 

No no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no  no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no

 

 

 

 

 

Stane shifts again. Peter’s head rolls against the fabric of his blazer. “Pepper, I’ll figure something or another out. Maybe I’ll keep her alive for a little while for the time difference. Peter, though, that’ll be easy. ‘I didn’t think he was going to hurt him,’ ‘If only I’d known’…They’ll eat it up.”

 

 

Please put him down.

 

Please let him go.

 

Let him live and let him get taller and let him go to school and move on from me.

 

 

 

 

 

 

That’s my boy. That’s my boy, I love him, kill me and let him go.

 

 

 

 

 

“I’m not going to enjoy this, Tony, really.” Stane carefully bent sideways to pick up the suitcase. With every step he took, Peter pulled further and further away. He was getting smaller. “But if you’d just taken my advice from day one, I wouldn’t have to.”

Stane keeps walking. Peter keeps shrinking. The door opens.

“Just take deep breaths, Tony. It’ll be over soon.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Then Peter’s gone.

Notes:

Well I'm just going to go to bed now and awake to the screams of outrage.

On a much, much more serious note:

Losing Chadwick Boseman just crushes me, honestly. Not just because of Black Panther/Prince T'Challa, who was just SO SO SO important to so many people old and young all over the world that losing him is going to leave a whole that can't be filled. Chadwick Boseman was just by all accounts a wonderful, spectacular human being who, despite suffering through the final stages of his cancer, worked so hard to not just bring Black Panther to life, but also to bring joy and comfort to the people who saw him. As a child being 43 sounded old to me, but now I know that 43 is way too young. Losing such an important person so abruptly can feel so unfair it doesn't even feel real. I just take comfort in knowing that even though he's gone, the impact he's left behind will last for decades to come, and he's no longer in pain.

Also, not that it needed to be said, but fuck cancer.

Chapter 23: Chapter Twenty-Three

Summary:

Peter was a problem. Peter knew that he was a problem everyone had to deal with.

Chapter Text

His mom used to say that Peter was the smartest person she knew. She said it a lot. It was when he was a little baby, but Peter still remembers sitting in their living room, playing with one of those toys where you fit the shapes into the holes. His mom would try to fit the square into the circle, and she'd go, "Uh-oh...Which one is it? It doesn't go in this one..."

 

Peter's hands were small and not really good at grabbing things. But he still took the square from her and put it in the hole. Did he do it too fast? Cause his mom blinked a couple of times before she smiled. She still smiled, though, and she said, "You're the smartest kid I know, you know that?"

 

So Peter thought he was smart. His teachers at school said he was smart. Everyone said he read really good—really well. He read really well.

 

But that made Peter wonder, is he supposed to be dumb? Are kids supposed to be dumb? Cause all the adults sounded surprised when they said it. But he wouldn't call his friends dumb, that was a mean thing to say and they were his friends.

 

He asked his Uncle Ben one time, and Uncle Ben frowned and told him that dumb was a mean word, but Peter tried to explain it to him. He talked better when he got older. When he was five, he didn't talk good at all.

 

Well. He didn't talk well at all.

 

So it took a long time to tell Uncle Ben he didn't think his friends were dumb and he didn't think kids are dumb but why are adults so surprised when they say he's smart?

 

Uncle Ben laughed and told him, "It's not that kids are 'dumb', Pete, it's just...Well. When you learn things, they get put into your brain. The older you get, the bigger your brain gets." He put his finger on Peter's forehead. "But that doesn't mean you're dumb, it just means you don't have all the room that adults have. No one's trying to say that kids are usually dumb and it's weird that you aren't, kiddo. They're just saying you're learning quick. That make sense?"

 

Not really. But Uncle Ben was one of the best people in the world, so Peter nodded and said it did.

 

As he got a little older, though, Peter started wondering if adults thought he was stupid after all. It was kind of like when his mom found out he didn't want to play Peek-A-Boo anymore. Adults would say stuff and do things, but when Peter didn't do the stuff a younger kid would do, they'd get confused.

 

Peter didn't like making people unhappy. He liked making people smile. He didn't want to hurt anyone. But sometimes adults hurt him, too, and they didn't say they were sorry.

 

Maybe they thought they didn't do anything wrong? Peter did that a lot. When he was really little his mom ordered pizza and when the delivery guy brought it to their apartment Peter laughed because he thought the guy looked funny. He really wished he hadn't done that. His mom told him that that was mean. She told him that he'd be really hurt if someone told him he looked funny, so it wasn't fair to other people. Peter didn't do that to people after that. He didn't want to hurt anyone's feelings.

 

So maybe when adults act like he's not going to know that something's wrong, or when they get upset because he didn't feel like being happy when something that made him sad happened, maybe they just don't know that that makes him unhappy.

 

But sometimes when you tell someone that something they did made you sad, they get sad, too! And Peter doesn't want to make anyone sad.

 

His mom liked to make Peter happy. When Peter was happy, his mom was happy. When Peter was sad, so was his mom. So Peter tried to stay happy a lot. But sometimes his mom would tell him that it was okay to say he wasn't happy. Like when she noticed he looked sad when they were eating cookies and cream ice cream and asked why and Peter said he didn't like cookies and cream ice cream and she asked why he didn't say so.

 

Peter almost figured it out…he thinks. Adults probably just don’t think he’s learned the things he’s learned. It stops making him so sad for a while.

 

But then it’s not about the things he’s learned about, it’s always about if he’s happy.

 

Everybody wants Peter to be happy. That’s good. But they want Peter to be happy all of the time. And that’s good too! But…

 

It isn’t just everyone looking confused and asking questions anymore. It’s everyone taking a deep breath when he says something that isn’t happy. It’s the way they say “Yeah?” at him, like they don’t really want to talk to him but he’s already there so they will.

 

Peter learned the word ‘sigh’ when he started reading bigger books. Not a long word, but he didn’t know what it was…plus, Aunt May had to tell him it was like ‘hi’ with an S, not ‘dig’ with an S. Sighing was the breathing sound someone makes when they’re tired. His mom used to sigh a lot, especially when she got home from work. Peter just called it her ‘not happy sound.’

 

Peter gets used to everyone sighing when he comes around. Peter gets used to them doing it right in front of him then going on talking like he never saw or heard.

 

Peter knows that you don’t just learn things from school and books. You can learn things just by looking, too. He learned what happy and sad and anger looked like on someone.

 

He learned that people didn’t look happy when he was around.

 

‘Annoyed’ is another word he learns while he’s reading.

 

When Rodney kicks the back of his desk at school, Peter is annoyed. When the batteries to the TV remote die, Peter is annoyed. When Peter is playing one of his toys that make loud beep-booping sounds, and no one says anything, but they start to sigh, they are annoyed.

 

When Peter is not happy, everyone is annoyed.

 

So he guesses the only thing he can do is just not be sad. Always be happy.

 

It’s hard. It’s really, really hard, and he can’t do it all the time. Uncle Richard told him that you can’t control what you feel, just what you do. He can’t help but feel sad sometimes, so he tries really hard not to show it, but he’s not too good at that. Sometimes people notice, and when people notice, Peter feels bad because he couldn’t hide it.

 

It’s not…fair. It doesn’t feel fair. At all. Peter shouldn’t feel bad about being sad. Why is it his fault that people are annoyed when he’s sad? Why isn’t it their fault?

 

Peter doesn’t like it. He hates it. He likes being happy because he knows that when he feels sad again, he’s going to annoy someone.

 

May and Ben and Richard take care of him before Dad comes, and if Peter ever has a little problem, they sigh and look annoyed, and Peter feels bad because he knows they’re tired. Pepper comes to tell him everything is okay when he starts crying at his first night at Dad’s house, and she looks annoyed, and Peter feels bad because he knows Pepper doesn’t want to do it. Dad looks annoyed at him all the time and Peter feels bad because he knows he doesn’t have to be there.

 

It’s not fair, but Peter doesn’t want anyone to be sad, so he just deals with it.

 


He wishes Mom was still around. She would know what to do.


 

For a while, Peter thinks that Dad is going to send him back home.

 

They don’t hang out much anymore. When Peter needed help getting something, or when he had a problem with his homework, Dad used to help him right away, but now he sighs. Dad forgets about him a lot. He has to keep getting J.A.R.V.I.S. to call someone because Dad keeps getting hangovers—Peter knows they’re supposed to be like…headaches that adults get, but for some reason Uncle Richard talks about it like Dad gets them on purpose?

 

Maybe it’s like when Peter would eat a whole bunch of candy all at once. He’d get a bellyache later, but it was fun while he was doing it. So he guesses he’d get it, if Dad got hangovers because he was doing something fun (whatever it was.) He still wished he wouldn’t do it, though, because on those days he either had to go with Uncle Richard when he wasn’t supposed to, or he couldn’t do anything with Dad all day because he was sick.

 

It’s not that Dad is mean to him, he just…seems really annoyed with him. Even when Peter doesn’t do anything wrong.

 

Peter tries to keep it a secret, but it’s hard not to get sad or mad. He doesn’t like being treated bad when he didn’t do anything wrong. It was like when his teacher thought he stole Macy Turnbuckle’s pencil when he really, really didn’t, but way, way worse. Dad doesn’t even think he did anything wrong. He just…doesn’t like Peter.

 

What makes him sadder is that Dad seems happier when he stays away. If he asks Dad to play a game with him, or go out somewhere, Dad sighs and closes his eyes for a second and always says no. If he just stays quiet and doesn’t ask for anything, Dad seems happier.

 

Peter doesn’t want to leave. He does love Dad. He tries to act really good. He tries not to cause trouble.

 

But nothing works. He acts nice and doesn’t cause trouble and leaves Dad alone, and Dad is happier, but he’d probably be happier-happier if Peter was gone.

 

It’s another really confusing thing and there’s no one Peter can talk to about it. He doesn’t know if he’d be happy or sad if he had to go. He’d have to leave his really cool room and the really, really cool house. He probably wouldn’t be able to talk to Rhodey or Pepper anymore. He’d miss all the friends he made at school.

 

But Dad would be happy, and…maybe Peter would be happy, too? Trying not to be sad or mad that Dad doesn’t like him anymore makes him feel sick. It makes him feel all hot and sour and his face burns. Peter would miss Dad, but at least he wouldn’t have to worry about annoying him anymore.

 

Before he met Dad, when he found out he was coming because they found out who he was from something Mom left—

 

That is still really confusing. Peter doesn’t—get it. He kind of gets it? He knows babies grow in their moms’ tummies, but how does the dad not know that the mom has a baby growing in her tummy? Like, aren’t families supposed to be the parents and the kids? It made more sense when he thought his Dad was dead. Peter had a couple of classmates whose moms and dads had died. Some of them had parents who were divorced, so they weren’t married anymore, but they were still alive. But Mom had said she and his Dad weren’t married, and she really didn’t like to talk about his dad anyway, so Peter thought he was dead. He was really, really surprised that he wasn’t and when Peter found out that he was coming, he didn’t really like it. It was weird to call someone he didn’t know his Dad, because if his dad was alive, he was supposed to be taking care of him and tucking him into bed and helping him with his homework, but his Dad didn’t do any of those things even though he was alive, and even worse than that, he didn’t know that Peter was alive, either, so how is he Peter’s Dad?

 

—he asked Aunt May what was going to happen and she was honest with him. He liked that Aunt May could tell him things without lying or making him sad. She explained it to him in a “don’t get your hopes up” kind of way. She’d said that she didn’t know what his dad was going to do when he got there, but probably he was going to “be in contact” with Peter, which meant they’d probably visit him sometimes or he’d visit them. But Peter probably wasn’t going to start living with him, and he definitely wasn’t going to move into their apartment.

 

Peter did end up living with Tony, though, and he started to love him and call him ‘Dad’ and it didn’t feel weird. Mom had told him once that even though most families were Mom-and-Dad-and-kids, a lot of families were different. Some families had two moms or two dads, some kids lived with other family members because their parents couldn’t take care of them, and some families had parents who weren’t married. So he guessed his family was just kind of different. His dad couldn’t take care of him for a long time, but now he could, and that was okay.

 

But when the sighing and the forgetting and the hangovers started, Peter figured out that Dad was…Trying him out. Like a pair of shoes that he didn’t know if they fit, or a food that he didn’t know if he liked yet.

 

Peter guessed that was…okay. Wasn’t he kind of trying out Dad, too? Aunt May and Uncle Ben and Uncle Richard told him a lot that if he didn’t want to keep living with Tony he just had to tell them and they’d work it out. Except Peter tried Dad out and he decided he liked him, but Dad tried him out and decided he didn’t.

 

He spent a long time trying to figure out if he did anything that made Dad not like him anymore. But he guessed it was just one of those things where he just had to deal with it and it wasn’t going to change. He could be angry and upset, and he could try to stop it, but it was just going to happen.

 

But then Dad got kidnapped, and Peter felt just like when Mom died. He wished he never had to feel that again.

 

He didn’t get to tell Dad goodbye. He didn’t get to talk to him at all, and he had to go back home to New York. He just—he thought that if he had to go back to New York, Dad would still talk to him, and he’d still visit sometime.

 

Then, though, Peter went back to thinking that his Dad was dead—except this time, he was really, really sure. Dad was always on TV and magazines and newspapers, but now he was always on TV and magazines and newspapers, and everyone was talking about what happened to him and where he was. Everyone was worried. Even Aunt May was worried, and Peter always thought Aunt May didn’t like Dad very much.

 

He asked if Dad was okay, if Dad was going to come back. Uncle Ben said that he was sure he was fine. Uncle Richard told him that they would just have to wait and see. Aunt May said the same thing, but she also said she wasn’t going to lie to Peter, and that even though she really, really didn’t want to say it, Peter probably need to prepare himself for the worst.

 

So for a long time, Peter thinks that his mom and dad are both dead. And worse than that, he didn’t even get to be ready for it. He didn’t get to say goodbye to either of them.

 

Peter wanted his dad back, and he wanted his mom back. It. Isn’t. Fair. Mom and Dad didn’t do anything wrong. Why did they have to die? Why did people hurt them? Why did that guy hit Mom with his car? Why did those people take Dad away and kill him?

 

That’s when the sighs got the worst, because everyone was worried that Dad was gone and might not be coming back, but Peter still had to be taken care of. He didn’t like it. He wished he could just be an adult and take care of himself, but he has to live with someone, and someone needs to be watching him.

 

Peter was a problem. Peter knew that he was a problem everyone had to deal with.

 

He knew that before Obie told him so.

 

Obie scared him because he didn’t seem like Obie anymore.

 

Obie was Dad’s friend. He and Peter didn’t really talk that much, but Peter always liked him. He was nice to Peter and he bought him gifts. He was pretty cool, too. “Confident.” Kind of like Dad because he always knew what to say and wasn’t bothered by a lot of things—not too much like Dad, though, because no one was cooler than Dad.

 

He kind of reminded Peter of his teachers. He was nice and polite, but like…they weren’t friends? And they weren’t going to be friends. That wasn’t bad, though. He was Dad’s friend, like Rhodey and Pepper. Even though Rhodey and Pepper were his friends, that didn’t mean all of Dad’s friends were his friends, too.

 

Having Obie around was just normal.

 

Until Dad went missing, and then he…stopped being normal.

 

He didn’t like Obadiah anymore. He was bothered all the time. He was always angry. He didn’t have that calm smile that made Peter think he knew everything anymore. His face always looked dark. He didn’t even sound like Obadiah anymore because his voice was always sharp and loud or angry and deep, nothing else.

 

Peter knew people got mean when they were angry. Mom was like that, Dad was like that, even he was like that. He knew that people get mean to other people when they’re mad, too.

 

But…the way that Obadiah talked to him made him think that he actually, really hated Peter.

 

Peter knew he wasn’t supposed to say ‘hate,’ but he didn’t know what else to say. When he was sitting on the couch, feeling small and scared while Obie told him how he shouldn’t be there and no one liked him and everyone wished he wasn’t around, Obie looked at him like he wanted Peter to die. It made Peter feel cold.

 

Even worse than that, though, was that Obie could hurt him. He thought Obie wanted to hurt him.

 

After that, Peter couldn’t help it anymore. Dad was gone and Obie wanted to hurt him. Peter cried and whined and caused a lot of trouble.

 

Of course, everyone asked what was wrong, but…Peter couldn’t tell them.

 

Obie had told him he was right. Peter was a problem that no one wanted to deal with. Dealing with Peter made them feel bad, but he knew that if he told them that he knew, that would just make them feel worse. Adults could tell kids that they know they were lying. Kids couldn’t do the same thing to adults.

 

The only good thing about Dad being gone was that that means Obadiah was gone, too.

 

Dad came back.

 

Peter didn’t know what to do. Again. Like the first time they met.

 

He thought that…there was supposed to be a lot of hugging and stuff? At least some smiling.

 

Peter was really, really, really times a million bajillion happy that Dad was back. His dad was alive. His dad was okay. Peter still got to talk to him and hug him and love him. He didn’t get to keep Mom, but he got to keep his dad for now.

 

But…did this mean Dad wanted him to stay? Did this mean Dad wasn’t going to send him back home? Did being away from Peter for so long make him miss him? Or…was he happy, because he got to go back to when Peter wasn’t around? Was he mad because coming back home meant he had to deal with Peter again?

 

Dad showed Peter the Arc Reactor—their own super-secret. Dad hugged Peter and kissed his head. And not only did he spend his time with Peter, he spent all the time with Peter. They played games and ate fancy restaurant food. Dad bought him a phone. Dad let him on their super-secret project to build the armor.

 

Dad wasn’t going anywhere. And he didn’t want Peter to go anywhere, too. He never sighed at him anymore. He wasn’t annoyed—he smiled when he talked to Peter, or when Peter came to him for help. He loved Peter, and Peter knew it.

 

Everything was great. People were still stressed out. Dad, too, but Peter knew he tried not to think about it. Yeah, he did that thing where he acted like he was a-okay when Peter walked into the room, but it was okay now.

 

Peter wished they could just go back to how they were, but better. He knew Dad would have to go back to work and be busy like he always was, but he could be okay with that.

 

But…there was Obie.

 

Obie going back to the way he was wasn’t like Dad going back to the way he was. Dad was really happy and he was really being nice to Peter.

 

Obadiah was—lying.

 

He didn’t treat Peter better because he was sorry he talked to Peter that way, because he was just upset and took it out on Peter. He treated Peter better like he was trying to cover up something he did. Peter could just…tell. It was the way he talked and the way that he looked at Peter. He never apologized for what happened, he acted like it never happened at all. Everything was fake.

 

He still hated Peter.

 

And…he might still try to hurt Peter.

 

And it wasn’t that…Peter didn’t think Dad would believe him, it was more like…He didn’t want him to know.

 

Dad was always around now. He loved Peter and he showed it. He was nice and patient and he really, actually liked to have Peter around.

 

But he was still tired. Peter thought he was trying to hide it, but he was not that good at it. He looked like he didn’t sleep much. Peter knew he really did like to hang out with him, but he also knew that he probably liked to do it because he could get away from all the bad stuff, too.

 

He was something else, too, but Peter didn’t know what to call it. It was kind of like he was scared, but Peter didn’t know what he had to be scared of. The bad guys were gone. He was home. He was safe! But he kind of jumped at weird things. He got kind of fidgety, like Peter.

 

Peter wanted to tell Dad so Dad could know that Obie didn’t like Peter. And…maybe they didn’t have to stop being friends. Peter didn’t like Obie anymore, Obie scared him, but maybe it would be okay if Obie just didn’t show up to his birthday parties and stuff like that.

 

But Peter knew that if he told Dad about what Obie sad, it would make him sad. Peter didn’t want him to be sad, not when everything had been so great and Dad just got back from being hurt for so long.

 

It wasn’t all that hard, for a while…Obie still wasn’t around very much. And even if he did want to hurt Peter, Peter didn’t think he could. Like, Dad would find out. Or Aunt May or Uncle Ben or Uncle Richard. But maybe he knew that? He probably wanted to hurt Peter, but he knew that he couldn’t. That wasn’t good. But it made Peter feel a little safer. As long as someone else was around, he could just stay away from Obie.

 

Obie started implying that he really, really wanted to know what he and Dad were doing in the lab, but Peter never told him. Not just because he super promised that he wouldn’t tell anyone anything. Peter didn’t like Obie. (Maybe he hated Obie.) Sometimes he kind of wanted to tell Pepper or Uncle Richard what he and Dad do in the lab, but not Obie. He actually kind of liked that he didn’t have to give him what he wanted.

 

And it was not that hard lying about it. He just had to be “casual.” Like, he could tell Dad that Obie was asking about their stuff in the lab, but he just had to say it while he was shrugging and saying “oh, well.” Dad didn’t notice, so he guessed it works.

 

He started becoming less and less scared of Obie, but he still really didn’t like him. (Hated him.) He didn’t want him around, but that was not so hard to do when he wasn’t around much, anyway.

 

Things kind of started to get weird, though. Like—inside Peter.

 

Before, when he had to not say what he wanted to say to the others because he knew it was going to make him sad, he would get that hot and sour feeling. It was only when something happened, though. Like when Uncle Ben asked if he was okay in the bathroom and Peter had to lie and say he wasn’t taking so long because he was crying—he’d get that hot and sour feeling because he really, really wanted to tell Uncle Ben what was wrong so he could hug him and feel better, but he couldn’t. It was probably just him being a crybaby…It always went away. He just calmed down or he “cried it out,” like Mom used to say.

 

Now, though…He couldn’t really turn the feeling off? And he didn’t know why.

 

He always felt hot and sour. He didn’t think “Oh, well at least Dad’s happy” or “Well, at least I’m not being a problem anymore.” It was almost like he was sick. He couldn’t stop thinking about how unfair it was. And when he was so upset that he started getting those stupid thoughts like “I’m so mad at Uncle Ben because he’ll be sad if I tell him what’s wrong!” and “I’m so mad at Dad because I can’t tell him what Obie did because he’d be sad!”—those used to go away. They were angry-stupid thoughts. He got angry at the doorframe when he stubbed his toe, but once it stopped hurting he felt dumb because who gets mad at a doorframe?

 

Now the angry-stupid stuff didn’t go away, though. Even when everyone was being nice to him, and nothing was wrong, and even when nothing had happened to make him feel sad enough to keep it a secret, Peter felt angry. He felt really, really angry that everything was so unfair. He was so angry that he had to feel guilty just for being Peter. He hated that everyone got annoyed when he was sad—he wasn’t doing anything to them. He wasn’t being rude or mean, so why did they get so upset?

 

But that was not fair, either, because they weren’t being rude or mean, either. Peter got so confused that he tried not to think about it, especially when his head started to hurt. But he couldn’t turn off the hot and sour feeling.

 

Then Obie apologized to him…?

 

He was leaving the mansion while Happy was dropping him off, and he stopped Peter and said, “Listen, kid…All that stuff I said about you, I’m real sorry about that. I was just worried about your old man, you know. I’m not cuddly when I get stressed, but that’s not your fault. I was talking to your Dad about it, and I just…Well, I realized I was being a big ol’ jerk.”

 

Peter said, “Okay.” Because Happy was there and he didn’t know what to say, anyway.

 

He knew Obie wasn’t really sorry the same way he knew Obie still hated him. He didn’t know-know, but he knew.

 

What really, really confused Peter, though, was that…that meant Dad knew what Obie said.

 

And he didn’t…say anything about it.

 

He just asked Obie to apologize.

 

No “You’re not a problem, Peter.”

 

No “I am happy you’re here, Peter.”

 

No “I don’t hate you, Peter.”

 

Like…He just…didn’t want Obie to tell him?

 

Peter had heard of this, before. Kind of. Mom had told him that even if something was true, he shouldn’t say it. Like, “You may not like the shirt Aunt May got you for Christmas, Peter, but telling her that is rude.”

 

So…Was Obie right, and Dad just didn’t want him to tell Peter?

 

And after that, Dad just acted the same. He still smiled and joked around and played games with Peter, and they keep working in the lab. But now Peter wondered if he was doing the same thing Obie does and Peter just didn’t notice before.

 

So Peter did still annoy him, and Tony really didn’t want him around, but he’d just gotten a lot better at acting like he did.

 

That didn’t make sense, though, because even if he was just acting, he wouldn’t be doing the secret project with Peter right? That was too much acting. He would just be nice to Peter, not hanging out with him all the time and all that.

 

But why wouldn’t he say anything about what Obie told him?

 

Had all the things they’d been doing together just been Tony trying really, really hard to make Peter happy so he wouldn’t have to deal with Peter when he was sad?

 

It was confusing, confusing, confusing, and so unfair, but the worst thing was that Peter did love his Dad. And even if nothing was real, and he just wanted Peter to be happy because that wouldn’t annoy him so much, Peter wanted Dad to be happy because he loved him, and he knew he was tired and scared.

 

That was when Peter started to feel really, really bad, and he had to try extra hard not to look weird so no one else noticed. He didn’t know what to think and he still. couldn’t. talk to anyone! Sometimes it confused him so much that he felt sick. Once, J.A.R.V.I.S. even asked if he needed to tell Dad that something was wrong, but Peter stopped him.

 

He spent a really, really long time trying to figure out if Dad actually loved him and wanted him around or if he hated him and just acted nice to him. He couldn’t say it, but he kind of needed Dad to tell him. But he couldn’t. Duh. How was he supposed to tell him something he didn’t even know he was supposed to tell him?

 

But then Tony said they should do Guys’ Night. Him, Uncle Ben, and Uncle Richard, all hanging out with Peter wherever they wanted to go and doing whatever they wanted to do. Amusement park? Sure. Movie? Sure. Every museum in Malibu? Lead the way.

 

‘Relieved’ was another word Peter learned. ‘Proof,’ too. This was proof that Dad loved him. This was way too much to be pretending. This was real. There was no way it wasn’t real!

 

Peter was really happy, and really excited, and he didn’t feel hot and sour anymore. He felt the way he used to feel back when Mom was alive. He forgot about Obie entirely.

 

Everything felt normal. Peter felt like everything was what it was supposed to be like.

 

But then…Dad invited Obie.

 

Obie had told him that Dad hated him and didn’t want him around, that he wished Peter could just go back to New York forever, and Dad hadn’t just not said anything, Dad hadn’t just made Obie say he was sorry when he wasn’t really sorry, he was…Trying to hang out with him. Because he liked Obie.

 

Because he hated Peter, but Peter was easier to deal with when he was happy, and Peter must have been too sad for a while, so now Dad had to do something really, really fun for Peter to be happy again, but he hated Peter so much the only way he could do it is for his best friend Obie to be there.

 

Right after he’d been so sure that his Dad really did love him, Peter was not so sure that his Dad really did hate him.

 

He didn’t even want to be in the mansion anymore. He begged to go home to Uncle Richard, but what he really wanted to do was go back to New York and never come back. Except he couldn’t do that, not without talking to Dad again, he couldn’t. He’d have to deal with Dad asking “What’s wrong, Peter?” when what he really meant was, “Oh, great, another problem with Peter…”

 

Peter was angry and sad and embarrassed and he just wanted to go. home. He didn’t care about the cool house with the cool toys anymore. He wanted to go back home to his little apartment in New York and never come back again. He wanted to live with his mom in Queens. He wanted to go back to making tents in the living room on movie night and coming up with matching costumes on Halloween and Mom telling him she loved him and knowing that she meant it and never having to wonder if she didn’t.

 

Peter still loved his Dad, and he just—didn’t know why this was happening. He never tried to hurt anyone but Obie and Dad both hated him. And did that mean Pepper and Rhodey hated him, too? He tried to be nice and tried to behave and everything he was supposed to, but they still hated him.

 

He didn’t do anything.

 

He didn’t do anything…


The first time Dad—Tony—tried to apologize, Peter didn’t care. He was angry, but he didn’t care. ‘Done’, he thought. That was the word Aunt May used a lot.

 

Once he came back home after they cancelled Guys’ Night—he thought maybe Uncle Richard knew he wasn’t sick, but he didn’t say anything, so—he didn’t try to hide being sad anymore. If Tony hated him even if he didn’t do anything, then why should he even be nice anymore? Being nice made Tony hate him, so what was he even supposed to do now?

 

But an angry Peter was an annoying Peter, so now Tony had to come and talk to him like he was nice and he was worried, but what he really wanted was for Peter to stop being such a problem. And he just made up a bunch of stuff. Like, he “knew” Peter wasn’t happy because they hadn’t been going out and doing things. He thought he knew what was wrong because he probably thought Peter was so stupid that Tony knew why he was angry more than Peter did.

 

He was trying to act good for so long, for all those months that Tony was kidnapped and everyone else had to take care of him, and even after that, but Peter didn’t want to try anymore. He told Tony that he knew he didn’t care and he never had.

 

Peter felt guilty and he hated it so much. He felt so guilty that Tony hated him even though he didn’t do anything.

 

It wasn’t FAIR.

 

He got to go back to Richard, but it was just like last time. He was going to have to go back and Tony was still going to hate him. He was just going to hate him more because Peter wasn’t trying to be happy anymore.

 

There was nothing Peter could do and no one was going to save him.

 

But…

 

But…

 

The armor showed up outside his window.

 

It still looked a little scary to Peter, but it was amazing, too. It was still the most awesome thing he’d seen, and seeing it fly was so much better.

 

Tony was there, but then the frost covered the window, and he started to write.

 

For a minute, Peter thought it was just another…something. It was like Guys’ Night. It was supposed to be another thing to make Peter happy. Tony was annoyed again and he had to do something to make Peter feel better or else he’d have to deal with a pouty Peter.

 

But he said, I KNOW YOU’RE SAD. IT’S OKAY.

 

And, I DON’T KNOW WHAT’S WRONG, BUT I SHOULD. I’M SORRY I DON’T.

 

And, I’M SORRY. I WANT TO HELP. I LOVE YOU.

 

Peter was sure that he meant it.

 

But he still felt like he was about to cry.

 

Peter had never felt this feeling before. He cried when he was hurt. He cried when he was scared. He cried and cried and cried when his mother died and his father went missing.

 

This was unlike any of those. Peter knew that knowing his dad loved him was going to make him start thinking about everything, from the first day they met, all over again. It happened every time Peter wondered if his father hated him, and that happened every day. Days and days and days—Peter had spent all of them angry and confused and hurt.

 

He was about to have to go through that again and Peter didn’t want to at all but he couldn’t stop his brain. It wasn’t like homework he didn’t like or a bruise that kept bothering him. It was all him. He was going to make himself feel bad, and he couldn’t stop himself.

 

Peter was so tired.

 

Peter wanted to go home.

 

Peter wanted his mother.

 

He knew that Dad was telling him the truth now, but he just knew now. What if something else happened and he knew his dad actually hated him? What if something happened again and he went right back to knowing his father loved him?

 

He still didn’t want Dad to be sad, he still didn’t want it to be his fault. That was what he was doing right then.

 

So Peter just…

 

…gave up.

 

For then, he’d know that his father loved him. Tonight, he loved his dad and his dad loved him. His dad really, really did not know why Peter was sad and he really, really wanted Peter to feel better not because pouty Peter annoyed him, but because he was really worried because he loved Peter.

 

Peter would feel bad later. He just wanted to feel better then.

 

He was honest, though. He had kept it a secret that he knew he annoyed everyone by being sad and—well, just being Peter. Now he was honest. Maybe he was still ‘done.’ Maybe he just felt okay with Dad knowing now?

 

Whatever. Peter told him that he didn’t want to make him sad. He meant it.

 

Peter told him that he loved him. He meant it.

 

Soon after that, Dad left.

 

The first thing Peter thought after he was gone was how much he wished his mother had never been in that taxi.

 


 

The next day, though, he wanted to go back home. He didn’t know why, but he really, really wanted to. Uncle Richard was okay with it. Dad was okay with it.

 

He just hopes it was real this time. And that no more bad things would happen and make him think it wasn’t.

 


 

Peter’s ears hurt.

 

Peter is waking up, and his ears hurt really bad.

 

He starts rubbing them, whining in frustration, but it doesn’t help. It feels like something dug too deep. There’s something dried up on his neck, too, but he can’t rub it off.

 

Then Peter starts looking around, and he’s confused. He was asleep when he was at Uncle Richard’s, but then he woke up when Happy came to get him, but then he fell asleep again, but didn’t he wake up again when he got home?

 

Or maybe that was just a dream and he wasn’t home yet. Sometimes he had dreams like that, where he woke up and ate breakfast and got ready for school, but then it was just a dream, and he really had to wake up and eat breakfast and get ready for school.

 

The car doesn’t look like the one Happy usually drives…buuuut Dad had a lot of cars in the garage. Like, a lot.

 

It’s dark and the lights going by the windows make him feel kind of dizzy. Happy is driving, but it’s quiet. Happy usually has the radio on.

 

“Happy?”

 

He sees Happy’s head turn to him, but he doesn’t say anything for a minute.

 

“Neither way, kid.”

 

All of a sudden, Peter is very, very cold.

 

Obie is driving the car. Obie is the only person in the car other than him. They are alone, and no one is in the other room to walk in at any second. No one is coming, and Peter is trapped.

 

Peter thinks he’s about to cry, but he doesn’t want to. Obie never liked it when Peter cried. Or when he didn’t speak loud enough, or when he shrugged because he didn’t know things.

 

Obie hates Peter. Obie wants to hurt Peter, but now Peter is actually really, really scared that he’s going to.

 

Has he already? Is that why his ears hurt?

 

What is he doing here?

 

“Where’s Dad?”

 

Obie sighs. He’s annoyed. Whatever. “You’ll see him soon.”

 

Dad was always careful about how Peter got places. He made this whole plan about how Happy would drive him without anyone following, or how Uncle Richard would get to the mansion without people noticing. Even when Happy took Peter to school, sometimes they went to one of those big parking places like they have at baseball stadiums and got into different cars so no one noticed.

 

Peter should probably think that this means Dad let Obie drive him…So he still doesn’t know that Obie is a bad guy. He still thinks Obie is a good guy and it’s okay for him to drive Peter home.

 

But for some reason, he doesn’t think that?

 

Something doesn’t feel right. Peter isn’t good at saying things sometimes, but he knows that something is wrong. Obie never drives him anywhere. Never ever.

 

Peter looks outside the windows. Even though it’s nighttime, he can still see all the lights on the buildings and the cars and it doesn’t look like the usual way home. It doesn’t look familiar at all.

 

“Where are we going?” Peter asks.

 

Obie doesn’t tell him. He goes to the buttons on the radio, but instead of playing music, it makes this black thing pull up between him and Peter, like the windows on the doors.

 

Peter tries to grab it, but it’s way too strong, and he has to stop before his fingers get mashed. Now he can’t see Obie anymore. He’s just in a big, black box.

 

He wants to be brave. He doesn’t want to start crying, he wants to pretend that Obie is just like a bully at school.

 

But Peter is really, really, really scared. He wants to go home. He doesn’t know what Obie is going to do but he thinks he’s going to do something bad to him. He doesn’t know how he got here and he doesn’t know where he’s going.

 

He wants Uncle Richard and Uncle Ben and Aunt May. He wants Mom. He wants Dad.

 

Peter doesn’t know what to do. He starts hitting his hands on the window. He starts screaming. He starts calling for help. This is how it’s supposed to go…Someone is going to see him, and call the police, and then he gets to go home.

 

None of the cars stop. There aren’t any flashing police lights.

 

“Let me out,” Peter screams. He starts hitting the black window instead. He hits it as hard as he can. “Let me out!”

 

He doesn’t. But the car starts to slow down.

 

Peter looks out the window. Is he at Stark Industries? Has hasn’t been there in a long time, but it looks a lot like it. He thinks it’s the building with the big glowy thing, like Dad’s Arc Reactor, but bigger.

 

He can’t see, but he hears the door open and then slam shut.

 

The door in front of him opens. Obie is right and front of him. He’s big and dark and smiling because he’s about to hurt Peter and no one is going to come and stop him.

 

Peter does the only thing he can do and tries to run for it. He pushes Obie as hard as he can, and he doesn’t know where he’s going to go, but he’s just going to run as fast as he can. He’ll try to find a police officer, or someone, and he’ll do what everyone told him to do and say, “Please help me! Someone is trying to take me away!”

 

He’s so ready to do it, but he doesn’t get to. Obie grabs his arm and Peter can’t get it out. He’s so much stronger and bigger than Peter.

 

It doesn’t matter how much he kicks and punches and pulls away, Obie just drags him forward and Peter can’t do anything about it.

 

“Help,” he tries to scream, hoping that someone is going to hear him. “Help me!”

 

“I’d save it, champ. No one’s going to hear you.”

 

Obie pulls him through the doors, and even when he’s holding Peter in one arm and a briefcase in the other arm, Peter still can’t get away from him. It is the building with the big Arc Reactor. There isn’t anyone in here, either. All the lights are out, so it’s just the Arc Reactor making everything blue.

 

Peter keeps thinking of everything everyone’s told him about what to do, but he doesn’t know if he can anymore. He’s tried screaming for help and he’s tried running away. The only thing he has left is—

 

Oh!

 

He almost goes right for it, but Obie isn’t just going to stand there and let him. He still has to get away…at least for a minute. He has to do something right now. He can’t just let Obie hurt him; if no one’s coming to save him, Peter has to do something to save himself.

 

He starts hitting and kicking Obie as hard as he can—harder, even. “Let me go! Let me go—I hate you!

 

“Feeling’s mutual, kid. You’ll tire out eventually.”

 

Peter can’t hurt him, or push him. He’s too weak and small. But there has to be something…

 

There is something. Peter just hopes he can do it.

 

He pulls at Obie’s sleeve, and as quickly as he can, and as hard as he can, bites him on the arm.

 

Obie yells. Peter’s mouth tastes like pennies. The hand holding his arm lets go.

 

Peter runs.

 

He doesn’t even think, he just moves his legs as fast as they can go. It’s like when he’s playing Hide-and-Seek, all he’s thinking about is hiding.

 

Maybe he should go for the door, but Obie is really close behind him, and he doesn’t know if he’s strong enough to get the door open, so he just runs somewhere else. It’s dark in here, so he can’t see where he’s going, but he hopes that means Obie can’t see him, either.

 

He finds a door, and he thinks maybe it’s a closet. Is Obie close? He doesn’t think he is, he can’t hear him.

 

Just in case he is, Peter runs in as quickly as he can. It’s not a closet, it’s a room with a bunch of desks and computers. But no people, and it’s still dark.

 

He tries to lock the door, but he can’t. There’s no metal thing to push into the wall. But he still hears a click, anyway.

 

“Alright, kid. Alright.” Obie’s voice is growling. Peter really thinks that if the door wasn’t there, Obie would be hitting him over and over until he was bleeding everywhere. “Stay there. I won’t be long.”

 

Peter’s trapped again. But Obie leaves. He can hear him walking away.

 

So that means Peter is alone, which is good, this time…

 

Peter drops it when he’s pulling it out of his pocket, but he gets his phone out. He knows how to do it, but this is the first time he’s had to use it for an emergency.

 

He calls Dad.

 

Dad doesn’t pick up.

 

He calls Dad again.

 

Dad still doesn’t pick up.

 

That makes Peter even more scared. Did Obie do something to Dad, too?

 

Okay, okay. He can’t call Dad, that’s—okay. He still has to do something.

 

He hasn’t ever done this before, either. He hopes he does it right.

 

“9-1-1, what’s your emergency?”

 

“I need help!”

 

The woman on the other side of the phone takes a second. She sounds surprised and worried. “Okay, honey, it’s okay. Can you tell me what’s wrong?”

 

“Someone—someone took me—h-he took me away from m-m-my home.” Peter doesn’t want to sound like a baby, but he can’t stop. “I—I need help—I’m scared—”

 

“Alright, just take a deep breath, hon, you’re going to be okay. Did someone take you away from your mom and dad?”

 

“Mm-hm—I’m—he’s my Dad’s friend, but he’s—he’s bad—he’s going to hurt me!”

 

“No, no, he’s not going to hurt you, honey. Do you know where you are?”

 

“Stark Industries—I—he locked me in a room, but I think he’s going to come back. It’s the building with the big glowy thing in it.”

 

“Okay, good. What’s your name, sweetie?”

 

“I’m Peter. Peter Parker.”

 

“Okay, Peter. I’m going to send someone to help you right now. Can you keep talking to me?”

 

“Mm-hm…”

 

“Good. Is there somewhere you can hide until the police get there?”

 

“Um—I don’t know—I can—there’s a desk.”

 

“Okay, I want you to—”

 

The lady stops talking.

 

Peter looks down at his phone, but it’s dark now. When he tries to turn the screen on again, there’s an empty battery.

 

Dad always told him to make sure his phone was charged, he kept telling Peter, and Peter didn’t listen.

 

Peter tries to breathe, and he goes to one of the desks because he needs to high. He doesn’t want to cry, but he does anyway. His face is hot and there’s snot running down his face. He makes a bunch of gross sounds because his throat isn’t working right.

 

The police are coming for him. Someone’s coming to help. But Peter doesn’t want someone, he wants Dad. He wants to see Dad.  

Chapter 24: Chapter Twenty-Four

Summary:

Pepper is in Stane's crosshairs. Not only does she know, but she is not nearly so easily disposed of as a small child. Wherever she was, Stane had her set as his coordinates. There was only a small window left—assuming that Stane did not have the time to kill Peter, then Tony only had a few precious minutes to save his world.

Chapter Text

Pepper has had to adapt many, many times in her job—sometimes she doesn’t know if it’s just life or Tony Stark specifically. Maybe she should have run for the hills the first time she had to ditch her schedule to get one of his bedmates out of the house, but she was so good at everything else she’d stayed. Peter had been an adaptation, but Tony’s disappearance was the worst of them all by far. It was always the easiest when she could look at everything as simple facts and numbers. With Tony gone, tortured if not dead already, Pepper had gotten wracked with so much fear and worry and frustration that it was the one and only point where she wondered if she’d be able to make it.

 

She does it well, she thinks, but there have been more and more unexpected developments recently. Least of them was the fact that her feelings for her employer were not strictly professional anymore, which was just…unacceptable. She literally could not have picked a worse person.

 

Not that Tony himself is horrible—annoying, sure; flawed, absolutely. But she truly thinks better of him than she lets on, and she really doesn’t care about all the other women that have come and gone in his life. She hates how he used to leave them for her to deal with, but she isn’t one to judge a person for having frequent guests in the bedroom.

 

That said, she can’t pretend that his frequent trysts don’t pose any issue: only because everyone and their grandmother is aware of them. Even still, that’s all besides the point that he is her boss. He is off-limits. Pepper has dealt with the whispers from the first day on the job, the side-eye glances every time she and Tony are within three feet of each other. She had to spend so long letting the fury fester inside of her—the outrage that people who didn’t know so much as her name so thoroughly convinced that it was only a matter a time before she slept with her boss.

 

Would she go running into Tony’s arms otherwise? Well…maybe there’d still be some hesitation, for a myriad of reasons. As-is, Pepper will not vindicate any rumors. If anyone had so much as seen them outside at the charity ball, that could have been the end of her career. Years and years of all of her hard work, gone down the drain because apparently the only reason she was still around was because she let her boss spread her legs. That moment on the roof was a moment of weakness, and Tony pulling back made her snap out of it.

 

Whatever this is, Pepper is just going to have to deal with it. It should be easy, compared to everything else.

 

The point is that Pepper has done a lot of adapting. She is experienced.

 

Not this experienced.

 

Pepper’s heart feels like it’s about to pound her sternum to dust. She’s broken out into a sweat but she feels cold inside. The aches all over her body aren’t just from running around in heels; she’s broken out into shivers that wrack her spine.

 

She’s been working for—no, she’s been standing next to an accomplice to a terrorist organization. Bringing him coffee, taking care of his paperwork, or even just laughing with him at a birthday party or a charity gala. She’s been working for the man that tried to kill Tony.

 

Pepper tries to remind herself that she never had any reason to doubt Stane. Really, she didn’t. Bar the names and the positions, he’s always been just as bound to Stark Industries as Tony was. More than that, he was Tony’s family. He was the mentor who took Tony under his wing after his parents passed. The story was that the Ten Rings has seized the opportunity to take Tony Stark as their hostage and forced technician, and just—why would she ever doubt that? What reason did she ever have to think that the frustration and fury Stane showed in the months that followed was anything other than stress at the loss of losing a business partner and family member?

 

Even so, Pepper is flooded with guilt. She’s been so worried for Tony for so long, praying for something to heal him and bring some of his color back, completely unaware that he was spending every day an arm’s length from the man who has caused him the pain to begin with. The second that Stane had stepped into the office after she heard the men on the video talk of his plan, he didn’t look like Stane anymore. He was as unknown and inhumane as a creature who only dwelled in the deepest, darkest depths of the ocean. The smile that she once thought was charming and confident looked nothing short of predatory.

 

Of course she had to tell Tony, but he wasn’t answering her calls. The only thing keeping her from losing her mind entirely was Agent Coulson and his men. It made her feel like she had some sort of battering ram to tear Stane’s operation down, but still aware that she is just…Well, Pepper. She doesn’t know what Stane is planning to do, or what he can do. She just knows that she’s spent the past few hours with pins and needles as if she is just preparing for something to jump out from the shadows and scare her out of her skin.

 

The more that time goes on, the more the feeling grows, especially when she realized she was on what was basically a SWAT team. Coulson and his men were armed and ready to fire—to protect her, she’s sure, but gunfire regardless. She just prays that this thing in Sector 16 is not something to warrant it.

 

The inside of the building is full of shadows, and for some reason the stark fluorescent lights only make everything darker. Pepper cannot shake the feeling that someone is watching them and just waiting to strike. Something is dripping somewhere, the sound echoing off the walls.

 

They find it, finally. The suit. It’s nothing like Tony’s. It’s dark, hulking. Seams have been hurriedly soldered together. Pepper can tell just from one look that it’s a machine designed to kill. But kill what? She knew that Tony had vehemently denied any use of the Arc Reactor for any weaponry. It seems that even after trying to kill him, Stane managed to squeeze out just a bit more money from him.

 

One of the agents stops short, raising his fingers to his earpiece. He sidesteps to Coulson as fluid and mindful as a pack on a hunt and mutters something under his breath. Pepper feels something sink to her stomach when Coulson’s head just slightly snakes back, the shadow of his brow furrowing. “What?”

 

“What?” asks Pepper. “What is it?”

 

Coulson looks back at her, confusion written all over his face, but he tries to pull himself together. “There’s been a 9-1-1 call from inside the building. There’s a child here.”

 

“A—A child?”

 

“I don’t know what the operator heard, but it sounds like a kidnapping to me. But why on Earth…?” Shaking his head, Coulson points to two of the other agents before jabbing a thumb over his shoulder. “I want you two to go to every room in this building and find them. Look under desks, inside closets…”

 

Coulson keeps talking, but Pepper is still caught on the word ‘child.’ It sounds like a foreign word right now. A little boy or girl, kidnapped, right here, right now? The only conclusion that she can even figure out is that Stane has…but why…?

 

Why…?

 

Wh—

 

No.

 

No, no, no, no, no, please God NO!

 

“Coulson!” Pepper can’t stop herself from grabbing him by his arm. If he doesn’t get it right here and now, she doesn’t know what she’ll do. “You have to find him now! His name is Peter, you have to get him out of here—”

 

“Okay, wait, wait, wait—you know who he is?”

 

Pepper has to make a split-second decision. This is the biggest secret she’s kept in all of her life; she’s never let so much as a syllable of it leave her mouth for years now. If it wasn’t a life or death situation, she’d still keep it, but it is a life-or-death situation, and he needs to know.

 

“He’s Tony’s son,” Pepper rasps out. Her throat has suddenly gone dry as sandpaper. She’s still trembling. “I—It’s been a secret, but Stane knows, he knows Peter. He—He’s going to kill him.”

 

Thankfully Agent Coulson’s face quickly steels over in understanding, and he turns back to the two agents again. “Find him and get him out of here now.

 

The agents nod and hurry away, and Pepper moves to follow them. There’s nothing else she can do here anyway, and more important is that she finds Peter now. She prays that Stane hasn’t hurt him. They now know he’s here, somewhere, and despite the chills that run down her spine, Pepper almost wants to see him. Just to know he isn’t doing anything to Peter.

 

As they move to leave, however, there’s a creak that makes them all freeze. It echoes off the walls—the sound of a machine coming to life. But the suit stays where it is, as immobile as when they first came in.

 

As they all stiffen, Pepper looks to the shadows, where loose chains are dangling and glinting in the faint light.

 

Then there’s a pair of searing blue eyes staring back at her.

 

Pepper runs.

 

There are shouts, there is gunfire, there are crashes so great the vibrations rattle her bones. There is a beast chasing after her. If not for the labyrinth of the lab, it would have killed her already—crushed her between its massive claws, shot her down in not even a second. Pepper has become terribly, achingly aware that she could very well die if she does not run fast enough.

 

Pepper climbs up the stairs as fast as her legs can manage. She realizes that she’s alone. The other two agents have not followed her. Are they already dead? Did Stane break their bodies like twigs already?

 

But most importantly, Peter. She has to find Peter or Stane will kill him. Peter, that sweet little boy who painted a box of animal crackers to give her a jewelry case, who remembered her birthday when everyone else forgot. So sweet he made her heart ache, but so…breakably small.

 

“PETER,” Pepper shrieks. The sound tears her lungs to shreds. She throws herself against the nearest door, bashing her hands against it. “PETER!”

 

She realizes, and her eyes feel near to leak with her frustration, that she may not even be able to hear him. The bangs and crashes are echoing from down below. Even now, she can feel the impacts through her feet, like audio blasting from speakers. She can’t see Stane anymore, but she still feels as though he is breathing down her neck.

 

Pepper does as she did before again and again. She thinks maybe she’s shattering the bones in her wrist, if blood is welling in her throat from her screams. How much more adrenaline can her heart take? It’s beating so hard her sternum is aching.

 

Just when she thinks she’s about to scream—not Peter’s name, just a scream of terror and frustration and guilt at being so goddamn useless—she realizes that one of the door handles is rattling.

 

On the other side, a voice screams her name back.


Take a breath.

 

Take a breath.

 

Take a breath.

 

Now, move your fingers.

 

More.

 

More than that.

 

Your toes. Your ankle.

 

Turn your head.

 

Expand your chest.

 

Not yet.

 

Not yet.

 

Peter, Pepper, the world.

 

Peter, Pepper, the world.

 

Peter, Pepper, your world.

 

He has to swim to the surface. He has to break the chains. He has to breathe through the smoke.

 

The blood on his neck feels dry and cold. That's good. That means it's stopped.

 

His nerves are awakening again. Muscles twitch and contract together. His body fights to live.

 

But the emptiness in his chest is only getting worse. There's a cold settling into his core. He doesn't even feel himself breathe anymore. He is already dead, he's just awake.

 

The sonic damage wouldn't kill him. His missing heart would.

 

If he dies, the blood will keep spilling.

 

If he dies, Pepper will be killed.

 

If he dies, so will Peter.

 

This is why Tony has to live.

 

This is why he didn't die in the cave.

 

This is the promise he made Yinsen.

 

He'd starved through the cold and dark, crawled through the fire and smoke, and limped through the heat and scorch. The Afghan Desert was nothing but a cake walk. His hellscape was going to be the one story between him and the lab.

 

He won't die when he makes it. He has another heart. Tony Stark has a heart.

 


 

I'm going to get him, Mary.

 


 

The charge of life that gets blasted into his veins almost makes him weep.

 

It is too, too, too much. He is shriveled and brittle; his body can't take the life flooding his veins. His nerves crackle. His bones snap. He thinks he's going to die from being revived.

 

He goes from not being able to breathe to having too much air for his lungs to take. He can feel every atom of oxygen as it settles inside of him.

 

Tony is covered in sweat and blood, his skin has gone as gray as a corpse, he's a motionless heap on the floor of his lab, so weak and brittle that living is painful.

 

But he is alive.

 

Now he just has to stay alive.

 

It's up to Tony to protect the world from the things he's made. He's the only one that can stop Stane now; he is the Arc Reactor, no one else stands a chance.

 

There is no help, there is no back-up. No one but him is going to be able to save Peter and Pepper in time.

 

Peter and Pepper, Peter and Pepper, Peter and Pepper.

 

Tony has promises to keep. He's done a shit job of keeping them, but he's not going to break them today.

 

He just can't do anything like this. The suit is his only chance, his Icarus wings, but he can't even stand as he is. He needs more time for his body to come back to life, but time is the last thing he has.

 

Back in the Afghan, after going through so much hell he couldn't comprehend what the real one looked like, he'd been wondering what was going to be the epilogue. For a while he'd feared the final page was going to be him fading away in the sand. Instead, the final page was a bitter laugh saying, “How was the Fun-Vee?”

 

Apparently that book's end was just of the different sort: he hears that same voice calling his name.

 

If he'd had all the time in the world he would have rejoiced at seeing Rhodey's face, flushed with life but eyes pale with alarm. Now, though, all he can do is slur out where Pepper is.

 

Pepper is in Stane's crosshairs. Not only does she know, but she is not nearly so easily disposed of as a small child. Wherever she was, Stane had her set as his coordinates. There was only a small window left—assuming that Stane did not have the time to       kill           Peter, then Tony only had a few precious minutes to save his world.

 

"He's got Peter."

 

Rhodey's eyes flutter. He probably only knew enough to make...well, it had to be Pepper who sent him here, right? "What?"

 

"Stane has Peter." Tony tries to stand, but his legs slide out uselessly. With confusion still written all over his face, Rhodey grabs as much of Tony as he can and hauls him up. "He's going to kill him."

 

Rhodey has always been one to demand answers. With the blood on Tony's neck, his best friend on death's doorstep, and Pepper's hurried pleas, this could be too much to accept. He hadn't accepted Tony's cessation of the weapons even though it'd been so clear-cut. Tony prayed that he wouldn't demand time to spell things out now.

 

Another thing Tony has to work on: letting his hurt feelings continue to insult Rhodey. The colonel's eyes go steely as he moves to make Tony walk. "Just tell me what to do."

 

Whatever follows next, it doesn’t really matter in Tony’s adrenaline-fueled haze. He just hears what Rhodey tells him while he fires up J.A.R.V.I.S. again. Somehow, Stane had managed to get some kind of block or something into his AI through nothing more than the touchpads on the walls. He probably had his own puppets of a tech crew to do it. Even then, it takes nothing more than a few minutes of key-clicking for Tony to get Jar up and going—his confused voice through the speakers like someone waking up from unconsciousness.

 

The only pinch of relief Tony gets is that Pepper is with Agent…Something and his crew. She must’ve gotten into contact somehow. But even though Pepper has team of agents to protect her, it isn’t enough. Stane is probably already there. He’s probably using the Arc Reactor already, for whatever he’s had in mind for it. Tony knows the power of the Arc Reactor. A couple of guys with guns isn’t going to cut it.

 

Peter, though, what is happening to Peter? Peter has no one. Peter doesn’t have anyone protecting him. He might not have anyone at all except for Stane himself, and Tony doesn’t even want to think about what he could be doing to him. He’s hurt Peter and he wants to hurt him more.

 

The one inescapable thought, though, is that he may not even be able to save Peter.

 

That he’s too late.

 

Tony tries not to think about that, though. He cannot afford to get distracted for a second. Every time it crosses his mind, even for a few fleeting seconds, he doesn’t feel real anymore. He just feels like a void that only wants to spill blood.

 

The gold and scarlet plates slide over his skin, the lights come before his eyes, and J.A.R.V.I.S. speaks in his ear.

 

There is no time left. This is why he’s still alive.


Pepper reaches for the door’s lock, but it’s useless—she needs a key. But how is she even supposed to leave the door when Peter is on the other side, shrieking with far too much terror than a child should ever feel.

 

“PEPPER! PEPPER, HELP ME!”

 

“I’m coming, Peter, I’m coming!” Pepper’s head whips left to right, already feeling as though she’s run out of time. She thinks of breaking it, but that could just lock it for good. She doesn’t have time to plan—though fainter now, she still feels the thumps in the floor.

The room has a window, but it’s tinted so much she can’t even see inside. It is glass, though, and in a breathtaking break of luck, she spots a fire extinguisher on the wall.

Please let this work. “Peter, get as far away from the window as you can!”

Pepper all but rips the fire extinguisher off—it’s so heavy it sways in her arms, but she needs that. Perhaps it is only by pumping adrenaline that she manages to swing it at the glass. It splinters, but doesn’t shatter.

The next few seconds go by in a blur. Pepper is not aware of anything but her arms swinging the fire extinguisher over and over and over, every impact reverberating up her arms.

At long last, shards go spraying to the floor. She has broken in a jagged hole framed by splinters—it is just not quite big enough for Peter, and Pepper has lost all patience. She batters the rest with the butt of the fire extinguisher, never minding when the skin of her hands gets sliced.

Peter is huddled in the corner of the room, as she’d told him to. His cheeks are sticky with tears, and he just looks so scared, so helpless, Pepper wants to cry for him.

“Come on, Peter,” she urges. “Come on, I got you!”

Peter wastes no time. He darts to her and before she even needs to tell him, pulls a chair over to help him scramble through. Pepper tugs him through, just hoping he doesn’t get sliced himself, and only feels air gush into her lungs when his feet are on the ground and his arms are squeezing her legs. Only now does she see dried blood on his neck, and a rage unlike any she’s ever felt before ignites in her chest.

“Stane g-got—got me,” Peter bawls. “He’s going to—he—he—”

“Shhhh, I know, baby, I know.” It breaks her heart to tear away from him, but she has to, to take his hand in hers. “We have to go now, Peter. I need you to run. Run as fast as you can.”

Peter does—so much so it’s him who’s almost leading her. Pepper almost wants to scoop him up just to protect him in her arms, but she can’t do it. The rush is starting to take its toll; she doesn’t think she can stand to carry him.

The dim light of the parking lot somehow seems too calm for everything that’s happening. Pepper has no idea what to do, but suddenly there’s a ring of static in her earpiece.

“Pepper!”

“Tony,” Pepper gasps out. “Tony, are you okay?”

Peter’s red-rimmed eyes blink in surprise. He’s shaking more than she is. “Dad?!”

Tony tries to answer her, but she just keeps going, unable to stop. “Obadiah’s gone insane—he—he has a suit—he kidnapped Peter—”

“Pepper, you need to get out of there.”

The Earth behind Pepper breaks open.

All she gets to process is that slabs of asphalt are snapping apart like pastry as a hulking metal hand rips out from below.

Then she’s gasping, “Run, Peter! Run!”

“Pepper—!”

“Run!”

Peter does as he told, but he looks as though his heart is breaking as he does it. Stane has them trapped outside the doors, and the only place Peter can run is back inside. Pepper doesn’t know where he can go, but she prays that it will be somewhere safe. She prays that he will live.

She moves to maybe follow him, run wherever—but she’s too late. As he climbs to the surface as though rising from Hell itself, Stane lashes out one of his iron arms at her.

It doesn’t kill her, not like she thinks it will for just a moment. But she is thrown to the asphalt, the grit scraping skin off her hands and legs. Her back collides with the glass doors of the building so hard the air leaves her lungs.

Stane towers up to his feet. The smoldering blue eyes of the mask are pointed right at her—targeting her. He is going to kill her. And it will be easy for him.

As he taunts her, Pepper is once again wracked with the guilt. She never knew Obadiah Stane. She let him near Tony, she let him near Peter.

A turret aims for her, but never fires. Stane is taken away in a blur of red and gold.


Tony still has nightmares of leaving the cave.

He wishes it didn’t, but killing, it has left its scars on his mind. No matter who it was, or why, spilling blood and watching the light leave someone’s eyes and knowing that it was you who did it, it does not go without a trace.

It isn’t guilt, though. It is as human and helpless as an allergic reaction, a cold in response to infection. It is not guilt that haunts his dreams, just the garish images of blood and bone and fire. The nightmares resurged after he flew off to Gulmira.

He worries, sometimes, if it is a horrid sign that he feels no guilt—not just that, but that he takes some satisfaction in what he’s done. The larger part of his mind reminds him of everything the Ten Rings has done—that they were the scum of the earth, and that he did the world a favor in wiping them out. It didn’t reverse what they’d done, but perhaps he had avenged the innocents that fell in the Ten Rings’ way.

The smaller, more philosophical part of his mind argues that it is not okay. That no matter the reason, killing should scar him even more than it has. Perhaps guilt is not necessary, but not joy. Not satisfaction. He could be very glad that they were rid of, but what gave Tony the right to be judge and executioner?

Tony does not feel guilty, and he doesn’t feel joy. Tony doesn’t feel anything, really. It is nothing but fact that he will kill Stane.

Just before, his heart had been breaking, knowing one of the so few constants in his life was just using him, never caring for him, wanting him dead. He’s always going to remember their New Years drinks, sneaking between meetings to the nearest pizza joint.

In Tony’s mind, that Obadiah Stane is already dead. There was a man named Obadiah Stane who built him a foundation when his father died and left Stark Industries to him, who had his back on every decision and whose greatest flaw was just grumpiness when things didn’t go his way. There was another man, also named Obadiah Stane, who was just waiting for the opportunity to get rid of him, who was going to kill his son just to tie up loose ends, alongside his secretary just for the crime of knowing what he’d done.

When Tony collides with the iron monstrosity that Stane has built for himself, he wonders if it will be enough. If this is going to finally let him rest.

The sight of the suit does nothing to him. It’s just another bullet point on the list. He wonders what joy Stane felt when he realizes he could wring just one more thing out of Tony before he died. More honey in the pot.

Pepper is alive. He saw her. The knowledge makes the air go into his lungs a little easier, but he wishes she’d listened and ran. Can she even run now? Surely someone had called the police now. If they saw her, they’d help her, take her away.

He hasn’t seen Peter.

He has to be alive, Tony tells himself as glass breaks and fire erupts. If he’s dead, I’ll…I’ll…

Do what?

He’s already going to kill Stane. What will he do if he’s already killed Peter?

That’s the question.

The image of Peter alive—crying, maybe, and terrified for his life—keeps Tony focused. It’s the only thing he can do to concentrate, because the image of a tiny body laying still on the ground, the chest that had just been moving against Tony’s shoulder as he carried it to bed not taking in more air…It puts him on autopilot.

Stane’s suit is stronger than Tony’s—a machine made to kill, not protect. It’s a hulking monster that crushes everything in its path to Tony, and even Tony’s own suit—which had been through hell and back at Gulmira—takes its damage. The plates crack and sparks go flying. The shock absorbency keeps his bones from being ground to dust, but Tony won’t be surprised if he’s a bruised mush by the end of this.

All the while, Stane taunts him, and Tony delights in the frustration that seeps through his mouth. Tony is the fly that just won’t stop buzzing at him. If he keeps this up, Stane will be spitting mad, and maybe lose his focus just long enough for Tony to end this.

Stane throws him against the side of a charter bus as easily as a rag doll. If the suit wasn’t what it was, Tony would have been killed. That’s out of the question, though: him dying while Stane lives on to finish what he started.

He wonders, though: what if they both die?

At first, the idea does not alarm him as it should. At least Stane will be gone. Stark Industries will go onto better hands that don’t deal under the table with terrorists. Peter will be taken care of.

Then he remembers, if Peter is still alive…Tony still has to save him. He has to find him and make up for all the pain he’s put him through. Fix what he broke. He still has to right what he’s done to the world—what if the next CEO of Stark Industries was in on it with Stane? All Tony would accomplish was taking out one ant in the colony.

Tony decides that he isn’t going to die. He takes off for the moon, knowing Stane will follow.

Chapter 25: Chapter Twenty-Five

Summary:

He feels it give a sudden, hard pound against his sternum. Peter is alive. Him and Pepper both. Obie didn’t kill Peter. Tony wasn’t too late.

Chapter Text

Peter has always been scared of monsters. Mom used to say they weren’t real, so they couldn’t hurt him, but he was still scared. Peter hated when he had to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night. The hall was always dark and he thought he saw things moving.

Peter thought monsters had long claws and sharp teeth. He thought they were slimy, or covered in fur.

Obie is made of metal. His glowing eyes aren’t like the ones on Dad’s suit. They’re scary. They’re angry. He doesn’t have claws or teeth, but he’s strong. Peter knows he can break his bones. Peter knows Obie can kill him.

He doesn’t want to leave Pepper. He wants Pepper to come with him, but she doesn’t. Peter has to leave her behind with Obie, but maybe she runs somewhere else.

Peter almost starts crying again. He doesn’t want Pepper to die, too. He loves Pepper, she’s nice and she takes care of him. Pepper never forgets him. She didn’t do anything wrong. Pepper is a good person, like Mom was.

But Peter is small and weak. He can’t protect Pepper. He can’t even protect himself. He’s such a baby. He wouldn’t even be here if he stood up to Obie before.

The building is still really dark and it feels like it’s getting smaller. It reminds Peter of his nightmares where he’s trying to run away from something, but he can’t find a way out. But this is worse. This is real. Peter isn’t going to wake up if the monster gets him, he’s going to die.

Peter runs without looking anymore. He goes to the first door he sees, but when he opens it, it leads to stairs that go down. Peter knows he won’t find a way out if he goes down, but he’s too scared to go back.

It’s even darker down here, and it’s cold. There are things dripping and popping. Something is making that tssssss sound like steam out of a pipe. There are a lot of machines, but some have been broken really bad. Sparks are coming out of them like fireworks. Still, they make a lot of tight places and dark corners. Maybe he can hide again. Maybe the police will be here before Obie gets him.

Peter walks slowly because he can’t see where he’s going that good—that well. But even though there’s only a little bit of blue light in the room, he sees something on the floor. It doesn’t look like a machine. It’s lumpy and nothing looks broken.

He comes a little closer, even though it might be dangerous. Maybe he should leave it alone. He doesn’t know what it is.

But right when he’s about to turn back around, Peter realizes it’s a person.

It’s a man. Maybe Dad’s age. Peter doesn’t know him. He’s wearing a gray suit and he has one of those black ear-thingies that security guards wear.

He looks like he’s asleep, but Peter knows he isn’t. But…is he dead?

Peter makes a gross hiccup sound and covers his mouth to stop it. Everything he does is loud, and Obie might hear him down here.

Maybe he was a police officer who came to help Peter. Peter wouldn’t have called if he knew what Obie was going to do. He wouldn’t have called if he knew Obie was going to kill anyone, he was just scared, he just wanted someone to help him, he thought he was supposed to call the police if he was in trouble.

But maybe he isn’t dead. Peter comes closer, kneels down and crawls the rest of the way to the man. Now he sees that the man has blood on his face. It looks like it’s from a cut on his forehead. Peter doesn’t have any Band-Aids, he doesn’t have anything. But if he’s dead, then he doesn’t need a Band-Aid, does he?

What’s that thing that people in movies do? Peter puts his hand on the man’s neck. Should he know that he’s alive if he’s warm, like checking for a fever? He feels cold. Everything in here is cold. He tries putting a hand on the man’s chest, but the suit he’s wearing feels thick. Peter doesn’t know what else to do, so he sticks his finger underneath the man’s nose.

He feels breath tickle his hand. So Peter doesn’t hiccup anymore, but he stays quiet. He’s scared to even ask if the man is okay.

Peter tries to shake him, but it doesn’t do anything. The man stays asleep.

What is Peter supposed to do now? He can’t call the police again, his phone is dead. He can’t go back up the stairs or Obie will get him. He thinks about hiding again, but maybe Obie will see that the man is alive and kill him for real. Can he hide with the man? Is Peter strong enough to pull him into a corner, or something?

There’s a sound like a walkie-talkie, scritch-scratch, but Peter can’t tell where it is. It sounds so far away, so quiet. It’s too quiet down here. He feels like Obie is about to come out and get him at any second.

Then Peter realizes the sound is coming from the phone-thing in the guy’s ear. Peter doesn’t feel nice doing it, but he takes it out as gently as he can. He’s never used one of these things before.

He holds it up to his ear. There’s a man talking. His voice sounds so clear, it’s like he’s standing next to Peter.

“Stillwell!…Stillwell!…Can anyone on this damn line hear me?”

Peter flinches at the curse word. He knows it’s probably stupid, probably not important right now, but he didn’t hear them very often and they sounded sharp when he did. Should he answer the man? He said “Hello” but the man just kept talking.

“Stillwell, Coulson, Sawyer—Can I get some kind of response from ONE of you?!”

Finally Peter figured out how to hold the button down and talk. It really was like a walkie-talkie. “Hello? Hello?”

The man was silent for just a second. Peter heard a far-away beep. “Someone figure out what the hell happened to the comms. Stillwell sounds like a goddamn chipmunk. Stillwell! Why haven’t you answered me?”

Peter flinches again. “M—My name isn’t Stillwell. I’m Peter.”

The man is silent for even longer this time. When he speaks again, he sounds deeper, slower. Peter knows the voice; it’s the way adults on the phone talk to him when they realize he’s a kid. “Peter who?”

“Peter Parker. Um…” Peter tries to shake the other man again. He guesses this is Stillwell. “I—I think Mr. Stillwell got knocked out. He’s sleeping.”

“Alright. Alright, alright…” The man in his ear sighs long and heavy. “I want you to listen to me, kid. Are you okay right now?”

“I’m hiding. From Obie. He’s a bad guy, he took me away from my dad and brought me here—”

“Yeah, I know what’s going on, kid—”

“—and I got away with Pepper, she’s my Dad’s friend, but now Obie has a big—a big robot-thing. I—It looks really dangerous. Pepper told me to hide. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to do…”

“Alright, take it easy. Help is on its way. Just stay put and stay safe.”

“Okay. Um…Are you a police officer?” Peter hears a sound up above. It may not be anything, but he still goes to hide, in one of the dark corners of the room. The man does not respond at first. “Hello? Mr.—Police Officer?”

The man’s voice comes back, sounding tired. “I’m not a policeman, kid.”

“Then what are you?” Peter swallows. His throat feels thick and dry. “Do you work with Obie?”

He hears a shuffling sound. He thinks he can hear the man thinking. “Just call me ‘Mr. Fury,’ alright? I work for an organization bigger than the police. The…uh, shit…Super Police. Can you keep talking to me, Peter? I need to know everything that’s happening over there.”


Tony has got to stop forgetting that things will never be easy.

Actually, he probably never forgot to begin with. He watches Stane’s iron monstrosity sink through the air, an icy shell that feels empty even though he knows Stane is still in there. There is no way Stane would be able to survive colliding with the ground, not at this height, not even with whatever shock absorbency he’s got in his hunk of scrap metal. Yet, even as Tony thinks that, even as the logical part of his brain tells him Stane is dead now, he’s hesitating. It’s like he knows it isn’t over but he just won’t acknowledge it. Is this another strange stress reaction of the human mind? Just pretending it’s over just so he can breathe again?

Tony doesn’t feel like celebrating as he precariously drops his way back down to the SI building. Even when he decided he was going to kill Stane, he knew he wasn’t going to celebrate. It was something that needed to be done; not a victory. He’d already mourned for the Obie that stood beside him all these years, there was no one else to grieve.

As soon as he clunks down on cement, he hurries to talk to Pepper. He’d seen her already, heard her already, but he needs to hear her again. He needs endless reminders that she’s still breathing. She sounds out of breath; he can hear her wincing in pain. Even as she rushes her words out in desperation, he’s filled with relief.

“I—Peter, I told him to run, I don’t know where—”

The sound of Peter’s name stabs right through Tony’s ears right down into his heart. He feels it give a sudden, hard pound against his sternum. Peter is alive. Him and Pepper both. Obie didn’t kill Peter. Tony wasn’t too late.

“Peter? Peter is okay?”

“I don’t—he was, I don’t know where he is now, I just told him to run!”

“Okay, okay, just stay where you are, I’ll be right there—”

He should’ve listened to that silent voice earlier.

When Stane comes back, it’s with a vengeance.

His suit has no finesse, no flexibility, nothing but iron strength—and that’s all he needs. He sends Tony flying with a single bat of his hand, the way one would swat at a fly. He just keeps coming.

Stane does what he’s probably been wanting to do for years. He starts to crush Tony, breaks him apart bit by bit, until Tony’s bones are shrieking in pain and he can’t help but cry out. Tony can only kick and flail like a helpless child. But Stane doesn’t do it quickly, he doesn’t squash the fly when he finally gets it. He’s deliberately slow. He’s savoring it. Tony can’t see his face, but somehow, somehow, he knows that past the expressionless mask and glowing blue eyes, there’s a smile.

Tony gets away, but what else is he supposed to do? He can’t fly. He has no more power to give. The suit is struggling just to keep up his eyes lit up. There’s nowhere to go.

When he risks a glance back, Tony gets another reminder of why he can never make weapons again, why he has to keep the Arc Reactor technology locked up in his own mind forever and ever. In the cloud of smoke, Stane’s suit is the image of war itself. He is cold, he is strong, he is bloodthirsty. He will not stop moving until he has killed him.

The glow of the Arc Reactor catches in the smoke. It makes Tony uneasy, knowing that he not only has the same power, but he can’t get away from it. It is his life source. It can kill him if he’s not careful enough.

And on that train of thought, Tony looks down to the roof of the building. The ornate glass skylight that looks right down into the Arc Reactor. Even so far down, he can see its blue glow reaching up into the night.

Tony realizes two things: he has a solution right at his fingertips, and he will not be able to get away from it.

If he runs, Stane will follow. The Arc Reactor’s overloaded reaction won’t reach him, it won’t result in anything other than a crack for Stane to step over. Stane will catch him. He might spend more time reveling in this fantasy come true, but he will kill Tony. Then he will kill Pepper, probably immediately. Then Peter. And Tony just knows, he knows, that in Peter’s last few moments—terrified, crying, waiting for someone to save him—Obie will relish that, too. He’ll smile when the light fades from his son’s eyes.

If he stays, then the Arc Reactor will take them both. It will be nothing short of a supernova. Obie will be caught in the flames, and Tony will be there with him. They will both die. Pepper has already gotten the information out, Rhodey knows what Obie has done. SI will be investigated, maybe taken down entirely, and Tony will not be replaced by one of Obie’s tagalongs. Pepper and Peter will live. Pepper will go on to greater, higher things than SI could ever give her. Peter will go back home to New York. Maybe he will be devastated, maybe not. He will have a family to take care of him, and he will grow older and taller, and these past few years will just be a dark spot on his memories.

Tony doesn’t decide to die. Tony doesn’t decide not to. Tony decides to do what needs to be done. This is where the book will close. This will be what proves Yinsen’s point.

Tony will have to stay. Pepper will get the job done. She always does.


The pain feels like someone’s dragging a blade up her back. Pepper pulls herself up to her feet, cursing and hating herself for wearing heels but not taking them off, not with the millions of shards of glass peppered across the floor.

She’s heard the cacophony of Stane and Tony going at each other. She’s been holding her breath at every moment of quiet. All the while, she’s been sitting here, useless, useless, useless. Couldn’t protect Tony. Couldn’t stop Stane. Couldn’t help Peter.

When Tony speaks next, it floods her with a relief strong enough to dull the pain for a moment, but his instructions make her go still. She doesn’t know everything about the Arc Reactor. No, she doesn’t know anything about it. But she knows that it is power in its rawest form. She knows that if Tony doesn’t have a plan, then he will be nothing less than incinerated.

Still, she walks through the destroyed doors, her heels crunching over glass, because Tony always has a plan at the end of the day. If he can get out of a desert cave guarded by terrorists with nothing but scrap metal, then he can get away from this, too.

Right?

The building is still cold and empty, and when she looks up at the Arc Reactor, Pepper feels nothing but fear for the first time. She’d thought it was beautiful, once—she caught looks when she passed through the building on business. To her, who had nothing to do with it, it was just like a pretty fountain. Nice to look at, nothing to think about.

Now, Pepper doesn’t want to come any closer. Wisps and streams of blue are swirling around inside. They almost look delicate, but every strand is hotter than the sun, as powerful as an atom bomb. It is lightning strung out like cotton candy. Its container feels delicate.

But Pepper does as Tony tells her. She just turns everything up—every switch, dial, and button she can get her hands on. With every second, the instinct to run builds higher. The Arc Reactor starts to hum and crackle, almost growling at her in warning. The blue strings start to slash with orange. She can feel vibrations running up her legs. There’s a dry, electric heat building in the room. She can’t believe that she held a condensed version of this thing in her hands and squirmed at it like it was a gross bug. Then she handed it back to Tony, stamped with Proof that Tony Stark has a Heart. Would she have ever done such a thing, if she knew what it could do?

Pepper looks up and sees Tony through the glass of the skylight. She prays that, if he can have one of these things wired into his heart, that he can take this. That he will survive.


Peter doesn’t know what he’s supposed to tell Mr. Fury and what he isn’t. It’s supposed to be a secret that Dad is his dad. To be honest, Peter’s kind of proud that he’s kept it this long. He hasn’t told any of his friends at school or anything.

Mr. Fury is asking him to tell him what’s going on, but he doesn’t ask why Obie would kidnap him, or who Peter’s dad is. Peter kind of thinks that he knows already, but how would he know that? No one knows that.

Peter tells him that his dad “works at” Stark Industries, and Obie was Dad’s friend but was a bad guy. Peter admits that Obie hates him, but doesn’t say why. He says he doesn’t know why he has the big metal suit now but he thinks he’s going to try and hurt people.

Sometimes Mr. Fury goes quiet, and Peter is left alone again. There are sounds coming from outside, loud but far away. Sometimes they are closer, and he twitches like he’s about to start running again. Even though he doesn’t have anywhere else to run.

“Still there?”

Peter presses the button. “Yes, Mr. Fury.”

Mr. Fury makes a little clicking sound with his mouth. For some reason Peter thinks he doesn’t like being called “Mr. Fury” even though he told Peter to call him that. “I’m not going anywhere, but from now on, I need you to just stay where you are. Help is really close now. Do you think you can tell where you are?”

“It’s…downstairs,” Peter answers, looking up around him. Was this a basement? It didn’t look like one. “Way down. It’s really dark and echoey.”

Mr. Fury says something, and Peter thinks it’s something about “downstairs,” but it’s so quiet he’s pretty sure Mr. Fury is talking to someone else.

“Do you see some kind of number on the wall, kid? Anything that says what room it is?”

Peter probably wouldn’t be able to see it in the dark anyway. But he never looks to begin with.

Outside, there’s more thumping and crashing and all sorts of sounds that are loud even though he can barely hear them. Something is starting to hum like the old fridge at his apartment in New York. Then there’s another sound. Someone is talking. Yelling.

Pepper is yelling. Pepper isn’t dead yet.

Peter can’t hear what she’s saying, but she sounds scared, and she’s loud. Is she calling for him? Is she calling for help?

“Kid?” Mr. Fury repeats.

Peter doesn’t want to be rude to Mr. Fury because he’s trying to help, but he quickly tells him “Hold on,” and puts the ear walkie-talkie down. He thinks he hears Mr. Fury say something back, probably telling him not to go anywhere, but Peter keeps going. If Pepper needs help, he has to. Pepper saved him. He has to save her.

He goes back up the stairs as fast as he could, and even though he’s going to help Pepper, he really, really doesn’t want to come out of the room. He’s scared that Obie is going to be right outside, and he’s going to see where Peter is hiding. Once he knows where Peter is, he won’t be able to run away again. He’ll kill Peter.

But Peter tries to be brave and keeps going up the stairs. Something happened to the door. He kind of noticed it earlier when he was running in, but it looks like the lock caught fire or something. It’s shut but Peter pushes it open without a problem.

The building is brighter now, and Peter can see hundreds and hundreds of shards of glass on the floor. They’re sparkling in the blue light of the big machine in the middle, which doesn’t look like he remembers it.

The last time he saw it was when he and Uncle Ben and Aunt May and Uncle Richard heard that Dad was alive and they all came out here because for some reason Dad had to have a business meeting before he could see Peter. They weren’t able to come inside because Peter was still supposed to be a secret, but the car had stopped on the road outside and Peter could see inside. He remembers the blue lightning around inside. He remembers how cool he thought it was.

The machine looks…angry. It’s shaking and making a weird humming sound that’s getting louder and louder. Like Mom’s old VHS when they were rewinding a movie, or food that’s in the microwave too long.

No one tells him to do it, but Peter thinks he should hide now—from the machine and Obie. Which means that he’ll just have to go downstairs again and hope it’ll be enough.

But Pepper is still there, right next to it, and Peter calls out, “Pepper! Pepper!”

Pepper jumps and looks at him, wide-eyed and scared, but then she looks up. Peter doesn’t know what she’s looking at. She starts yelling something, but he can’t hear her anymore, either. The machine is too loud.

Peter is stuck, not knowing whether to stay or run. He needs Pepper to come with him. He doesn’t want to be alone again.


Tony doesn’t know why, but as he’s there—barely hanging onto the frame of the skylight, being hailed with bullets, sweaty and smoky and unable to breathe—he thinks about Christmas.

Specifically, the first Christmas after his parents passed away. Well, the second one. He was at a Christmas-season charity gala, dressed in a three-piece (a style he was finding himself in more and more often, when just a year before he was a T-shirt wearing twenty-two-year-old who couldn’t be wrestled into a suit for any reason) and walking under crystal chandeliers in a sea of strangers.

Tony was drinking wine, and wondering to himself, Am I an alcoholic now? He used to drink for fun. He used to be a kid in his twenties with no impulse control, of course he’d subject himself to a brain-splitting hangover just for the heck of it. He still drank for fun, he guessed, but “fun” was more like “get away from the pain for a while.” More often he drank just to drink. He didn’t even remember picking up a wine glass.

And these strangers, who Tony has to tap glasses with and laugh with and kiss-ass with, all while biting his tongue at older men’s less-than-funny jokes and brushing off the advances of older and sometimes married women, they kept bringing up Howard and Maria. They told old stories, some praising and others ribbing, and at some point they’d punctuate them with something along the lines of, “Oh, if only they were still here.” So often it was in that distant, obligatory tone of condolence, people who didn’t actually care but knew they had to be sad anyway. But so many of them were genuine, staring into Tony’s face, like they wanted him to cry. Like they’d seen him looking relatively fine and came over to correct him.

Finally, Tony had just walked outside to the frigid New York winter air. Of course, New York City at Christmastime was beautiful. There were more twinkling lights on trees and buildings than there were stars in the sky. Except now, Tony is reminded of how much his mother used to love Christmas lights, and how when he was a child they’d sneak out to drift the roads just to look at them, and then they’d come home and Howard would welcome his wife back but would stare down his son as if scolding him for having a moment of happiness.

Stane had snuck up behind him and put a hand on his shoulder, but pulled it away just as soon. He leaned against the frosted railing with him, always wearing that small grin of his, like his face just rested that way.

“Pretty crowded in there, isn’t it?”

And that was all he said. He didn’t start a “I know how you feel” talk. He didn’t tell Tony that it was okay to let it out. He didn’t touch him anymore. They just stood there, shivering and breathing out clouds, and in the end Stane left just a minute before him. The sad thing was, it was the best comfort Tony had gotten since his parents died. He didn’t want people touching him, urging him to cry, not wanting to leave him to his own thoughts. He didn’t care if it was unhealthy, he wanted to be alone. Stane got that.

He thinks that maybe that was when Stane went from being a friend of his father’s to a friend of his. He just felt so comfortable with Stane after that. He could count on his fingertips the number of times they even talked about his parents after that.

And now, Stane is sneering down at him with a half-amused, half-furious smile of someone bewildered with how long it’s taking them to squash a bug. He tells Tony that Howard would be proud.

Only further cementing that “Obie” never really existed. Did Stane really know just how to comfort him back then? Or did he not care at all, and was doing the bare minimum to get in his good wishes? Did Tony mistake his silent understanding for hidden annoyance?

It doesn’t matter anymore. If Tony ends up going with him, well, at least Stane’s gone. At least he can say Stane won’t win.

Is Peter still around? Peter’s smart. He’ll hide, or maybe he’s already run far away. Tony doesn’t want him getting hurt.

Down below, Pepper is screaming back at him with his every call. Even though Tony’s practically begging her to just press the damn button at this point, he has a macabre appreciation for her. Pepper doesn’t want him to die. Pepper cares. Rhodey cares. Pepper will be able to tell him what happened, at least.

Tony’s arm slips, and he just barely manages to grab hold of the frame. He screams at her one more time to press the button.

She does.


Pepper presses a button. Then she starts running to Peter. She’s yelling at him to get back inside.

Then everything is blue, and Peter is knocked off of his feet.

He can’t move. He can’t breathe. He can’t even keep his eyes open, it’s too bright. He feels cold all over, but he’s burning, too. All Peter does is throw his arms over his head, because that’s all he can do.

He finally gets to open his eyes just enough, even though the brightness is making his eyes teary. The blue light of the machine is bursting out of it. It’s going high, high, high into the sky, so high Peter can’t see the end. Brighter and bigger than any firework. There are bolts of lightning whipping around the room, and Peter just hopes they aren’t going to come at him and Pepper.

The light starts to flicker, and Peter gets up to his feet. Pepper is behind him—he pulls her. Her foot is hurt, but they can’t stop. Are they still hiding from Obie? Peter doesn’t know, but he doesn’t want to stay there. All he knows is that downstairs is the safest place they can go.

Isn’t Dad here, somewhere? Was he here with the police, already?

Did Obie hurt him?

Maybe Peter was wrong and Obie wasn’t Dad’s friend at all.

Pepper is telling him to go, go, go, hurry, hurry but Peter makes sure she goes in before he does. Something is coming down from above. He can hear it banging and smashing as it falls, and whatever it is, it’s big. Somehow Peter just knows that when it hits the ground, it will be bad. There will be fire.

He follows Pepper down the stairs, not sure if he’s hearing their footsteps or the thing still falling down, but when Peter looks back, he sees that the door is still open. If there’s fire, it’ll just come right in after them. If Obie is still out there, he’ll know where they went.

Peter turns around.

It takes a second, but he hears Pepper screaming at him to come back. He doesn’t. He has to protect Pepper. If Peter can help, he has to. So even though his heart is pounding so hard that it hurts, and he wants to go back down with her, he doesn’t. He runs and trips until he finally gets to the door again.

Maybe Peter isn’t smart, after all. Maybe Peter’s actually really stupid. He isn’t trying to be dumb. He doesn’t want to disobey Pepper. He doesn’t do it because he thinks it’ll be cool or anything. Peter just wants to help.

Peter doesn’t close the door in time.

Now all he can see is orange, and everything is hot, hot, hot, he’s burning. There was fire after all. And it got him.

Is he falling asleep? He can’t stand up anymore. He thinks he’s breathing, but it doesn’t feel right. He can’t see anything anymore—it’s not orange, it’s just dark. His arm feels like someone’s poking at it with hundreds and hundreds of needles; he just can’t move it.

Peter was just trying to help. He hopes he did. He can’t see Pepper anymore, so he just hopes she’s okay. He hopes Dad is okay, too.

He wants to see Dad soon. Peter isn’t mad at him anymore and he should tell him that.


Tony doesn’t know exactly what happens. One second he is barely hanging on by his fingertips, the next he’s on his back staring up at the stars. All he can do is breathe.

He’d thought, if and when he took the full brunt of the Arc Reactor’s explosion, all the raw energy would funnel right into his heart and overload every last vein and vessel until he just fell to pieces. Now he just finds himself struggling to stay awake.

Is this what dying is and always was? Or is he lucky, to be able to just drift away like this? He doesn’t even have the energy to fear death anymore; his mind and body have already accepted it. There’s a word for this, the process the body goes through to say everything is okay in its last moments, but he can’t recall it now.

He is distantly aware that the Arc Reactor’s energy is still ripping through the air—beaming high, high, high into the sky in an electric blue beam that makes the air crackle. He is also distantly aware that it is tearing through Stane—it’s hard, but past the roar of the Arc Reactor, he can hear the scream as the power rips through his body.

Then Stane and his hulking iron suit tip in through the destroyed skylight, and even as out of it as he is, Tony still feels the Earth shaking beneath him and the blistering heat of the fire as it surges past him. He feels like he’s broiling inside of the suit, but he has no energy left to try and save himself.

Maybe Stane was already dead when he fell into the core. Or maybe he had a little bit of life left when he was swept up in the flames. Tony doesn’t care. Stane is dead and he doesn’t feel anything.

When it’s all over, the air is hot, the roof is littered with glass and debris, and Tony is just breathing. Already his vision is going dark in the corners.

Did Pepper and Peter get out in time? If there’s anything he needs to stay alive just a few more minutes for, it’s to make sure they’re okay. Of course, he’d like to say more: maybe try to settle with Pepper what there was between them, and tell Peter that he’s sorry, again and again and again and just hope that he believes him.

That’s the only thing he holds onto hope for. He gives up trying to keep his eyes open. There’s nothing he can do anymore. If he’s done all he could do, then he can only say he tried. If he’s given more time to accomplish more, then he will.

The thing about time is that, even if it’s some kind of woven tapestry, he can’t see it. This could very well be his closing chapter and he has no say in it.

Tony is a man of science and he always has been. Whether because of the beat of a butterfly wings or Murphy’s law, there’s an explanation for why everything happens. Maybe not the way Yinsen thought—the reason he came out of the cave breathing was because the members of the Ten Rings kept him alive long enough to find his own escape. Getting more time to fix what he’d broke wasn’t “fate” or “destiny,” it was just luck. Because what if he hadn’t? What if he’d come back and didn’t try to change anything whatsoever?

Of course, Yinsen knew that. He wasn’t trying to sway a man of science with words of fantasy. He just knew Tony needed someone to say it to him.

Tony's tired. He lets his body give in. Whether or not his eyes open again, he knows he did something. He just wished he'd have done more. 

Chapter 26: Chapter Twenty-Six

Summary:

When he was told that his parents—his mother who used to sneak him out of the mansion just to look at Christmas lights, the father who would sneer when they came home—had been killed in a car crash, Tony felt like his entire body had filled with lead. He couldn't feel his heart beat anymore, and every breath he took just didn't feel like enough. Even if it only came once, and only so many, many years ago, he never forgot that feeling. He'd felt it stirring when Stane was taking Peter away and when he taunted that he was going to do the same to Pepper.

Tony doesn't feel it this time.

Tony doesn't feel anything.

Chapter Text

Does Tony die? Possibly. He honestly doesn't know.

 

If he did, then at least now he knows that death is like falling asleep. He could not pinpoint the exact moment that his life in the earthly world ended. He did not remember his last breath or the last sound he heard. Everything just slipped away until there was nothing.

 

It was also like falling asleep because somehow it feels like three seconds between him lying on the rooftop fried to a crisp and him waking up in a hospital bed.

 

If Tony died, he didn't stay dead. He supposed that's something he should be grateful for without measure—and he would be, later—but in the moment, all he could do was get a hold of his bearings. The realization that he's still alive even after he'd resigned himself to death is not an easy one for the brain to take in.

 

To help, he starts listing things one at a time. White. A whole lot of hospital-crisp white. Fluorescent lights and linoleum floors. Soft blankets and beeping machines. A window letting in sunlight.

 

For just a second, Tony thinks he's going to do the cliché action movie thing, where he'll rip out all of his IV wires and stand to his feet and march out into the hallway of the hospital to demand answers, or just take the fastest route back home.

 

But it takes roughly...half a second to decide that no, he's not going to do that. He isn't actually hooked up to anything, he doubts he has the energy just to make it to the door, and while he's sure the lucky visitors of the hospital would love to see the parts of him just barely obscured with a hospital gown, he's not in the mood for paparazzi right now.

 

The obvious thing to do is what he's told: he reads the label telling him to PRESS BUTTON FOR NURSE, and does so.

 

The nurse comes in about fifteen seconds. It's just a friendly, soft-looking woman with short gray hair and scrubs patterned with donuts. She comes to the foot of his bed and asks, "Is anything wrong, Mr. Stark? Are you in any pain?"

 

"No. I just thought I would let it be known that I am awake." Tony waves. "Hi."

 

She waves back without a second thought. Behind her mask, he can tell she's smiling. "Wait just a moment, please."

 

'Just a moment' turns out to be around fifteen minutes, more than enough time for Tony to finally start feeling antsy. Now that the fog in his mind is finally starting to clear, the questions are coming. Which hospital is he in? What happened to him? Is Pepper okay? Where's Peter?

 

When the door opens, it is not a doctor. Nor is it just one person, and one of them is not exactly who Tony wanted to see at the moment.

 

"Mr. Stark," Agent Coulson greets as he and his partner(?) step into the room. Tony's never seen the other guy before; he doesn't say anything as he takes a seat in one of the uncomfortable box-shaped chairs in the corner. "Glad to see you recuperating."

 

"Recuperating," Tony repeats. "That is certainly a word."

 

"I'm sure you have some questions," Coulson says. He raises a brow, not unkindly, waiting for Tony to confirm.

 

"I can think of a few, yes."

 

"That's what I'm here to do." Coulson holds up a clipboard Tony hadn't even realized he was holding. He also hadn't realized that the whole time they'd been talking, the guy in the corner was tapping away furiously on a computer, recording their every syllable. "First and foremost, I think you'll want to know how you're doing physically."

 

Tony can't help but narrow his eyes. "Do you just so happen to be a doctor as well as a special operative?"

 

"Not me, no. This is just a first-and-foremost summary, and thankfully, there's not much to summarize." Coulson flips up a page almost curiously. Tony can see a lot of white space. "The good news is that you're going to be just fine. Long story short, your Arc Reactor—which I assure you was not tampered with in any way, shape, or form when you were under—just got overloaded. Knocked you out cold, but thankfully there won't be any permanent damage, and the only torture you're going to be looking forward to is a pharmacy's worth of medications. Hope you don't mind the taste of pills, because there will be many. As for the explosion of the Arc Reactor, you came away with just a couple of nicks and bruises."

 

Was it possible for one human being to have so much luck? Tony knew what the Arc Reactor did, literally more than any other person on the planet. Even he cannot believe that he got out of being surged with a tidal wave of its energy like he'd just had too much caffeine. There's a scientific explanation, he's sure, but seriously. The hell?

 

Coulson sets the clipboard down and folds his hands in front of his lap. "Now...Unfortunately, as I know you're not going to want to do this right at this moment, we do have quite a few things to discuss."

 

'Where's my son?' Tony just barely manages to keep in. His lips even move to say it, and Coulson tilts his head, expectant for a moment. He doesn't know that Tony has a son—Tony has returned to the world, not just his world, and he'd almost forgotten that Peter's entire existence was supposed to be a secret.

 

Though, it is possible Coulson knows. What organization does he work for, again? SWORD?

 

Tony instead asks, as his immediate next question, "How's Pepper?"

 

Coulson almost smiles. "Miss Potts is also miraculously well. Hurt rather badly on her back, but just hurt—no broken bones. She'll have a nasty bruise the size of Texas and will be taking a nice assortment of painkillers. Otherwise, she's come out just fine."

 

Tony opens his mouth to ask another question, but Coulson holds his hand up. The guy in the corner is tapping away with lightning speed at his computer. "Believe me, Mr. Stark, if there are any questions I have left unanswered, you will be more than welcome to ask. But please let me explain all that I have to first."

 

He doesn't appreciate being shut down, especially not as the person with every right in the world to the answers. In the end, though, the fight in him is lost in the fatigue, and Tony just repositions himself under his blankets. He also doesn't like how much lesser he looks in comparison to Coulson, swaddled up in sterile sheets and a flimsy gown, but he guesses this is better than standing in front of the man with his ass hanging out.

 

"I'm not going anywhere," Tony says at last. "Go on."

 

Coulson nods, a bit too pleased. Tony does recall that he'd brushed the man off rather quickly at the charity gala, but considering the ethereal sight that was Pepper Potts in a backless gown, he doesn't feel guilty.

 

"The first thing I need to tell you is something that I am positive you are already aware of," says Coulson. That small bit of satisfaction drains away from his face, leaving him deathly serious. "Obadiah Stane was killed in the explosion of the Arc Reactor."

 

Tony waits for it to come. He knows the feeling well, even though he's only felt it once.

 

When he was told that his parents—his mother who used to sneak him out of the mansion just to look at Christmas lights, the father who would sneer when they came home—had been killed in a car crash, Tony felt like his entire body had filled with lead. He couldn't feel his heart beat anymore, and every breath he took just didn't feel like enough. Even if it only came once, and only so many, many years ago, he never forgot that feeling. He'd felt it stirring when Stane was taking Peter away and when he taunted that he was going to do the same to Pepper.

 

Tony doesn't feel it this time.

 

Tony doesn't feel anything.

 

Coulson waits for him patiently, but for naught. Tony doesn't even so much as sigh. He keeps the other man's gaze easily, and finally Coulson speaks. "I assume that you were already aware of this."

 

Tony doesn't even nod. "I had an idea."

 

Coulson nods, but then his voice takes on a bit of reciting tone. Tony almost expects that he'd find the man glancing into a little manual in his hand if he leaned forward a bit. "It is to our understanding that the fight between you and Stane, and your instruction for Miss Potts to overload the Arc Reactor, was with the goal of killing him. I will explain more shortly, but just know that you are currently not under any threat of charges for murder in any degree. We are aware, however, that despite the events of last night, you and Stane were business partners for quite a long time and—according to several people who we have spoken to to better understand what happened last night—rather close. If you would like to see any sort of counselor or therapist to deal with the current circumstances, we are more than happy—"

 

"I don't need to see a counselor or a therapist. I don't have any feelings about the 'current circumstances' to discuss."

 

The agent nods, a bit surprised. "I see."

 

Tony swallows and looks off to the side. A wave of bitterness swells up in him so fast it almost makes him fidget just to deal with it. "He was going to frame me, you know. He was going to make it look like I went crazy and killed myself. Then Pepper."

 

Not...exactly true. But true enough. Coulson nods again, slower. There are no conflicting feelings to discuss. There are no feelings.

 

Coulson nods again, not surprised. "I see."

 

Thus closes that book. Tony really hopes that no one has the power to make him go see a therapist. He will not put up with someone telling him he has to feel something about Stane's death when he really, truly does not.

 

"Moving on," says Coulson, "There are things that you would perhaps like to know. Thanks to the help of Miss Potts, we now have a full picture of everything Obadiah Stane has done. Including his involvement with the Ten Rings."

 

"He was working with them," Tony states. Coulson nods, looking a bit pleased that he knows as much. "He was dealing with them under the table, and when they found out I was going to be right on their doorstep in Afghanistan, they decided to try and squeeze a little more cash out of him. That about right?"

 

Now Coulson's mouth turns down. "Not quite. Yes, Obadiah Stane was dealing Stark Industries weapons to the Ten Rings. However, your kidnapping in Afghanistan was not the result of the Ten Rings' strategic planning. They had made an agreement to assassinate you."

 

Ah. That is all Tony has to say. He does say it. It...really does not matter anymore, the specifics. That Stane wanted him dead was not exactly news.

 

This time, Coulson doesn't have any response to his lack of. Tony is grateful, but before the agent can continue, he asks, "So why exactly didn't they?"

 

"The files that Miss Potts extracted from Stane's personal computer included a video sent to Stane by Raza Hamidmi Al-Wazar, the leader of the Ten Rings cell responsible for your kidnapping and confinement. You were also in the video. Do you remember that?"

 

He did. Thinking back on it, Tony should have thought back on it sooner. He'd been sat down in the chair, the burlap sack on his head whipped away like they were magicians and he was the disappearing act—ta-da! In all his time in the cave, Tony often wished that he'd touched up on languages besides English, Russian, Japanese, and French. He'd told Yinsen several times that he wished he didn't have to rely on the man to translate.

 

This time, though, as "Raza" (he'd figured that was the man's name, but it was so often mixed up in a language he did not know that he couldn't tell for sure) barked at the video camera precariously perched atop a tripod, he just figured that it was a hostage video. It seemed a natural assumption, but in all of the absolutely splendid memories he'd gotten in that cave, he'd let it slip from his mind. He should've questioned why he never saw nor heard of such a video when he got out. Now he knew that it was because it was for one person, not the United States of America.

 

“Mm-hm.”

 

"Al-Wazar says in the video that Stane did not tell the Ten Rings that it was you that was going to be killed. If Stane's deal with the Ten Rings was to supply them with your weapons, I imagine they wanted to know—pardon the metaphor—where the golden eggs were going to come from without the goose."

 

Tony waved a hand at him. "I've been called worse."

 

"So the only way the Ten Rings would have agreed to killing you was for more money. Though from your recount of your time in their captivity, it seems they instead decided to keep you for themselves."

 

Tony pulls himself up a bit straighter. His bed has been set up in a slight U-shape, and though he gets it's to give his feet some support, it starts to feel rather strange after a while. Coulson takes a look back at their recorder to make sure he's on track before continuing.

 

"As of the moment, we're investigating other members of the Stark Industries Board to see if any of them had involvement in this. Thus far it seems Stane was the only Board member involved, but we have a number of S.I. employees who assisted him. In particular, it seems a Mister William Ginter Riva was his right-hand man when it came to constructing the suit in the laboratory on S.I. grounds."

 

Damn. Always liked Riva. Another thing that Tony should have considered before. He'd been so positive that Stane and other board members had been the ones behind all of this, but apparently their greatest crime was being just as convinced as the rest of the United States that Tony Stark had lost his mind and was no longer fit to oversee the company.

 

Of course, even when Stane made it clear what he intended to do with the Arc Reactor, Tony had never imagined that he would have already had a weapon prepared. He was a bit too busy being pummeled into the asphalt and hailed with bullets to question where it had come from. Tony and Obie used to joke that the man couldn't fix a mechanical pencil to save his life.

 

So he guesses that's everything settled. Except...

 

"Do you have a question, Mr. Stark?"

 

"Yeah. Was he making the suit for the Ten Rings? I'm finding it a bit hard to imagine they'd be willing to work together again after all of that."

 

"My organization has been following the Ten Rings as best as we can for as long as we can. Now, this isn't intended to be public as of yet, so I'm asking to keep this in this room." Tony nodded. "Our investigators have confirmed that Raza is dead. Seemingly assassinated in his own tent. Now, can we confirm that Obadiah Stane is responsible? No. However, despite claims that he was taking a 'relaxing ride in his yacht' in the two days leading up to Raza's body being found, there are no witnesses who can confirm that Stane was doing so. Even more noteworthy is that Raza's eardrums were found to have peculiar injuries whereas there didn't seem to be any other signs of struggle on his body. These injuries match the descriptions of the voluneered subjects who tested the effects of the unproduced Stark Industries 'Sonic Taser.'"

 

Tony doesn't say anything, just nods. He and Raza had suffered a similar experience. First all sound went out, his body did not move an inch no matter how many times he told it to, he silently kicked and fought and screamed but all he could do was sit there and feel the blood running down his neck. The fear is unimaginable. Tony remembers those uncomfortable experiments—even the volunteers who were told exactly what would happen looked terrified. But whereas Tony had broken free of it, living just long enough to replace the Arc Reactor, Raza had died. The guy who had kidnapped him, locked him in a dark cave, fed him nothing but gruel, dunked his head into freezing water until he couldn't breathe, pressed the barrel of a gun against his temple, and oftentimes smiled at him when he caught sight of Tony starved and shaking, was dead. He won't say it out loud, but he also doesn't care: Tony feels a little happy. He's just annoyed that Stane got to do it.

 

Speaking of, it's another curveball. "What was Stane meeting with him for?"

 

"Stane had a team of your own employees constructing the weapon that you fought with last night, as I said. However, their work was not quite from scratch. Raza and other members of the Ten Rings apparently scavenged the pieces of your former 'suit' from the desert. Not every single one, but apparently, it was enough dots to draw lines between."

 

Tony hadn't even recognized it. Was he really that out of it? He'd held that iron mask in his bare hands, but when Obie was the one wearing it, it was alien. Tony feels another spark of fury. On top of everything else Stane has done, it turns out that his last-ditch plan to kill Tony once and for all involved a reanimated corpse of the thing that had saved his life in the first place.

 

Tony takes in a deep breath, willing the fury away. It doesn't matter how many new things he learns Stane did. He's dead. It's over.

 

"Well...Just proves how unoriginal he is, huh?" Tony didn't wait for a response. "What else you got?"

 

"Now I'm going to need you to work with me." Coulson grabbed the other chair and pulled it to the foot of the bed. It couldn't be comfortable, but he didn't complain as he pulled out a tablet. "What happened last night obviously did not go unnoticed."

 

Tony recalled the rather terrified family inside the car that he'd lifted off of the ground. As well as the many other passengers in other cars. And whoever had looked up and seen a giant blue beam searing into the side. And the fact that the Arc Reactor's building exploded. "Obviously."

 

"So what we're going to have to do is come up with a story to give to the public. We're going to have to explain what caused the explosion, what happened to Obadiah Stane, and most importantly, who were the men in the giant metal suits?"

 

"Titanium alloy, actually."

 

"Titanium alloy. Lucky for you, you won't have to worry about writing the script. We'll take care of that, and all you'll have to do is stick to it. What we need from you is a full explanation of what happened last night." Coulson leaned back, crossed his legs, and propped up the tablet on his lap. "I'll ask you a few questions here and there, but start where you think you should."

 

Tony doesn't feel like it, not when he's still fighting off sleep and he's not wearing any pants in front of two other people. But he does, because he knows that the faster he does, the quicker this will all be over.

 

He more or less starts when his parents died and goes from there all the way to returning home from his captivity. It's probably not important, but Tony really wants to emphasize how much he did not know what Stane was doing, even if it means admitting to being such a pathetic moron not to see Stane's true colors sooner. From there, he just goes on about Stane's behaviors that he'd marked up to stress, like how often he would ask Tony about his 'project,' advising Tony to stay home while he took care of Stark Industries, all that jazz. He tells them about finding out from Everhart about the dealing, Stane not even denying it, and everything that followed, all the way until he passed out on top of the building.

 

The one thing that he leaves out is Peter. Tony doesn't know what exactly it is that these guys do. They seem like the CIA on steroids. It's probably stupid, and to be honest, they may already know, considering their knowledge of literally everything else. Tony just wants Peter as far away from any of this as possible. He doesn't care if it would be beneficial, he doesn't want his son to be interrogated for more information.

 

 "Now, this suit that you made..." Coulson taps one last letter before raising his eyes to Tony's. "What was your intent with it? Did you just keep it around after you flew off to Gulmira?"

 

Tony had to think about it. It was a good question. "I don't really know what I intended to do with it, to be honest. I didn't even plan on going to Gulmira—I wanted to show the Ten Rings what-for, don't get me wrong, but I thought that was just a pipe dream. After that, I was just going to keep working on it as a project. It's not the weirdest hobby you've heard of, I'm sure."

 

"If you weren't intending to use it for more...'vigilante' work, then why does it have the features that it does? Why does it..."

 

Coulson seems to glitch out—he was going to smoothly, and now he falls short. Obviously embarassed, he holds up his palms and makes little starbursts with them. The recorder behind him squints. Tony wonders how he's going to put that into words.

 

"The suit has thrusters in its hands and feet to make it fly. All you have to do is give them a little more 'oomph' and that happens. A lot of that stuff I just threw together before I went for Gulmira, and after that, I'll admit that the idea of having my own little war machine to protect my house let me sleep a little better at night."

 

"Fair enough," Coulson says a bit begrudgingly as he goes back to his tablet. "This will be discussed, however. Flying off to Gulmira—crossing into enemy territory and unilaterally attacking the Ten Rings when you received no permission to do so—isn't smiled upon already, but it will be settled whether it's entirely legal for you to own such a weapon."

 

Tony nods just because he's tired, but inside, his stomach goes sour. Maybe at best he can just pinky-promise that he'll never use it again, but more likely he's looking for a fight over this thing. And he will fight to keep this, simply because it is his and for all the blood and sweat he's poured into it, he's not just going to politely give it up. A paranoid part of him also worries that people are going to start getting ideas. Just because Stark Industries won't produce something like that doesn't mean other people won't be able to make their own knockoffs.

 

"I want to thank you for complying with us, Mister Stark, but there's one more thing we'd to go over with you."

 

"Go ahead. I'd appreciate it if you'd make it a little snappy, though." Tony shifts on the mattress. He's not going to miss this place. "I have to say that I am quite starved and could go for some good, flavorless, no-salt hospital food."

 

"This shouldn't take terribly long," says Coulson. Then: "We need you to do your recount of last night's events one more time, this time including Mister Peter Parker."

 

 

 

 

 

"Well…Shit."

 

It is by no means a smart response—very, very dumb and not like him—but what else can he say?

 

He'd already half-suspected this and he still feels a little spark of panic. These guys are going to be working on the "script" to explain last night, and Tony probably won't be able to stop them from making known the fact that Tony Stark has a son. Before, it might not be such a problem. Before, Tony knew that if it got out, he'd be spitting angry and hunt down whoever decided to tell, but they could work through it. He'd beat paparazzi off with a bat if he had to; anything to let Peter keep his normal life.

 

Except now the Ten Rings are still very much a problem, they may or may not be already formulating some way to get back at him—possibly with ties over here in the U.S., considering Stane—and if they found out that he had a young son, they would have a field day. Surely they know that. Whoever these guys are, they can't be that dumb to just make it known—

 

"I didn't mean to alarm you, Mister Stark. We mean no ill will towards you or your son."

 

Coulson smirks a bit at Tony's silence, but thankfully it's not cocky or demeaning. It's like he just played a good-natured joke on Tony instead of sent him reeling.

 

"When Stane took Mister Parker last night—" As he says this, Coulson's smirk immediately dips. He's trying to be as professional as he can, but even Tony detects that he has a distaste for Stane and what he did. "—Mister Parker managed to get away from him just long enough to contact the police on his phone."

 

The image already has Tony's blood boiling. He knows Peter. His kid gets scared when fireworks are too loud, or when the hallway to the bathroom isn't lit at night. Peter had to be absolutely terrified when he ran from Stane, but he'd managed to do it. And he'd done exactly what he was supposed to do.

 

Tony can't stop himself from mumbling, "Good boy."

 

"Unfortunately his phone died soon after, but the situation was sent through to us when we found out it was happening at Stark Industries. Stane got the best of of us when we went in—knocked me clean out—and Mister Parker took one of our earpieces to keep in contact with our director. He's a smart kid."

 

"He is." Tony swallows. "But why is he important?"

 

"Because we need to know absolutely everything that happened last night. No blank spaces to fill in ourselves." Catching the way Tony's jaw tightens, Coulson calmly adds, "Miss Potts and the Parkers have explained the situation to us, Mister Stark. We have no intention of feeding him to the gossip columns. We should be more than capable of forming a story for the public that doesn't mention him."

 

Relief floods through his body. He knows that all of this has not left Peter unscarred. Last night alone could give him nightmares for years, but with everything else he's been through (a good bit of which Tony inflicted upon him), this will be much too much for a seven-year-old to shoulder. But at the very least, he has a chance of things going back to normal.

 

Tony holds his chin up a little higher. "If I give you the second story, can I go see him?"

 

"Yes, you can." Coulson smiles kindly. Tony decides that the guy isn't that bad. "You have many visitors, in fact."

 

He wants to go see Pepper and see with his own eyes that she's okay. He wants to go to Rhodey and just crush the man in a bear-hug, sappy as it is. Heck, he'd be overjoyed if Happy was here.

 

Although: "Are all the Parkers here?"

 

"Mister Ben Parker, Mister Richard Parker, and Missus May Parker."

 

Tony nods. Inside, he's already bracing himself.

 

May is going to kill him.


 

Thankfully it is not May who he sees first.

 

Tony is given some clothes—he's given apologies for it just being slacks and a T-shirt, but that's not far off from his usual style, so it works out fine—and led away from his hospital room. First he has one last visit to the doctor, who just reiterates everything Coulson side with an added emphasis on sleep and a good diet. He swallows his first round of pills, something he is not looking forward to. He might as well be eating a bottle a day.

 

Only then is he finally led down a series of halls to see his first visitor. He thinks he recognizes the place as the Silver Boulder Medical Hospital. He can only guess that these guys have done something to ensure discretion, unless every nurse and doctor in the building works for them.

 

He feels bad for it, but he is disappointed that it isn't Peter. He just needs to see him so badly. But he isn't disappointed in who it turns out to be.

 

Rhodey seems to be on his way to pacing a rut into the carpet when Tony turns the corner. He's talking feverishly into his phone, but once he sees Tony, he hastily bids his goodbye and tucks it away. Then he puts his hands on his hips and levels Tony with a look.

 

"You should be dead," he says. Not angrily, not disappointedly, just matter-of-fact.

 

Tony shrugs as much as his sore body will allow. "Sorry."

 

Rhodey shakes his head and finally comes forward. When was the last time he pulled Tony in for one of these clasp-hands-first-then-tug-them-in hugs? He'd kind of given him one when he found him in the Afghan, but Tony had probably looked as sturdy as a burnt piece of paper, so it wasn't really an embrace so much as a touch. Tony feels grateful, not that he's going to be schmaltzy and say as much.

 

(For one quick second, he wonders, did he ever hug Stane? For as long as he stupidly considered the guy family, Tony cannot once remember actually hugging him. Part of him guesses that Stane wasn't the hugging type, and the larger part quickly reminds him that Stane never gave a shit about him.)

 

"Okay." Rhodey says once he pulls away. "Listen, we have about fifteen minutes. All those fireworks you set off last night really got people in a panic, and they want be to be the one who explains it. I have to go in for one last rundown. But for now, just—tell me everything. Everything."

 

"You're going to get the abridged version," Tony tells him. "I just went through it twice."

 

So he tells it all again, but yes, the abridged version. He knows Rhodey isn't talking about last night, and Tony's pretty sure he's already been given a rundown on Stane's conspiracy with the Ten Rings—he wants to know everything from Tony's point of view. So Tony does tell him everything: the lies, the false comfort, all the glaring red flags that he should've seen sooner. He tells him about what Stane did to Peter, for no other reason than that Peter was going to be a loose end. He explains without defending himself why he didn't see any of it sooner: he was an idiot.

 

When he's done, Rhodey just sits there, leaning in the leather sofa of the waiting area with his elbow on the armrest and his hand against his mouth.

 

"Well." He says, swallowing thickly. "Can't say I'm going to miss him."

 

"Same boat." Tony sniffs, looking around. He didn't know who designed this place, but they sure did love the color beige. "You don't sound too surprised."

 

Rhodey's nose wrinkled. "How can I not be surprised? The guy I sat next to at Christmas dinner turned out to be working with one of the U.S.'s most dangerous terrorist enemies. I'm surprised, even if it doesn't look like it."

 

"You know that's not what I mean."

 

He doesn't say it icily, but Rhodey does look away from him. He runs a hand down his face again, looking more exhausted by the second. Already his phone is buzzing in his pocket again, but he quickly shuts it off.

 

"Look, Tones, I'm not trying to kick you while you're down. You know that." Rhodey looked down between his feet at the beige-patterned carpet. "But...I'm going to be honest with you, alright? I knew Stane wasn't a good guy for a while now."

 

Tony flicks his eyebrows upwards—the universal expression of someone who doesn't know how else to respond. "Well, you're quicker than me on that."

 

"It's not about being 'quicker.' And I'm not saying that you were stupid—"

 

"I was about this."

 

"—but just...He was practically family to you. Am I wrong? All these years now he's been your right-hand man, you guys have been running this company side-by-side and all the while you're spending Christmases and Thanksgivings together, celebrating each other birthdays. It was textbook stuff. But...I don't know, man. All those times he mouthed off and it was just, 'Well, you know Obie, he's a grumpy son of a bitch.' Under the rug, time and again."

 

Tony nods, but he can't raise his eyes to look at Rhodey right now. He looks at the beige patterned carpet and the beige patterned walls. He feels ashamed, but he welcomes it. For some reason, hearing someone else call him out on his bullshit is proving to be as difficult as it is therapeutic.

 

"Yeah, you're not wrong," he replies. "Should've been saying something. It's pathetic to say it out loud, but I just needed Obie to be in my corner so bad. Every time I saw him kick someone down, I wouldn't give them a hand, I'd just lean down and tell him that he's a nice guy, really, he just gets angry when he's frustrated. Angry when he's worried. Angry when things don't go the way he wants."

 

"Well...sure." Rhodey says, in a funny sort of voice that has Tony looking back to him. "But I'm talking about what he would say to you. You think I care if some grumpy old asshole snaps at me every once in a while? I work in the Air Force, Tony. I'm surrounded by grumpy old assholes."

 

Tony squinted at him, taken aback. "You know, it could be the possible brain damage, but I don't remember—"

 

"You do, you just don't...want to remember the way it really was. Just—all these little things he said and did, all the time, and when you said, 'Well, he's just in a bad mood,' that's what he went along with. If you didn't get some big project done on time, he'd make 'jokes' about you drinking too much or getting distracted. If you made a decision that he didn't like, no matter how many times you made it clear that it was a done deal, he'd say you'd 'come around eventually' every time. And when you didn't, that's when he'd get into one of those 'moods.'" Rhodey's eyes narrowed even tighter as he shifted in his seat to face Tony more. "Didn't he tell you not to take Peter in? Didn't he give you a bunch of crap about how you wouldn't be able to do it and you'd be a deadbeat dad or something?"

 

"He wasn't exactly wrong—"

 

"Yes he w—" Rhodey took a deep breath and looked up towards the—surprise!—beige ceiling. Then, sticking his hands out for emphasis, he said, "He didn't even come see you when you got back. He didn't even try, he didn't even make a phone call. The second you got back he was just worried about a stupid press conference."

 

Tony remembered how that had felt. The first time he'd seen Stane's face after all those months in the cave, and he was just smiling at the crowd and beckoning Tony to get inside. He was hurt and betrayed, but then he'd brushed it off as another Hallmark Channel fantasy, because hey, Stane probably had a lot to deal with when he was gone, maybe he had to get this press conference together as soon as possible.

 

Rhodey is watching him—making sure that Tony is getting what he's saying.

 

"I did make excuses for him. Just figured I'd known him for so long I knew what he 'really' meant, but...Well. You know me, Rhodes, it's not like I don't have a spine. Should've nipped it in the bud years ago. I think it's fair to guess none of this would have happened if I did."

 

Rhodey leaned forward and put his elbows on his knees. He sighed, "Like I said, I'm not trying to kick you while you're down. I figure right now you're beating yourself up for not seeing it sooner, but you need to remember you're a human being, and you did something that a lot of human beings do. You cared about someone so much you made all the red flags look like green flags so you wouldn't see what they really were."

 

You made the red flags look like green flags. Tony swallowed again. That was a poetic way of putting it. He would have just called it being a hard-headed dumbass.

 

“Hell.” Rhodey jerked his shoulders. “I should’ve been saying something sooner. I didn’t want to upset you, but it would’ve saved you a lot of pain in the wrong one.”

 

Tony wanted to tell him that it wasn’t his fault at all, but it felt like if he had to speak one more word about this, his throat was going to close for good.

 

“So I wanted to say this sooner,” he says instead, “but I was a little busy dying on my basement floor—”

 

“Fair enough.”

 

“—but I’m sorry. For pulling the rug out from underneath you with the weapons manufacturing, not giving you any kind of heads-up—”

 

“No, no, don’t say you’re sorry.” Rhodey’s nose wrinkles again, like he’s disgusted. “I was being a jackass, alright? You just got out of hell and I had the nerve to tell you to ‘get your mind right.’ Like you broke a promise or something.”

 

“I haven’t changed my mind. I’m done making cannon fodder.”

 

“And I’m not going to hold that against you anymore.” Rhodey leaned back in his seat. “We don’t have the same pair of eyes, Tones. If you don’t want anything to do with all of this anymore, I’m not going to judge. I just ask you to do the same thing, because I’m staying.”

 

Tony nods. He’s already come to peace with that. His time in the cave was just a slice of what Rhodey’s been seeing for years. For a while he’d felt like he’d taken away Rhodey’s sword and shield, but now he knows that Rhodey will figure something out, and not expect anything from him. He knows Tony wasn’t turning his back on innocent people—he was refusing to take part in killing more of them.

 

He has to admit, though, he’s not sure where he’s going from here. Ideally the Ten Rings will stay far, far away from him from now on and they will be the only thing he ever has to worry about. But he knows that isn’t the case.

 

He has a whole lot of tomorrows to worry about, but right now, he has other priorities. “You seen Peter yet?”

 

“Yeah. Go on, Tones.” Rhodey stands up, pulls his jacket straight, and sighs. “I’ve got to go.”

 

“Right.” Tony stands up himself. He’s desperate to see Peter again, but he also wishes his best friend could stay around just a little longer. “What about the Parkers? Seen them yet?”

 

“Yeah, they’re here too.”

 

“How’s May?”

 

“She’s not…clicking her heels, but…Why don’t you just go talk to her? You guys will have plenty to discuss.”

 

Rhodey gives him one last clap on the shoulder—instantly regrets it from the wince Tony makes—and leaves. Tony goes on walking through the beige halls, closer to the Parkers, to Pepper, and to Peter.

Chapter 27: Chapter Twenty-Seven

Summary:

He didn't need a book, or anyone, to tell him that that was often the hardship of being a parent. You have to make the best decisions for your children, even if it hurts them. Yes, usually it is as basic as not letting them have so much candy that they vomit, which results in a screaming tantrum. But sometimes it's not nearly so open-and-close, and the anger your child feels toward you is not just a momentary tantrum—it stays with them, it festers, it scars.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

The hospital might as well be a maze. Every beige hall looks exactly the same. Signs on the walls point to the cafeteria, the elevator, the stairwell. Tony is somewhat surprised that he is not being escorted. He almost feels like he should be flanked by two Men-in-Black knockoffs. Not that he's unhappy not to be followed around, but he's only just now realizing that he never actually asked where Peter and the other Parkers were.

 

As he walks, he notices two things: first, that he's passing by several people in dark suits and earpieces. The place isn't crawling with them, but there are certainly more than just Coulson and his recorder here. The second thing he notices is that he's not seeing many patients. Given, he's not passing by very many of their rooms, but the ones that he does see into are empty. There are none in the halls--even stranger is that there aren't many nurses or doctors around, either. Tony only sees about seven as he wanders around. He's never been in a hospital that's felt so empty before.

 

He follows the beige signs that point towards the waiting area, because that's the only place he can figure the Parkers would be. It takes him a minute to realize that he—he, Tony Stark—has just gone in a giant circle. Apparently directional signs are his only weakness. So then, thinking that maybe he's supposed to be going up or down a floor, he heads towards the stairwell.

 

Tony just barely touches the metal bar when one of the suited people calls, "Mister Stark." Then she crosses the hall to him, leather shoes tapping on the floor, and tells him, "This floor of the hospital is the only one privatized at the moment. We ask that you stay here until further instruction."

 

So that's one question answered. "I'm looking for the Parker family."

 

She nods. "Allow me to escort you."

 

Tony follows obediently, but he feels a bit miffed. Were they just going to keep watching him amble about before anyone said anything?

 

It's a much shorter walk this time around, just a few turns, until finally his tour guide stops and beckons him forward. A door of one of the rooms open, and out walks the familiar Mr. and Mrs. Parker. May has her long auburn hair tossed up into a bun that looks like will be a nightmare to unravel. Ben has his jacket thrown over his forearm--his training making him look quite more rugged than Tony remembers him. May is holding beige Styrofoam cups of coffee, frowning as she talks to her husband under her breath.

 

Tony feels equal part relieved and unnerved to see them. He considers the Parkers family now. A tense, weird family, but family nonetheless. But he knows he has let them down. He may be Peter's father, but they were there when he was born, when he took his first steps, his first words. They were there for him when his mother passed. Tony is his father, but he's also the man who was responsible for Peter when Stane took him away.

 

Steeling himself, Tony steps out of hiding. "Hey, folks."

 

Whatever May was saying as she hands Ben his coffee, she stops herself short to turn around. She and Ben see him at the same time. Ben's lips purse together in that not-quite smile that's trying to comfort without beaming. May's lips just purse.

 

"Hey." Ben extends one arm to Tony's hand, the other for his shoulder, but keeps them there. "Good?"

 

Tony flicks his wrist to beckon him forward. "Just bring it in."

 

Ben is definitely stronger than Tony, but he barely even ghosts against him as he "hugs" him. His coffee cup touches Tony more, bumping against his shoulder. Tony doesn't tease him for it. He's a giant teddy bear and Tony can appreciate that.

 

When he pulls away, May is looking at him, one hand holding her coffee and the other crossed. Tony is surprised when she reaches out to run a hand down his shoulder, giving his elbow a little squeeze. She does not try to smile at all, but it is a comfort, and he was not expecting as much from May Parker. Maybe he has overestimated how much she doesn't like him.

 

"So," Tony says, like they're just an everyday group of friends who have bumped into each other in their favorite coffee shop. "What all do you not know?"

 

Ben and May exchange an unhappy look. May taps her fingers against her cup. "We don't know how he got Peter."

 

Tony does not hang his head like a scolded dog, whining to them his apologies. But he stays humbled as he tells them how Stane petrified him with the Sonic Taser, that he’d somehow managed to get J.A.R.V.I.S. offline. He doesn't say as much, but Tony is worried for his AI. He can only hope that Stane and his cheerleaders didn't scramble him too badly.

 

Ben and May knew that Peter had asked to come home. None of them say it, because there would be no way to know then, but they all know now that he should have stayed with Richard. Ironically, Tony had wanted Peter to be in the safest place possible, and then he'd brought him right where Stane could get him the easiest.

 

Hell, had Stane even known that he was bringing Peter over? He couldn't have. He must have seen a two-for-one deal while he was watching them from the shadows.

 

Ben and May nod along unhappily. Ben's shirt is buttoned unevenly. May's belt has missed a loop. Overall, there is something just ever-so-slightly frazzled about them. Tony knows that this must be a million times more overwhelming for them than himself. At least Tony had been through all of this step-by-step. From the Parkers' point of view, that guy who was kind of an asshole sometimes had just been killed in a showdown with their kid's father because he was using their shared business to profit terrorists. Not an easy pill to swallow.

 

"Alright," Ben says when he's finished. "Guess that's the whole picture, then. We just got a call in the middle of the night from these special agent people. We got 'debriefed' while we were still in our pajamas on a private plane."

 

"Who are these people?" May asks. Just as she does, another suit strolls by with a nod in their direction. "I've never heard of SHIELD in my life."

 

"I think that's the point?" Tony guesses. "I think they're the lovechild of the CIA and the Men in Black. Didn't cause you too much trouble, did they?"

 

"Ungodly amount of paperwork. But no, not besides that." May sniffs and nods to the door behind them. "Richard's in there with him now."

 

Tony nods, feeling a buzz inside of him. Peter's just past the door. It's almost tempting to shove the Parkers out of his way just so he can get to him faster. He is well aware he's alive. He still needs to prove it.

 

"Okay. ‘S he good? Everything alright?"

 

Ben scratches at the stubble on his cheek and sighs. May shifts on her feet. "Apparently, before the explosion, Peter and Pepper were going down to some kind of basement to hide. Peter went back to shut the door, but was too late."

 

Everything gets darker just like that. They'd said he was fine. They said he was okay but now Tony thinks that if he walks through that door all he's going to see is Peter's small, frail body wrapped head to toe in bandages, unable to move—

 

"He didn't get burned, thank God—at least, not that bad. Some first-degrees here and there, just need to keep them bandaged and ointment-ed. It was mostly the force that did it." Ben taps his right shoulder. "He landed on arm. Broke it. But that managed to spare his head, so no concussions, no brain damage."

 

Tony should feel relieved, but he is not. Hearing Ben say what didn't happen to Peter just makes him all the more aware of what could have. Tony had just sat there. Stane had taken his son away to kill him just because he was a loose end and Tony sat there.

 

"Even better," May says, in that tone that tells how little 'better' this is, "he's a fighter. Already on his feet."

 

"Good. Brains and brawn. Always knew he had it in 'im."

 

May nods very neutrally—just confirming that she heard him. Then, brushing a stray length of auburn hair behind her ear and pursing her lips, she says, "Tony, we...we have things we need to talk about."

 

Ben deflates and reaches for her. "May—"

 

"No, Ben, no—" May shrugs off the hand he lays on her shoulder. "We need to talk, we can't just smile it off—"

 

"Ben, she's right. She's right. We need to talk."

 

A bit of gratitude peeks through May's exhaustion. Ben unhappily draws his hand back. Tony imagines the poor guy just wants them all to have some time to breathe and heal, but he's with May. It's better to talk about this now instead of letting it fester later.

 

May raises her chin up. "First of all, I just want to let you know that this is not your fault. I do not blame you for what happened. It's not like you were careless or stupid or anything, there was literally no way of guessing what was going to happen. So whatever else we talk about, it's not you that I'm angry at."

 

It's odd that they're arguing the opposite cases that would probably be expected. Shouldn't May be screaming at him for being so reckless with who he let around Peter, and shouldn't Tony be stubbornly yelling back that he would never knowingly hurt his son that way, how could she even say that? But that's not what's happening. Tony doesn't argue back that it is his fault, actually, but he silently disagrees as she continues.

 

"And I also want you to know that this isn't about anything else you've done, either. I'm not happy with the way things were, not happy with what you were doing while Peter was with you, before you were..." May swallows, catching herself. "And I was really worried about that, but then I saw how much you were really, really trying to make things right. I know that a few days ago Peter was really upset about something, but Rich said that he really wanted to go back home early, so...I'm rambling." May shakes her head, laughing dryly. "I guess what I'm trying to say is that even if things have been stranger for you two than most parents, I get that sometimes it's just a 'thing.' Just an argument. It's not going to be a smooth ride from beginning to end."

 

Which makes Tony question how much Peter has explained, if anything. If Tony explains what really happened, he thinks that May's going to have a change of tune about this. It wasn't just a "Dad promised we could go to the movies and then I got sick, now I'm mad" thing. It was a "Dad is best friends with the mean man who threatened me and called me names and he doesn't care about me" thing. 

 

"All that said...I didn't realize just how big of a target you have painted on your back, Tony. I knew that not everybody loved you, I mean a lot of tabloids hate your guts, but I didn't realize you were in so much danger."

 

"I know it sounds terrible, but I've gotten used to it," Tony says, not disagreeing. "'S why I hired Happy."

 

"But Happy couldn't help you this time. It's not like I'm scared that the Ten Rings is just going to show up on your front door." May gestures out an arm in a random direction. "I'm worried about people who are already here. Did you hear the things people said about you when you said you'd stopped making weapons? People who'd invested stock in SI were making all kinds of threats—Pepper said she had to throw away ten thousand of them in your mail every day. Did you even hear about the guy in Oregon? The one the police arrested because he publicly announced that he was going to send you a bomb?"

 

No, Tony hadn't heard about that. He doesn’t particularly care, either, or at least he isn’t afraid. "You're not wrong. Just know that this isn't new for me. I wouldn't have brought Peter over if I even had the inkling that he was going to be in danger living here."

 

"Tony, we're really, really hanging onto this hope that no one will find out Peter's your son—and people have already found out." May runs her free hand through her hair. "We've gotten lucky so far—what happens when we slip up one day? We don't see that someone is following Peter's car home? Or Peter just accidentally lets something slip to one of his classmates, and the next morning his face is all over the magazine stands?" May casts a wary look to the suits around them. She is speaking hushed so they wouldn't hear, but they are still there. "I know these people are supposed to be helping us, but can we really assume they're all good people? What if one of them gets fired and they decide to fire back by leaking Peter to the paparazzi?"

 

Ben finally cut in just to reassure his wife, "Then there'd be a lot of really, really big consequences. Anyone who tried to make Peter the next big scandal would break several privacy and child endangerment laws."

 

"I'm not worried about cameras taking pictures of him while he walks into school, Benjamin! I'm worried that Tony still has people here who want to hurt him, and once they find out that Peter exists, they're going to see a golden opportunity!" Just as her voice peaks, May snaps her mouth shut, looking equal parts embarrassed and scared. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I'm not trying to...be angry..."

 

Tony shakes his head. He's not angry that she's angry. He's angry at himself, for not thinking more about it. Of course, he'd already known that Peter's life probably would never go back to normal anymore. If he was perfectly honest, he could see himself lapsing into full "overprotective, smothering dad" mode for a while. Like something will happen to Peter the second he walks out of sight.

 

It's a much grander scope than he realized. It's not just going to be an angry white collar guy in Oregon making a FedEx bomb with whatever he finds under his bathroom sink. There could be people with power, people with eyes, who have him in their crosshairs. That alone makes his body cold, especially knowing that they could be an arm's length away. Add that on top of Peter's existence, though, and Tony felt like he was about to start shivering.

 

As he stands there in front of the Parkers, he starts thinking at bullet speed. Things they can do.

 

They can get a headstart. Go ahead and make Peter public knowledge before anyone else can "leak" him—make sure he's prepared first, then make it absolutely clear how serious the repercussions will be to anyone who tries to hurt, harass, or even photograph him. Get him a bodyguard. Two bodyguards. Make sure his school is locked up tighter than Alcatraz. Do background researches on everyone involved in his life. Maybe they can ask him to get some kind of tracker on his phone, or as a bracelet? Is it immoral, if they ask Peter to make sure he's okay with it first? Maybe the whole Parker family should be kept under guard.

 

The thing is, though, Tony knows he doesn't have the end-all call here. Or...he might, but that's going to burn all good will between him and the Parkers for good. They have to have a say in this. Peter too, of course, but all the adults involved in his child's life need to work together as a team.

 

So, Tony asks, "What would you want to do?"

 

May pauses. She's not surprised, she's thought about it. She just doesn't seem happy.

 

"Maybe we should cut back," she says. "I don't want to keep moving him around like he's on a checkerboard, but maybe he should...come back to Queens? This is going to sound—way meaner than it is, but at least then he's going to be far from you. The more distance, the less chance there is of getting caught. Now that Ben and I are both working, we could afford it, I'm sure." Quickly, she adds, "But you'd still be there! You could call him any time of the day, we could make a plan for you to come see him, or us come see you...We could meet halfway, sometimes."

 

Tony keeps his eyes on her, not wanting to look dismissive, but every word she says makes his stomach turn just a little more.

 

He is still selfish. He's still a selfish bastard who won't accept change even if it's for the better of others. He knows that Peter would be safer in Queens, far away from him. At the same time, the thought of not seeing him every day, of walking by his empty bedroom, it makes him feel hollow.

 

"My—Alright. Listen." Tony scratches at his cheek. "It might be a bit...much, after all of this. I want him to be safe, I do, and I hear what you're saying, but he'd be moving from all of his friends for good, he'd have to get used to being somewhere else all over again..."

 

"I know, I know. I don't want him to be overwhelmed, I don't. We can take it slow, we can work it out. I'm not saying we need to ship him off right now, I'm just saying..." May's lips pursed again. "Look, Tony, I've done volunteer work for a long time. Not everyone I've seen has gone running to help, sometimes you have to pull them away from their situations—"

 

For the first time since he's known the man, Ben snaps: "May!" Tony should probably be thankful for it—Ben thinking that his wife was calling Tony some kind of abusive danger to Peter, and defending him in a heartbeat. Instead, he and May speak at the same time, a duet of rushed "no, no, no!"

 

"That's not what I mean, I swear!" May exclaims to him and Ben both. "What I mean is—being in a better, safer place isn't always easy, and it's never really fun. No matter how hard things were for them, these people—some of them kids!—had to leave their homes, their friends, their families. It broke their hearts, it made them furious, but at the end of the day, they couldn't be hurt anymore. What I'm trying to say is that...I know Peter will probably be torn up about this. Hurt, even. But...I don't want to say it so bluntly, but I'd rather he be around to be angry at us all than kidnapped, or—or attacked, or..."

 

May stops herself, clearly unable to even speak the other possibilities. Tony reaches out and pats her arm, signing for her to take a breath for a second.

 

He didn't need a book, or anyone, to tell him that that was often the hardship of being a parent. You have to make the best decisions for your children, even if it hurts them. Yes, usually it is as basic as not letting them have so much candy that they vomit, which results in a screaming tantrum. But sometimes it's not nearly so open-and-close, and the anger your child feels toward you is not just a momentary tantrum—it stays with them, it festers, it scars.

 

He's thankful that he still has that blunt, logical voice in his head that doesn't get caught in his emotions. That logical voice is telling him that no matter how much this will pain Tony, or how angry Peter will be, it is better for him to be safe and angry than happy but threatened.

 

Of course...this is all assuming that Peter will even want to stay around anymore. For all the hellfire he just went through, would Tony really be so surprised if he begged to go back to their little apartment in Queens? Peter is old enough now that his brain is not just a pure blank slate to write on, but still, he makes associations between things, and surely by now he has associated being with his father with being hurt and scared and in danger.

 

"For what it's worth," says Ben, already looking so contrite for snapping earlier, "I think that...no matter what we do, Peter could really use some therapy, you know? Honestly, we should've got him some years ago, but now especially..."

 

"Absolutely," Tony agrees as May nods fervently.

 

"That's probably going to be a problem, too, since Peter's going to have to be honest about everything and we're going to need to make sure that his therapist won't tell, but—"

 

"I'm going to take care of everything. Don't worry anything about it."

 

Ben and May nod their thanks, but May goes on. "We'll do that no matter what...But what will we do?"

 

Tony runs a hand down his bruised, cut face. That one part of his heart and mind is starting to overact again—the part that feels things so stupid and illogical you don't even say them aloud because you know how nonsensical it all is. For half of a half of a half of a millisecond, he feels like he's about to snap at the Parkers—get out of his way already! He just wants to see his son! Do they really need to talk about this now?!

 

The half of a half of a half of a millisecond comes and goes. Tony rolls his shoulders back, regrets it, and calmly asks, "I don't think we need to decide this now."

 

"Of course not," agrees May. "No, you're right."

 

"We're all probably going to be laying low for a while," said Ben. "We'll probably be staying with Rich for a while, just until the worst of it all blows over. I think we should all just be catching our breaths, but...we can also just be thinking about it. You can be thinking about it."

 

"I will be," Tony promises. "I'm not just going to kick back and take a nap anytime soon. There's a lot of stuff I'm going to figure out."

 

"While we're all mulling it over..." Ben swallowed and scratched at his stubble. His jaw is piano-wire tight. "I still say what I said last time: we should listen to Peter. We can't just completely dismiss whatever he wants."

 

May sighs, running a hand through her hair, pulling strands from her bun. "I just—that's what I was saying. Peter isn't going to want to leave his friends or his cool room or anything, but we're going to have to decide what's best—"

 

"You're both right," Tony cuts in. He sincerely worries that Ben and May Parker are a perfectly harmonious pair, but every time he's around they start turning on each other. He doesn't want to hurt their family by just existing. "It's up to us to decide what's best for Peter, and yes, he's still probably going to be riled up no matter what we say, but we will explain to him why. That said...We've all been kids before. Even when adults made decisions for us that we hated, it was two percent better when they actually listened first."

 

Ben and May both nod with different speed. May sips the last bit of her coffee with a tight mouth—it has to be nothing more than ice-cold bitter grains by this point, but she doesn't so much as flinch.

 

"We'll come back to this," Ben promises, voice warmer. "Right now, why don't you go see Pete? He's been asking about you."

 

Ben and May depart, Ben giving him one last clap on the shoulder. As they walk down the beige halls together, their whispered voices carry down, but he can't hear what they're saying. Is this what it feels like, to think you've reached the climax of a good book only to see that there's still an inch of pages to go?

 

Tony dismisses it. Peter is just a few steps away. Tony swallows, steels himself. He can feel the bandages and cuts on his face, but he has no mirror—will seeing him like this freak Peter out?

 

Tony is more concerned of what'll happen when he sees Peter. He knows he's not going to be wrapped up like a mummy now, but his stomach is still tossing. Is he going to be curled up against his pillow, too small for his hospital bed, still trembling in fear? What'll he do when he sees Tony?

 

He steps in through the doorway. He hears hushes voices, one Richard's, one Peter's. They are only concealed by the corner of the bathroom, and with one last step, Tony gets to see his son again.

 

He was right: Peter is far too small for the hospital bed. The whole thing dwarfs him. The flimsy knit blanket could swallow him whole. Around him, on his little side tray and resting in the window sill, are signs of the passage of time: plastic cups, a folded jacket, empty chip bags and wrappers of candy.

 

Peter is...okay.

 

Tony feels embarrassed for himself now that he sees how okay Peter is. Not spotless, of course. His arm is swaddled in a cast. Seeing the stiff white shape, covered in the Sharpie signatures of the Parker family, makes Tony's mouth go sour. There is a bandage on his cheek. All his skin has a slight pink tone, just barely burned.

 

He's not laying down immobile on his back, either. He's sitting “cross-cross applesauce,” carefully gripping some playing cards in his free hand. Tony has tried to show him how to hold them all in one hand before, but he just doesn't learn.

 

Richard is sitting with his long legs over the side. His hair seems longer—the fuzz of stubble is on his cheeks. As Tony stands and watches, he asks, "Fours?"

 

Peter nods his head to the left of his spread. "That one."

 

Richard pinches one of Peter's cards between his fingers—"No, that one."—and pulls it to make a pair. Peter asks if he has any eights. Go fish: Richard picks up a card and puts it in Peter's hand for him, careful not to catch a glimpse.

 

It breaks Tony's heart to see him like this, tired and burnt with a broken arm, but he reminds himself that Peter could be dead. He would be dead if things hadn't gone the way they did—if Rhodey hadn't showed up at just the right time, if Pepper hadn't been there to help him. It is never easy, to step back from a brush with death and realize you could have just narrowly missed your end. Even worse when you see it happen to your child.

 

Finally tired of just glooming over them, Tony knocks on the beige wall beside his head. Peter and Richard both look up.

 

Peter sits up. He doesn't perk up like a flower, doesn't run all the way across the room to him, but he puts his cards down on the bedsheets and chirps, "Dad!"

 

Richards sets his cards down as well, but the smile he gives Tony is tired and tight, more just a pull of his lips. "Hey, Tony."

 

"Hey yourself, Rich." Tony steps closer, but has nowhere to go. He sticks near the wall.

 

"Are you okay?" Peter asks as his big brown eyes analyze Tony up and down. "You look okay."

 

Perhaps Tony wasn't the only one expecting a full body-cast. "I am okay. I have a lot of medicine to take, though. What about you?"

 

Peter turns and points to the drawers beside his bed. There's a trio of small orange bottles, one laying down on its side. Peter's nose wrinkles at them. "I can just swallow two of them, but I have to chew the other one."

 

"Eugh. Not exactly a Flintstone gummy, huh?"

 

Peter shakes his head fervently.

 

It's...nice. Tony's thankful that it's nice. Yet he also knows it probably shouldn't be this way. It's not just a Hallmark movie thing, he should be pulling Peter into a huge hug, never letting him go, apologizing over and over, asking him if he's alright a hundred times over because hearing "yes" ninety-nine times won't do.

 

Instead, he stays where he is, and so does Peter, because there is an invisible barrier between the two of them. Too much has happened to have their sweet little reunion moment.

 

"I think," Richard says as he stands to his feet. He walks so fluidly now, you'd never thing one of his feet is a prosthetic, "that I'm going to get some coffee, too. I'll be back, alright?"

 

Peter nods, and Richard rounds the bed and makes his way to the door, past Tony. As he does, Tony asks him, "How are you holding up?"

 

Richard raises his eyebrows once quickly. "Tired."

 

"I imagine. Thanks for being around. When did you...?"

 

"Ten seconds after. Been here all night and day." Tony is about to say something to that, but Richard goes on, "Did Ben and May talk to you?"

 

"Yeah, just caught them outside. I don't know if that coffee's going to do you any good, they both seemed like they were about to fall over."

 

"Did they—" Richard glances to Peter, who is watching them curiously. He leans closer to whisper. "Did they talk to you about what we should do?"

 

"Yeah," Tony answers, a bit warily. Peter is right there waiting for him. He doesn't want to go into Why Peter Should Leave Tony For Good: Part 2. "We said we'd sleep on it. Just for a while."

 

Richard nods, and then he leaves. It is very short and simple. Tony knows that the doctor probably just wanted to give him some time to talk to Peter by himself, but there's something a bit icy in how Richard brushes past him. He expected a bit more.

 

Tony takes Richard's spot on the bed—it’s an easy fit. Peter rests his cast on his lap. He scratches at the bandage on his cheek, but then catches himself, no doubt remembering what adults have already told him not to do.

 

"Does it hurt?" Tony asks, nodding to the cast.

 

Peter shrugs his other shoulder. "Little bit. It's better than it was." He looks at the little tray attached to his bed and fumbles with a Sharpie in his small fingers. "D'you want to sign it?"

 

"'Course I do."

 

Tony slashes down the line of 'D' in Sharpie before he catches himself. He can't write 'Dad', can he? The story goes that Richard is Peter's legal guardian right now, and he's already written his name in nearly ineligible chickenscratch. Yet, if he writes 'Tony', that will inevitably raise questions from teachers and friends.

 

Tony decides to make it a simple 'T' instead and scribbles a star next to it. When he's done, Peter tilts the cast back and forth a bit, judging how it looks.

 

"So," Tony says, and hates himself for it. 'So.' Such a dumb word to be saying right now. "What all's been happening?"

 

Peter shifts, not sulking but clearly not happy at remembering everything that's happened so far. Tony feels bad for it, but he'd feel worse for not asking.

 

"We got taken to the hospital. You and me—but we had to go in different am’blances. Pepper and I got to ride together, but when we got to the hospital we had to split up. They gave me medicine and stuff...Rhodey and Uncle Richard showed up really quick. I don't know when Uncle Ben and Aunt May got here 'cause I fell asleep."

 

Tony nods. At least Peter had some trusted company—he could only imagine how much more traumatizing it all would have been if he'd been all alone.

 

Peter squirms again. "I asked if you were okay and all the doctors said yeah but I couldn't see you yet. I don't know why. I think you were just sleeping."

 

"Well, I'm awake now." Tony's next words halt in his throat for a second. Should he really ask? He feels like he has to. "Listen, Pete. It's okay if you don't want to, but can you tell me what happened?"

 

His son clams up in front of his eyes. His cast pulls closer to his body, his eyes look down at his lap. Never a good feeling, making your child uncomfortable.

 

"I just don't know what happened. Do you think you can tell me?"

 

When Peter speaks at last, he keeps his head down. "I woke up in Obie's car. I didn't know where you were and he wouldn't tell me. I tried hitting on the windows and screaming and stuff, but it didn't work...I-I didn't know what to do, and he just kept saying really mean stuff, and he said he was going to hurt me. He—he didn't say he was going to, but he—he—"

 

"Implied it?"

 

"Mm-hm." Peter starts picking at a stray thread on his blanket. "Then we got to SI and he tried to pull me inside but I bit him and ran away fast as I could, but then I went to a room to hide in and he locked the door. I called the police but my phone died..."

 

Peter tells him the rest of the story, voice hardly getting any stronger. It's easy to connect the dots of what happened as Peter tells it all through his eyes. What unsettles Tony the most is that even though Peter's voice is shaky with lasting fear, still shellshocked from all that's happening, there's an undeniable shame in his voice. Like it's his fault that he couldn't just beat Obie up and get away all by himself.

 

Finally he seems to sit a bit straighter when he gets to the end, which seems ironic, as he tells Tony that he'd tried to shut the door behind himself and Pepper but he wasn't fast enough. He doesn't seem shameful about that.

 

Halfway through, Tony finally reaches out and puts a hand on his shoulder. It seems to relax him, the comfort.

 

"I'm sorry, Pete." Tony tells him when he's done. "I'm sorry all that happened. But hey, you know what? Hey." Tony taps his thumb under Peter's chin until he looks up at him. "You did everything right. You did great."

 

Peter keeps his chin raised, but his eyes cast down once again. "I felt really dumb. I just cried like a baby."

 

"You were scared. No one can be angry with you for being scared. I was scared."

 

"But you fought Obie. You saved me and Pepper and you killed him."

 

Something feels funny inside Tony when he hears him say that—"you killed him”. He did, and he feels no remorse for it. But it's the way that Peter says it, so matter-of-fact, so casually, like Stane was some video game boss, the villain in one of his cartoons. Killing Stane meant nothing more than being the hero.

 

He's not going to correct him, but even if Tony has accepted his own numbness to death and destruction by now, the fact that Peter is so blasé about his father being a murderer is alarming.

 

Maybe not, Tony tells himself. Peter is still just a child, and his relief that the bad guy who was hurting him for so long is gone now probably shouldn't be anything to get upset over. Even now, Tony can remember almost thinking the same thing. He can't expect Peter to have some wise philosophical view on life and death. What matters is that Stane is gone and Peter won't have to worry about him anymore.

 

"You did everything that you could have done. Look at me, Peter." The command is gentle. Peter obeys. "Adults are stronger than kids. You know that." He nods. "There was no way you were going to beat Stane up all by yourself. That's why you used your brain. That's what made Stane really, really stupid: he didn't know how smart you were."

 

Peter neither nods nor shakes his head. "I'm sorry I couldn't keep the secret."

 

"Mm-mm. Not your fault. A lot of bad things happened last night, but none of them were your fault."

 

Peter fiddles around with his cards in his free hand. The 'pool' to Go Fish in is spread out among the bedsheets now. While his small hand drifts over them to pull them all neater, Peter's mouth just ever-so-slightly opens and closes. He is seven years old, and he's struggling to break out of the instinct to just clam up and avoid eye contact because this is all so uncomfortable.

 

"Go ahead. You can ask me anything."

 

"How did Stane...take me from home? I don't remember."

 

Tony clenches and unclenches his jaw until his teeth go sore.

 

"He did something to J.A.R.V.I.S. I didn't know he was in the house." As Peter startles, Tony quickly corrects, "I'm sure Jar will be okay. Stane snuck in, and he used this...tool. It makes your body freeze up and you can't move. He did that to me, and then he...did that to you."

 

As if to be sure, Peter scratches at his ear. There's no cotton wads or anything in them, but Tony is feeling the same thing—not pain, but this slight ache past his eardrums that feels like it could be scratched out, but can't.

 

"Is that why my ears hurt?"

 

"Yeah."

 

"Why don't I remember?"

 

"You were asleep."

 

Peter's brown eyes flicker left and right for a moment, and then he nods. Any other day, and Tony would have chuckled at how easy it was to see his son's mental process like it's a physical thing right in front of his eyes. He doesn't feel like he's going to be able to laugh for a while now.

 

"I need to tell you something, alright?" Peter looks at him. He does not protest. "J.A.R.V.I.S. told me about what Stane said to you."

 

Peter blinks at him. "I thought you already knew?"

 

"No..." Tony runs a hand through his hair, taking a breath. "Stane lied to me. I thought he just said something a little mean to you and that's why I asked him to apologize. I thought it was something that was—still mean, but small enough that saying he was sorry could fix. I didn't know what he really said, and he took advantage of that—it's like if a kid broke something on purpose, but then he realized his parents thought it was an accident, so he pretended that it was. J.A.R.V.I.S. told me what he really said."

 

Peter shrivels. He tucks his chin against his chest and mumbles, "He promised he wouldn't tell you..."

 

"He promised he wouldn't tell me unless I asked. And I did. Pete, why didn't you tell me?"

 

Peter's shoulder shrugs once again. It deflates Tony for a second—that's a clear red light. It is the sign that says, 'The conversation is over. Push it and he'll just get upset.' But then he mutters, "I thought it would make you sad."

 

Though it hurts like a physical pain, Tony is not surprised. He’d told him as much on the frost of his window. He knows his son's heart is good, but he also knows he put him in this situation where he was afraid to come to his father about something so horrible.

 

"Why would that make me sad?"

 

"Obie's your friend. He's part of our family." Peter tries to un-crease a king of spades with only five small, clumsy fingers. "He's always coming to parties and you guys hang out all the time. Rhodey said he helped you a lot when your mom and dad died."

 

"When someone says something like that to you, you have to tell me. When they say something like that, they're not my friend anymore. They're not our family." Tony gathers up the pool himself. He just needs something to do with his hands; he feels like his whole body is going to snap if he doesn't move. "Let me tell you something else. What was that name of the boy you used to hang out with all the time? Ricky? Randy?"

 

"Randy," Peter confirms.

 

"And what was Randy's problem?"

 

Shrug. "We were friends, but he kept saying mean stuff. He'd play kickball with us at recess and he'd sit with us at lunch but he would make fun of me for being short, or Andy for wearing glasses, and he'd yell at us if he didn't win what we were playing."

 

"So why did you keep playing with him?"

 

Shrug. Guilt starts to seep into Peter's face, like this is a lecture of some sort, but it isn't.

 

"Was it because you thought he was still your friend? Because he was still nice, even if he was mean sometimes?"

 

Finally the shrug cycle breaks. Peter nods, a bit stiffly. "I think so."

 

"What happened that made you stop playing with him?"

 

"He pulled on Hannah's pigtails. And when she started crying he kept making fun of her." His eyebrows twitch. Old anger is starting to resurface. "Hannah's really nice. She—she brought candy canes for everyone at Christmas, and she pushes you on the swing if you ask. I don't know why Randy was so mean to her."

 

"So then you realized that Randy really wasn't nice, because you saw him hurting someone." He nods. "That's kind of what happened between me and Obie. I thought we were friends. And whenever he said or did mean stuff, I just gave him the benefit of the doubt." Peter's eyes furrow. Perhaps he's never heard that phrase. "What I mean is, when he was mean, I just thought that maybe he was angry about something, or that he was still a good guy and was just being crabby."

 

Tony pushes Peter's cards over to him.

 

"It took me a long, long time to find out he wasn't a good guy at all. He wasn't good but a little mean sometimes, he was bad and mean all the time. I just didn't find out sooner because I wanted him to be a good guy. But he hurt me, and he hurt you, and he hurt a lot of other people."

 

His son untangles his legs and sits back, hands on his feet. He looks tired. How much did he sleep? "Is it true that he was working with the bad guys? The ones who took you away?"

 

"Yeah. He was. I didn't know that."

 

Peter looks away for a moment, his face squeezing together. He’s angry to hear it, but perhaps also confused. The Ten Rings were invisible to him. They were real, but he knew they were there, and it must be hard to understand that Obie was with them the whole time.

 

" I know Stane said a lot of mean things to you. Not just that one time, either. I know that since we were 'friends,' you didn't want to tell me. You probably thought I wouldn't believe you, huh?"

 

Shrug. "I don't know. I thought...I thought you'd believe me, but..."

 

"But I wouldn't do anything about it?"

 

No answer.

 

"I get why you'd think that. I'm sorry. If I knew Obie was a bad guy sooner, I would've stopped talking to him. He would have never been around to say that to you." He reels in his voice before he starts spitting the words out. If only I could bring him back to life, just to punish him some more. "I'm really sorry you felt that way, Peter. I promise that if you ever, ever have to tell me that one of my 'friends' did something that hurt you, I'll take care of it. It might make me sad, but that's okay."

 

His son nods his understanding. Tony hopes that he will never be put into this situation again, but now he doesn't know what to predict anymore.

 

"I know that's not it, though."

 

Peter looks him over. "What do you mean?"

 

"You believed what Obie told you, didn't you?"

 

Now Peter's walls go up so hard and fast that he freezes. He is a deer caught in headlights, unable to move, unable to run. He's been caught holding onto some horrible secret and now he has to confess.

 

"You didn't do anything wrong, I did something wrong. I made it so you believed him."

 

Peter curls into himself even moreso. He's trying to hide his head in his shoulders. If it's already so much for a kid to handle such confrontation and stress, Tony can only imagine how much worse it is for Peter, who has to do it over and over.

 

"I want you to talk to me, buddy." Tony reaches out and pats him on the foot. He recalls that the last time he did so, it did not end well, but now he has his fingers crossed. "I don't want this to be a sad talk. I want it to be a good one, so things can be better."

 

The skin around Peter's eyes has pulled tight. His eyes do not flush red, they do not line with tears, but Peter is willing them not to do so. Every ligament and tendon is his small body is pulling taught—fearing that once he says it, Tony's promise will mean nothing, and everything will be worse.

 

"You didn't...say anything." Peter swallows audibly. His voice is hardly stronger than a whisper. "I thought...I thought you knew what Obie said and—and you made him say he was s-sorry, but you didn't...you didn't..."

 

The Arc Reactor in his chest feels like it's losing power. Energy is seeping away from Tony's body. He is heavy, and hollow. "I didn't say he was wrong."

 

Peter does not nod, just keeps his body rigid, almost trembling from the effort not to come apart like a house of cards. "Sometimes...When...When adults...I can..."

 

His words are getting caught in his throat like thick glue. Tony pulls his hand back, but turns so he's facing Peter more. He needs Peter to know he's listening and he's patient without interrogating him. He doesn't want him to give up on telling his father the truth because the one time he tried, he was too nervous to say anything. "Take a deep breath. Take it slow."

 

Peter does, and Tony can hear the shudder. He sucks in air until it makes his whole body expand. Is it a child thing, or a Peter thing, not being told often enough that it's okay to just breathe, that not everything needs to happen now? Tony waits until Peter can string his words together.

 

"I—I—I know that I was—I know that things have real—have really gotten better. I like th-the way things are now. I like being in the—in the lab? I like hanging out and—and I like that you were around a lot. I-I really like it because for a while I thought...I thought you didn't...that I shouldn't be..."

 

This is the horrible, awful truth that Tony has been approaching all this time—the mountain in the distance he was walking ever closer to. He knew it was there. He didn't deny it. He knew that one day he would have to face it, and today is that day.

 

He hurt Peter. He took him in purely because he wanted to prove Stane wrong. He loved Peter—he loved having him around, he loved being his father...until he didn't. Because the Tony Stark that existed before the Arc Reactor was selfish and careless, and with only a few exceptions, he treated the people in his life like children treat their toys. He kept them around until they were no longer interesting, and then he threw them aside. Except he couldn't do that with Peter. His brain was too high on pride, so all he did was keep Peter around to scold and scoff and sigh at, just so he could say that he wasn't a deadbeat.

 

Children don't forget things like that. The people who take care of them—their family, their parents—they have to always be aware that children will watch, they will listen. Treating children as a nuisance, like their sheer existence is something to scold them for, it doesn't stick with people who only call themselves parents too much because it is just part of their lives. It is something that they will occasionally feel bad about, only fleetingly, and then they will continue on. But for children, it is their life. It is not one event, it is an era.

 

Tony must have known this whole time that whether or not Peter had or could forgive him, he couldn't just forget. Peter had counted on Tony to be the loving father he'd never had, and Tony failed him in the every way possible for so long. Even for all his efforts, there was no way for Peter to keep an eye out for those warning signs, the signal that things would soon go back to how they were. Maybe Peter even feared a cycle. His father would love him, then hate him, love him, then hate him.

 

Howard Stark does not come to Tony's mind too often. He tries to keep him out. If he finds a way in, Tony chases him back outside. Yet over these past few months especially, he's kept coming to Tony's mind, reminding him of everything Tony was and everything he could not be. Treating his son like a nuisance just for existing. Had Howard gone through the same thing? Looked forward to fatherhood, only to quickly tire of it and take it out on his child?

 

Tony thinks he should let Peter go back to Queens. Tony thinks he shouldn't have taken Peter away to begin with. Every hardship Peter had to endure since his mother passed, it all came back to Tony somehow.

 

"I was a really bad person, Pete," Tony says at last—wanting to believe but unsure if he is now a good person, after all he's done. "I was mean. I didn't treat you the way dads are supposed to treat their children. Not because of anything you did, just—because."

 

Peter takes a second to let that sink in. It's common vocabulary in the life of a child—Just Because. The answer to give when it is too hard to explain, or when there's nothing to explain at all. Tony wasn't there immediately after Mary passed. Peter might have asked why his mother had to die—not how, why—and undoubtedly he would have been told, "Just because."

 

"I don't...get it." Peter's voice is small. "Just because?"

 

Tony bit the inside of his cheek until he tasted the hint of copper again. He hadn't meant for it to sound like a casual answer, as if he'd just been mean to Peter because it wasn't a big deal, or because he wanted to. It was hard to explain, hard to admit, but there are some things you have to explain to a kid—things that you are not allowed to leave be with a "just because" or "I'll tell you when you're older."

 

He'd asked his mother several times why his father treated him so—not just his mother, but mostly her, the wrought iron link between them. He never did get an answer. Sometimes she just pressed her lips together and ran her fingers through his hair. Sometimes she tried to reassure him that no matter what his father said or did, he still loved him. Sometimes she whispered that she didn't know.

 

Tony doesn't know if it would have made things better or not, but an answer was what he wanted. It could be sloppy and unsatisfying, but at least he would have something.

 

"Sometimes." Tony swallows. "Sometimes people are mean to you just because you're—there. You don't do anything wrong. You're nice to them, maybe you even love them. Still, they decide that you're a problem. They might say or do things to hurt you, or they just ignore you. Even if they 'love' you."

 

His son's face is still and tired. Each syllable is tearing Tony's insides to shreds, but this is the harvest he now has to sow. There is no happy ending to this. Peter knows the truth, and lying to his face will not help—but the truth is harsh and cruel, and saying it aloud just makes it worse.

 

"I was doing a lot of bad things before, to a lot of people. It wasn't until I got home that I decided I wanted to fix everything. I wanted to make things better. I wanted to make you happy and make up for what I did, but that doesn't mean I have, or that I can."

 

How long did Howard sit behind that wheel? Was his wife and the mother of his child already dead beside him? Could he reach her? Did he feel the blood on his chest, did he feel his last few heartbeats sputtering out? When Howard realized that he was about to die, did he once wish he could stay to make things right? If he did, would he have?

 

"I'm sorry for what I did to you, Peter. I'll say it a million times; I'll do whatever it takes to prove it." Tony is whispering now. His words have sapped his energy away. "I love you, Pete, I really do, even though I've done such a bad job of showing it. It's up to you whether you want to forgive me or not. You don't have to. I don't expect you to just forget all about it."

 

Peter's fingers bunch up the blankets. He's an enigma right now, an insolvable riddle. He could be relieved to finally get this apology and reassurance, or he could be utterly numb to this thing that is too little, too late, and Tony would be none the wiser. He just wants to know that Peter is thinking. He doesn't want him to focus on how his dad feels bad; he wants him to think about whether he should stay anymore.

 

Peter asks, "What do I do?"

 

Past the door, a cart wheels by, slicing through the quiet. A phone rings on its hook. The world keeps moving, and there will be a tomorrow. Peter isn't asking whether he should forgive or forget, Tony knows. He's done sitting down and staying quiet as all the adults in his life talk about him, make his decisions, move him from place to place.

 

Peter may not even know that the Parkers want him to go back to Queens--Tony doubts May would ask him such a thing so soon. Still, that has always been an option, since the very first day. He can decide whether he just wants all this to stop now. Again, Tony wishes he hasn't unknowingly swayed him to stay with his words.

 

In fact, for the first time, Tony actually wants his son to dislike him. He almost wishes that he wasn't Peter's father. He wishes that Peter could still exist, the same Peter with his huge brain and Roald Dahl books and love for all things space and science. Just with a different father. Then Tony never would have had a connection with him to begin with, no reason to know him and bring him into all this struggle. Would his life be missing a piece? Probably, but at least Peter would be okay.

 

Even after every step he's done to make up for it, the damage has been done—Peter may have said he loved him, but last night may have swept that away for good. He has to decide if the love is worth all of this.

 

"I can't tell you what to do. No one can."

 

Peter runs a hand down his cast. Tony hopes it doesn't hurt.

 

"I'm scared," Peter admits.

 

"Of what?"

 

Peter does not answer, but not because of any walls deafening his voice. He doesn't know how to say it, even as his fingers continue to run over the stiff gauze, the Sharpie signatures. Do his ears still hurt? Is he sore all over? Is he still feeling the aftershocks of terror?

 

"Stane's gone," Tony reaffirms. "He can't hurt you anymore."

 

"I know, but..."

 

Again, his words fail him, but Tony understands. There was no way for Peter to predict what happened last night—even Tony, who knew about Stane's true colors and everything with the Ten Rings, was horrendously caught off-guard. Even if Peter knew Stane was a monster, the thought would never even cross his mind that he'd don the image of death itself and try to kill him, Pepper, and his father.

 

So now, if anyone is mean to him like that again, does Peter have to fear for his life? He can't just accept that living with his father means accepting that there could always be a monster lurking in the shadows.

 

"I'm scared, too," Tony admits. It is not a lie. "I'm going to have to be a lot more careful now, about who I'm around, what I do...You may not want to stay. Maybe it would be better if you went back to Queens, maybe that would make you feel safe—it's up to you."

 

For a split second, Tony is back on the couch in his home. He cannot move and blood is running down his ears while Stane carries Peter away—possibly the last time Tony ever saw his son alive. The images that he'd had to force out his mind surge anew. Peter not moving. Peter not breathing. Peter broken and mangled. Peter still small, never to grow.

 

"If I'd realized sooner that Stane was dangerous, he wouldn't have taken you away." Tony realizes that he's clenching his fists so hard that his nails have nearly drawn blood. Has he really been so one-track minded that he let them grow so long? "I wish I could go back in time to tell myself to stay away from him."

 

Peter makes a jerked little nod of agreement.

 

"Like I said, it's up to you whether you want to forgive me for what I did. It's up to you if you want to leave. You can be angry. That's fine. You should be." Tony looks his son over. It's hard, but he tries to imagine what he'll look like when he's older. He'll be taller, but maybe not tall. His frame will get wider. His eyes may not be so big and round, but they will be the same brown Stark eyes nonetheless. "I just want you to know that whatever you do, wherever you go, I'm not going to let anyone hurt you again. Not like that. I'm going to keep you safe."

 

He cannot imagine who will try and hurt Peter next. He can't even be sure that there are people who know about him that shouldn't. In his head, they are blank-faced creatures. Just as he'd done to the Ten Rings members in Gulmira, he burns them. Incinerates them. Crushes them. Something dark and angry has taken root in him and Tony doesn't mind. It is what will drive him to protect his world from now on.

 

"Okay?" he asks, just to see if Peter understands.

 

"Okay," Peter whispers, barely a sound out of his mouth. He fidgets on the bed in silence, lips worrying together, fingers twitching. It takes far too long for Tony to realize that he thinks he needs to give some kind of answer now, and before he can tell him otherwise, Peter says, "I think I want to stay with Uncle Richard for a while. Nothing...happens over there."

 

Tony nods. "Alright. Good." Peter does not say that he intends to come back to the mansion, nor to go home to Queens, and that is fine. He needs time to decide. They will not rush him.

 

He doesn't want to guilt Peter into staying with him, and hopes he hasn't already. Yet, despite that, and despite his promise that they will not pressure him or decide for him, he can't help but think of what the Parkers might say. May could tell Peter everything she'd told Tony, about being safer, having a more normal life, still having Tony around, just not always...

 

That probably counts as pressure, and yet Tony agrees. Perhaps he should go back on his word.

 

He doesn't want Peter to go. He wants to keep him. His heart aches to think he won't hear his laughter in the hallways. Memories of Peter watching movies on the huge flatscreen in the living room and munching on popcorn, daintily sipping coffee in the kitchen as grown-ups do, trying to fight sleep even as his head bobs just so he can finish a book—they all come in front of his eyes like ghosts.

 

They come from some broken piece of him that insists he can't lose Peter. Perhaps being in the cave only broke it more, wore it down, made it threadbare. He needs normalcy, stability. Every little thing that makes him happy, he has to cling onto it, because it's the only thing holding him together.

 

It is selfish nonetheless.

 

Peter would be safer without him around. He would be happier. "But what if he wants to—" a voice in his head begins, and fades away. He doesn't. He can't. Not after everything that's happened.

 

How does the old saying go? "If you love something, let it go."

 

Now he sees Peter walking to his school in Queens, kicking up autumn leaves, not a care in the world. Him and the Parkers eating misspelled Italian food. Him staying in the city he lived in with his mother--gone now, but still there with him.

 

It will hurt not to be there, horribly so. Tony will probably go the rest of his life living in regret for what he did, what he couldn't make up for. But if Peter was safe, that was okay. He could hate him, be scared of him, but if he was safe, that would be all that mattered.

 

"I'm sorry."

 

Tony's eyes flutter incoherently. Peter had just...apologized? For what? He doesn't have his usual look of guilt—he's not staring a hole into his lap—but even as he keeps his father's gaze, he looks sad.

 

"What for?"

 

"Obie. I know he—I know he wasn't your...I'm sorry you thought he was your friend." Peter let out a little sigh, relieved to finally find the words. "Even if he was a bad guy...It makes you a little sad, doesn't it?"

 

Tony hesitated to answer, because the word that bubbled up in his throat was 'No!' It just wasn't entirely true.

 

He missed "Obie," the costume Stane had worn. In some alternate universe, maybe there was an Obadiah Stane that did really care about Tony, who was prickly and short-tempered, but that was all. Flaws that he would have been willing to work on for the sake of his former partner's son, who now looked to him as family.

 

He wished that version of Stane was real and still around, but he wasn't. He died that night at the gala, soon followed by the real Stane. It's not that Tony doesn't have a family anymore, certainly not with Peter, Rhodey, even Pepper and the Parkers around.

 

Still...He supposed that some part of him—despite everything Howard had said and done to him, hadn't said or done to him, despite the hurt that Tony just couldn't mask when they were together no matter how hard he tried, despite the periods when his affection for his mother waned with frustration that she wouldn't do anything, despite how their last conversation was so tense, curt, blunt—still wanted them to be around. Stark Industries wasn't enough, the memories weren't enough. He hadn't realized it, but this whole time, Obie was a remnant of his parents. Even if it was all for show, Tony had believed he was the one person who felt real, genuine grief right alongside him.

 

Why can't he just let his parents go? Why can't he move on already?

 

"A little bit," Tony finally admits. He wishes that he never has to talk or think about this again. "Just a little bit."

 

Peter tips his head to the side and regards him. He's probably not buying it. Either he's just that smart, Tony's doing a shoddy job of lying, or even Peter knows at his age that there's no possible way for his father, a human being, not to be saddened by all of this.

 

Peter looks down at his cast, shifting it on his lap. He'll have to be careful with it—already it looks like the weight of it alone is going to topple him over. He keeps it perched between his knee and his hip, then holds out his free arm.

 

"D'you need a hug?"

 

Tony blinks again, and almost lets out a startled laugh. Their painfully awkward hug when they first met, their reluctant hug when he left for Afghanistan, the relieved and bittersweet hug when he came back...He's another one to add to the books.

 

But Tony cannot turn him down. He moves forward, mindful of the scattered playing cards and Peter's broken arm. He wraps one arm around his son's middle and the other across his shoulders, pulling him closer. All Peter can do is raise his head to be on his shoulder and put his hand on Tony's back, but it's enough. He does not budge or pull away. He's small and he's hurt. He's alive and he's safe. Tony hasn't lost him.

 

Tony turns his head until he can press a kiss against the side of Peter's head. He doesn't know what will happen next, but he hopes that this isn't the last time. He hopes this isn't goodbye.

Notes:

Happy new year!!! I hope 2021 is kind to you all. Let us never speak of 2020 again.

Chapter 28: Chapter Twenty-Eight

Summary:

Yet, now, as he looks upon a sea of expectant faces and pencils waiting to write in notebooks and cameras flashing silver and Christine Everhart leveling him with a steely stare as if she knows, Tony is entertaining the idea of accepting the title of the Iron Man.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

The world keeps turning before Tony is ready.

He understands. Many, many people saw him and Stane fighting in the streets—otherwise, they saw the giant beam of light that blasted into the sky seconds before the building holding the Arc Reactor went nuclear. People have questions, and a lot of them. It would look very suspicious if the CEO of Stark Industries had nothing to say of it.

Tony doesn't know how SHIELD plans on tying up all the loose ends, but he leaves it to them. Those who worked for Stane have either been swiftly arrested or currently under questioning—just to see if they really had a choice in the matter. Now Tony wouldn't put it past him to threaten their lives if they didn't build his "magnum opus." As for Stane himself, Tony has already been assured that they'll come up with the story.

Tony eventually has to pull himself away from Peter. The Parkers take his place—tense, awkward, and in Richard's case, still notably cold. They will have words later. Tony just hopes that while he's gone, Peter gets to relax. The Parkers know how to keep him at ease. Maybe he'll pick up Burger King on the way home—he and Peter share a love of the place.

It's not going to be easy to get there. They're going to have to do a fine deal of car-swapping and backalley turns to get him from the hospital to SI without anyone noticing. Tony isn't nervous about that, he's done it before. He's nervous about if he'll be able to keep his calm.

The TVs on the beige hospital walls give him glimpses of the reporters buzzing around the grounds, shaking with excitement leading up to the press conference. There are several aerial shots of the Arc Reactor building barred off with police tape, the great windows shattered and the interior a smoking black husk. With the Arc Reactor gone, the emergency backup power to the entirety of SI has been activated. It's a shame. Their record had been going for decades.

Dread builds anew in Tony's chest when he passes the place where his son could have died. It is a mess of twisted black metal, jagged thorns still lazily smoking. The yellow tape separating it from the crowd looks goofy—lemon on pitch. The Arc Reactor is nothing more than a husk. If they hadn't gone down the stairs when they did, Peter and Pepper both could be nothing more than charred pieces scattered in the ashes.

As if they were aware of his hesitance, his escorts weave him away from the building. Or perhaps they just try to avoid the reporters as much as they can. No doubt they have been here since 3 seconds after the explosion. Tony is rushed in through the most vacant entry, and even then he just barely makes it through the doors before a wave of flashing cameras overwhelm him.

He's surprised even though he shouldn't be when he sees Pepper inside.

Again, he'd been expecting her to be in a broken state. Even after he'd been assured that she'd been better than Peter. Her coppery hair is loose and straight over her shoulders, and she's dressed in a simple black dress and flats. She looks completely fine, utterly normal, but before she sees Tony, she runs a hand down the side of her back for a moment—pain flashes on her face.

It's strange, how seeing her as usual seems to have more effect on him now than when she was in a backless blue dress. Then again, he didn't go to the gala wondering if she'd been burned, crushed, or broken.

When Pepper looks at him, he sees her inhale a shaky breath. She would have more reason to worry about him than the other way around, Tony supposed. The last thing he'd heard from her besides his name was her screaming that he would die if she did as he said—and he should have. He can only guess that she was still around when he was hauled to the hospital.

Only now does he feel guilt rushing into his bones. He doesn't know how long he'd let Pepper think she'd killed him—he can only hope it was short.

"Hey," she says as he approaches. She swallows. "How is the...everything?"

"The doctors said I have just enough time to do this press conference."

"Then what?"

"Then nothing. I have just enough time to do this press conference."

Pepper's carefully optimistic face plummets to the floor, and Tony presses his lips together. If his wrist wasn't still sore, he'd punch himself in the face. Not the time for those jokes. "That's not funny."

"Duly noted. I'm fine. Just sore and tired. And hungry. D'you think my SHIELD entourage would've swung by Taco Bell if I asked?"

"I think that would prove that you really know how to push your luck." Pepper extends a hanger draped in white plastic to him. "I ran back to the mansion to get you this."

Tony turns to the two agents that have followed him in. They're indoors but have yet to take off their sunglasses. Tony starts to second-guess if SHIELD is really as efficient as they claim, because he's pretty sure anyone on the street will look at these guys for two seconds and say, 'Oh, look, secret agents.'

They wave for him to go to the bathroom on the other side of the room. Tony beckons Pepper with a nod of his head. "Talk with me through the door."

Once he has it locked behind him, Tony pulls his shirt off and takes a second to look at the Reactor. He hadn't spent much time marveling at it when he'd dressed at the hospital. He cannot believe that it looks as fine as it does. The skin around it isn't even charred, just slightly pink, as usual. His skin is littered in scrapes and nicks. A white square of gauze covers a particularly bad burn on his right shoulder. But he is still alive.

"You, uh—" Pepper's voice is muffled through the wooden door. He hears the tiny pat-pat-pat of her flats on the tiles. "You don't need help, do you?"

"If you're trying to see me without my clothes off, that's not the most creative attempt I've heard." Tony moves to take off all the plastic sheathing his suit. He doesn't hear an immediate annoyed reaction. "You still there?"

"Yes, for some reason."

Tony chuckles to himself. He feels like a bastard for all his jokes, but he needs this familiarity right now. At least if all else changes, he'll still have Pepper around to call him out on his bullshit.

Or...not.

Tony's mind wanders off for a moment.

He hadn't even once considered that what happened last night may have been the last straw that had Pepper turning in her resignation notice.

It certainly would be for him.

He wasn't sure if he'd noticed any tight-lipped disdain on her face when he came in. Stane had almost gotten to her because he'd enlisted her help in cleaning up his mess. Even when she tried to say no, he insisted. He all but gave her to Stane on a silver platter. Even if he didn't think Stane would do what he did, surely he should've known that a man who dealt with terrorists would have found a way to get to the little secretary who found out his dirty secret.

Surely Pepper had already realized that being around him would now ensure a level of danger that she couldn't measure. Pepper is in charge of all his emails, all his meetings, she's the only one of them who actually knows his SSN, and even she didn't know who Stane really was. If Stane did what he did, what would stop any of the other people that she passed by in the halls, who she took reports and papers and calls from?

It doesn't even have to do with Pepper herself being a naturally frazzled person—Tony will not soon forget that when he was on the table with his chest wide open and two seconds away from total cardiac failure, it had been Pepper who had nearly lost her mind in panic. Anyone would say that this job just wasn't worth it.

So he might lose Peter, and he might lose Pepper, and he'd already lost Obie. He would only have Rhodey now, and though he wanted to say that he was enough, Tony was lucky to see him more than once a month, if that. He could replace his secretary, but he couldn't replace Pepper.

He would have to get used to an unfamiliar home.

And as for the huge, unsaid "thing" between the two of them, well, Tony would just have to let it stay that way—unsaid.

He might have pulled away from the kiss first, but he wasn't the only one. He hadn't missed how Pepper shook her head, shooed him off after. If she slapped herself after he left, he wouldn't be surprised.

Even if they did have a "spark", or "chemistry," or whatever schmaltzy word to call it, actually being together would change everything. There was no way Tony would be able to allow her to be his secretary anymore—he's not exception to the rule at SI that resulted from one too many abuses of power from such an arrangement.

Morseso than that, Pepper had outright told him that her reputation would crash and burn if they were together. Of course, Tony would love to throttle any person who even so much as hinted that Pepper only had her job because she was Tony's personal call girl, but he couldn't stop it from happening entirely, and Pepper would probably have a conniption if he did such a thing. So even if he wants to hold her and love her and make her happy, he can't. Maybe he shouldn't regardless. He has enough baggage to fill LAX.

As much as the misery is already starting to well up inside him, turning everything gray, Tony has the same bittersweet resignation he'd had to Peter leaving. It wouldn't matter how much he hurt or lost if Pepper felt safe at the end of the day.

He's dressing himself in a daze, sliding his arms through the sleeves of his shirt and buttoning up, silent even though he'd told Pepper to speak as he did so. As he's about to put on the slacks, he takes his phone out of his pocket and puts it on the soap dispenser hanging from the wall.

Apparently, despite this being Stark Industries, which prided itself on its every structural detail, they had their soap dispensers hanging by Elmer's glue. Just as Tony set his phone on top of the plastic case, it popped off the wall and went clattering onto the tiled floor. Tony flinched at the loud clacking that rang off the walls. Acoustics were shit, too.

"Tony?" Pepper asks at once. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine. But find out whoever made our soap dispensers and fire them as soon as possible."

Pepper audibly sighs in relief. Tony has got to stop worrying her so much, especially so soon.

"You don't seem that badly bruised, yourself."

"What? Oh, no. Just a couple cuts and bruises. Mostly it's just my back." Not a second later, she hisses in pain. "I cannot believe I haven't broken anything; my ribcage feels like it's on fire."

"My doc gave me about a pharmacy's supply of Tylenol if you need some."

"No thanks, I have my own." Pepper pauses. "You're really okay? You're sure?"

"I'm sure I'm sure."

Just as Tony slides on his slacks, Pepper says, her voice softer, "They wouldn't...tell me anything. They just said you were fine."

"They weren't lying," he assures her. The guilt is roiling in his gut. He knows that Pepper isn't feeling at ease right now, either. Just because the whole disaster is over now, it doesn't mean she can just kick back, put her feet up, and relax. "Maybe a couple of cracks, but not broken."

"It's hard to believe. Not that I'm not happy, I am, but...I really thought you got killed."

To think that when he was losing consciousness on the roof, he'd resigned himself to just letting go. Then he would've left Pepper forever knowing that she had pulled the switch that had killed him. Even if he'd told her to do so, that's the kind of fact that would get lost in the guilt, the horror. Just as he knows that the Ten Rings killed Yinsen, but he blames himself more regardless.

"I probably should have," he answers, trying to keep his tone light. "I thought I would, but I took the chance. At least now we can count our blessings, eh?"

When he finally gets his shoes on, he opens the door. Pepper is leaning against the wall, arms crossed. She looks exhausted, unsurprisingly. After the pure adrenaline rush that had happened, she'd likely not gotten a second of sleep. More than that, though, she looks unhappy.

"I wish we didn't have to just plow on like this," she admits. "It's just like when you came back home, you're not getting a second to rest..."

It both warms Tony's heart and squeezes it to hear her worry. That's what she does, all the time, and Tony never seems to make it easier for her. It makes him feel even dumber (which he thought was impossible, at this point) for getting wrapped around Stane's finger. Stane hadn't even said hello to him when he got back from Afghanistan, Pepper had been begging him to look after himself, and it was the former who he thought he could put all his trust into.

"It's not that I don't want to," he says. She needs to know he's listening. "But it's better to try and turn the heat off now than let everything boil over. People are scared out of their minds."

"What are you going to tell them? All of Stane's people know that it was him in that giant—mecha-thing, but they don't know you were in the other one. Once you tell the truth, everyone's going to know that you were the one who took out their boss. Ruined their deal."

"Well, first off, I don't think Stane has any friends anymore. Did anyone tell you about Raza?" Pepper shakes her head. Her face pinches together—recognizing the name, unable to place it. "Obviously I wouldn't go telling your friends about it, since it's supposed to be a government secret right now, but...Raza was the head of the Ten Rings group that took me, and the main guy Stane was 'partnered' with. He's dead now, and a five-year-old could figure out it was Stane who did it. So I doubt Stane even has 'people' anymore."

He sees Pepper's throat move as she swallows. It doesn't change anything, not really, but it's still bonechilling to find out that she, Tony, and Peter would have just been more digits on Stane's body count. Just another piece of evidence that "Obie" never really existed. Maybe Stane wasn't always a killer, but he always had the capacity to be.

"Secondly," Tony goes on, not wanting her to deal with any new stress, "I'm not planning on announcing it was me, anyway."

"Oh." Pepper's eyes flutter. "That's good."

"Hm..." Tony narrows his eyes at her. "Surprised. Let me guess, you already told the press and I'm supposed to be signing autographs now."

"No. I wouldn't—Hm. Why?"

Tony tilts his head to the side, not quite shrugging. "Well, I don't know the exact story that's being woven, but it's not like anyone who saw what happened knows the story."

"Right."

"I'd have to explain who it was if it wasn't Stane, or at least why I of all people decided to face off against him. Why I had my suit to begin with. And considering the Mona Lisa-level painting Stane brushed that I was completely losing my mind, I'm sure the masses wouldn't feel so comfortable with me having such a thing in my possession. There's no telling if or when my theatrics in Gulmira are going to be discovered, either, and that would just be more gas on the fire."

"That's true. All of it." Pepper tilts her head to the side for a moment. The movement makes a length of hair—is it coppery or strawberry blonde? Tony can't place it—fall over her shoulder. He has to restrain himself from tucking it back in place. That's not them. Not ever. "Are you...disappointed?"

"If the world doesn't get to know that Stane was a murderous shitbag, yes. Otherwise, I'll live." Tony starts walking, and Pepper walks by his side. He doesn't know when he'll be going into the press conference, but he's going to savor these few minutes until he's separated from her and pushed in front of the unforgiving crowd. "I'd be more than happy to have a quiet little life by the beach for a while. Maybe I should go on my yacht. Travel the world."

Even as he says this, something feels—off. He hasn't really thought about it, but the idea that "this" is over now is as relieving as it is bizarre. Surely he doesn't like his life, as well as his son's and Pepper's and others', being threatened for months and months on end. Still, it seems too good to be true that he can just live out the rest of his days in peace now.

It'd be a story to tell his grandkids someday, he supposes.

Pepper chuckles, tension melting from her posture. "Well, if you're planning on taking Peter with you, remember that he gets seasick within five seconds of stepping foot on a boat."

Tony had tried to take them fishing, once. Not on his yacht, which would be far too visible, far too eye-catching, but on a simple fishing boat like any other. His idea was that he and Peter could just spend some hours on the crystal clear waters, pulling in fish and then releasing them because it wasn't like Tony was going to cook them, anyway. But roughly thirty feet out, Peter had started looking greener than the Grinch, and Tony had one hand steering them back and the other patting his son's shoulder as he heaved over the side of the boat. Afterwards, he'd felt so bad that he let Peter stay in front of the TV all day and buy a pizza with pineapple on it (even if doing so felt sacrilegious.)

"What's wrong?"

Tony blinks himself back to attention. Had he spaced out? He must have, because Pepper's smile has evaporated. "Nothing at all. Just—You're right. Don't know what I was thinking."

Pepper doesn't take it, however. "Did something happen with Peter? To Peter?" Pepper's eyes fly open. Fear has seized her before Tony can stop it. "I promise on my life I was told he was perfectly fine before I left, they said it was just his arm, nothing else—"

"He's not dying, Pep. He's fine. It's just his arm." Pepper sighs, but it isn't the kind that lets out all the tension from her body. She still has her eyes pinned on him, waiting. "We just had a talk. It was much-needed, but not exactly happy."

"Can I ask what it was about?"

It isn't that Tony doesn't want to admit to what he's done. He does. If he had to testify in front of some sort of judge and jury everything he put his son through, he would do it not with happiness, but without struggle.

There's only two reasons that he's restrained himself so far and restrained himself now. The first being that Peter deserves all of his apologies. Making everyone else worry for him was just collateral damage; Peter has been the sole target of everything he's done. It just feels unfair to apologize to everyone else—as though doing so would just diminish the scale of Peter's pain.

The other reason being that he isn't sure what he can and cannot share without hurting Peter. After he had stupidly, unforgivably, ignorantly invited Stane out to Guys' Night, Peter had kept his lips sealed shut to the other Parkers. Ben had been so clueless about what was going on that he had to ask Tony outright. No matter Peter's reason, he decided that he didn't want to tell anyone else, and Tony won't undermine that decision. There's a special kind of hurt to be felt when someone else comfortingly asks you about something that you've only told one other person about. Maybe he didn't make a pinky-promise to keep it all a secret, but neither had Peter agreed to Tony being a messenger for him.

He can't just lie to Pepper's face, though, and he must acknowledge what he's done. So he explains as best as he can.

"We talked about everything that's happened since he's come out here. All the stuff he's had to deal with and the things he's been scared off—and I'm the common denominator in all of them. So we talked about him maybe going back to Queens."

Pepper's head snakes back on her shoulders, perhaps unknowingly. "And you're okay with that?"

"If it means he's safe and happy and not constantly in fear, yes. I don't know if there are still people like Stane around, and I don't think there's any way to find out. Either way, I think it's a Pascal's Wager type of thing. That's the philosophy that if there is a heaven or hell—"

"I know what Pascal's Wager is."

"'Course you do. So, if Peter stays and there are people to be scared of around here, he might get—hurt. If he stays but there aren't people to be scared of, he's not going to know that there aren't people to be scared of. But if either of those scenarios happen and he's far, far away from here..."

Tony just holds his hands palms-up, and Pepper nods. At least she's hearing him out. Tony doesn't know why, but he thought that maybe she'd insist that he be upset. Maybe he's projecting the tiny part of him saying that he should "fight" for Peter onto her.

"That makes sense. But...You'll be visiting, right? You're still going to see each other?"

There are many ways for him to interpret the question, and Tony can't decide if it's because of his guilt, his fear, or whatever else.

Does Pepper want to make sure he and Peter won't be separated forever because she knows Tony loves him? Or because she knows Tony loves him, but more importantly, Peter loves his dad and doesn't want to be separated from him? Or both?

Or neither, and Pepper isn't trying to be comforting here? Is she making sure that he doesn't abandon his kid? Or does she want him to do that? Does she want Tony to leave Peter be, after everything? And for how long? If he had to take a guess, it would be from the very first night, when he had to call her to comfort his son because he couldn't.

He's overanalyzing it, surely. It's just a simple question. "Yeah, of course."

Pepper takes a breath. Her hand ghosts down her back again. "Good. That's good. We should—we should head in there and get you ready. I'm sure they have cards to give you, or—something."

"After you, Miss Potts."

Pepper leads the way to the elevator—there's already someone in there, a sunglasses-wearing, gray-suited clone. He says nothing to them as they step inside. Pepper presses the button and the steel doors seal them inside.

Tony figures he should go ahead and ask, just to get it out of the way. He worries it's going to fester in his mind like an infection otherwise. "So. Do we need to discuss a pay raise, a three-year long paid vacation, or when I need to find a new secretary?"

She startles at first as though she wasn't expecting to hear him speak. When he does, though, a little laugh breaks through her rigid form. "A paid vacation does sound nice. Why don't you throw in your yacht and we'll go from there?"

"I can give you the yacht, but you'll have to talk to the captain about keeping him. I've made him see so many ungodly things, he may thank the heavens to start working for you." Pepper chuckles again. The sound is a balm to his nerves, but Tony can't accept it. He's joking around when he's not supposed to be. "In all seriousness."

The smile slides off of her face. She waits for him to add a punchline, but he doesn't. "Are you—No. You don't have to give me a pay raise just because—No. No."

"Noted," Tony says. He wants to press on, but he knows he'll just upset her more. He didn't think that she would take any kind of offense to the notion. Though perhaps she just doesn't want to talk about it, and leave her resignation as simple as handing him a sheet of paper.

Pepper keeps going, though, turning her body just so towards him. Her eyes flick over to their audience, but his head is just ever-so-slightly bent forward, pointedly not watching them. "Did you—think I was going to quit?"

"Well." Tony smacks his lips. "I believe most of the Earth's population would agree that what happened is a pretty darn good reason to turn in your two weeks' notice."

"I'm—No. I'm not quitting." Pepper turns forward again, composing herself. She looks both offended and like she's telling herself not to be. "I'm...You're stuck with me for now. End of story."

Tony has to bite the inside of his cheek to not crack a smirk. It's always delightful to hear Pepper raise her chin and put her foot down, trying so hard not to let it show how frazzled she is. He won't laugh in her face, though. Especially since what he should be doing is thanking her profusely. He wonders almost deliriously what he's going to have to do to actually get her to quit.

He doesn't deserve Pepper Potts. He has her anyway.

Ten seconds 'ending the story,' Pepper casts her eyes down to the floor and adds, "But we can talk about vacation time."

"Just put the number of years you want on my desk and I'll see to it."

The elevator opens again, and Tony thinks the ground feels more stable beneath his feet. He doesn't feel so heavy anymore. He may not be able to predict what will happen in the next few hours, let alone the oncoming years, but at least he still has something that hasn't changed. He can get by without Stane. He'll have to get by without Peter. He won't have to worry about getting by without Pepper, though, and he'll try his damndest to worship the ground she walks on.

"Everyone needs constants."

Mary's voice says it between his ears and behind his eyes. Even though she'd only written that on the paper she'd left him in case she died before she told him he had a son. Even though it's been so long now that he thought he'd forgotten what her voice even sounded like.

He doesn't like remembering Mary, because it means that at some point or another, he forgot her. He should be thinking about her every day of every week of every year—he should think of her every time he looks at Peter. He made a promise to her. Not as lovers, not even as friends, but as parents to the same innocent kid.

Picturing Mary's face—laughing at a band playing the Backstreet Boys, lit by the light of a television as she watches a film, sweaty but smiling as she hovers it close to the heartwrenchingly small pink bundle that is their newborn son—just cements it harder into his head: Peter should go.

He feels wretched for lying to Peter's face...He told him that his voice would be heard. Now he thinks the only thing he should do or can do is make the decision for Peter to return home. It was just like what May said the day of Mary's funeral: even if your child wants to do something, it's your responsibility to decide if it would be safe for them to do it. Tony should have been listening to her from day one.

All he can do is cross his fingers and hope it's what Peter was going to decide anyway. Or if not, that he will forgive him. Twice now Tony has screwed up so badly that Peter tried to withdraw into the shadows of the mansion, hardly speaking to him, running for the sanctuary of the Parkers. If he does it again, Tony can't risk his safety to fly all the way to Queens to make it right.

There's a ghostly touch on his shoulder. Pepper withdraws her hand with a tremor. Was it okay to do that, or no? Tony's eyes are only expectant when they go to her, though, and her lips purse in the sort of smile you give to someone to comfort them while knowing that it is not the time to be smiling.

"Everything is going to be fine," she whispers to him.

Tony huffs a laugh as if it's funny. He doesn't quite believe her, but he nods his thanks anyway.


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Fate is still a question that Tony cannot answer.

He has never been the philosophical type. He remembers back when he was still coffee-buzzed at MIT and all the parties and celebrations where students from colleges all around came to melt together. Not everyone welcomed him there, being the 15-year-old spoiled rich boy (which, fair), but there wasn't a philosophy major there that didn't get at least teased. They all ranged from the simply interested to the admirably passionate to the insufferably enlightened. Nothing made the mood bomb faster than the guy who tried to convince all the poor lost souls that time is a "fine silk fabric woven from cosmic forces" or something as equally inducing of the question, "We have edibles here?"

Tony's done quite a lot of thinking about how much he just doesn't care, funnily enough. Things happen. Shit happens. No need to put sparkly-eyed labels on any of it. And that was before getting into the whole fate vs destiny war. If 'fate' is simply 'the thing that happens whenever it happens,' then fine, Tony will accept that. But the notion that some people have heroic, awe-inspiring outcomes that they were put on the earth to do was just too ridiculous.

It wasn't until he was in the cave that he started to factor choice into all of it. Though that sounds strange, given how almost all his thoughts in the cave had centered around paralyzing fear of death, unbearable pain, killing guilt, the whole shebang. He was, after all, making the choice to try and fight his way out instead of giving in and dying in the smoky dark. He may not have been there at all if he'd made different choices. Just think, he never would have been there if he just quit MIT and went to work at Starbucks.

Things like the snowball effect, the butterfly effect...somewhere in their formulas was at least one choice. He had the scar on his hand because he chose to grab his jacket laid atop his sharp knicknacks. He had a son because he chose to keep talking to Mary Fitzgerald and get caught in her spell.

When Yinsen told him that he was given a second chance to right what he's done wrong, Tony still didn't agree wholeheartedly. The fact that he was still alive when he could be dead was pure luck, not because the cosmos had other plans for him. What if he hadn't tried to change at all? Wouldn't that be his destiny?

More and more with each passing day he finds himself in a position where he is making a choice that will change his fate—that is the only way he can define it, the state of being after something has happened, however vague that is. His book may have ended much sooner if he hadn't decided to fight to come home from the Ten Rings. Peter could have just gone home the same time that he did if he hadn't decided he would try to mend the wounds he'd made. There's no telling what may have happened if he hadn't told Pepper to use the Arc Reactor as their last resort. He could be dead now, perhaps him and Stane both.

He thinks he's made some good choices so far, even if he didn't always succeed in his decisions. At the same time, he has made bad choices. Too many to count, a list too long to read. He doesn't think the human body and mind were meant to take this rhythm of life-changing decisions. It's quite taxing on his health.

Before he went to stand behind the podium, Tony made the choice that he would keep the secret of who this "Iron Man" truly was. Even if the notion of some anonymous bodyguard left a bitter taste in his mouth, even if all Stane's actions were erased in a simple pane crash, he'd already decided what to do. This was his script. He would remember his lines.

Yet, now, as he looks upon a sea of expectant faces and pencils waiting to write in notebooks and cameras flashing silver and Christine Everhart leveling him with a steely stare as if she knows, Tony is entertaining the idea of accepting the title of the Iron Man.

As soon as it comes, it doesn't leave his mind—as permanent on the front lobe of his brain as a white-hot brand. He is all too aware that he is being too quiet. Already pencils are flitting across paper just to take note of how his jaw is tense and his shoulders rigid. Tony cannot help it. He has to figure out why he has just viscerally decided that he should tell the truth.

There were so many reasons not to; he'd only told a fraction of them to Pepper.

It was so dangerous. He might as well paint red-and-white bullseyes on all his jackets and shirts. There are so many ways people will react, and outrage is only one of them. After all, what will it say if he discontinued the weapons manufacturing, only to turn around and create his greatest one with his own hands?

People are going to be scared of him. They do not trust him anymore. At best, they think he is crazy, a man broken by trauma who needs help. At worst, they think he is a danger to himself and others, who should have been thrown into the loony bin months ago.

Another timeline erased because he made a choice: in stopping Stane, he kept his little woven tale from ever coming to light. He has no familiarity with any of these faces besides Everhart, who has made it clear as day that she regards him as well as gum stuck to the bottom of her heel.

How would they have told the story that was told to them? "Tony Stark Kills Secret Son in Shocking Murder-Suicide" would be the headline to end all headlines. He can only imagine the poetry as they describe his declining mental health, how he shut himself away from the world, the insanity in his brain festering until he took his own life, but not before taking the life of the innocent child that no one knew of.

However they are describing the syllables of his body language, Tony hopes they don't look too deeply into the bob of his Adam's apple. He was swallowing the bile that had risen in his throat.

If he had died on the laboratory floor that night, the only silver lining would be that he would not have to see the world react to the revelation. If Pepper hadn't sought SHIELD's help right away, there would be no other evidence against Stane. For as talented a manipulator as he was, masterfully winding Tony around his fingers for years, he would have never struggled to plug any holes in his story.

It won't happen now. Stane's gone, and the lie with him. So why is Tony still worried? Why is he still afraid?

Is he scared to think that Stane's work will be vindicated if they know he was in the suit? Stane never lied when he spoke of how Tony was staying out of the public eye, and holing himself for months in his mansion to construct a war machine to end all war machines did not speak to lucidity.

Yet Tony thinks of the glimpses he'd caught of himself on the news that morning. How bizarre it was to see the emotionless mask of the suit shining in the heat of fire and knowing that it was him inside of it. He caught the tones that the reporters spoke in—shocked, perhaps a bit fearmongering, but somewhat admiring. There was footage—shakily recorded with a random passerby's phone—of Stane lifting up the van full of a mother and her children, all screaming for their lives. When they went airbone, Tony caught them, not gracefully, but sparing them harm. And, of course, him being churned under the wheels after, which was not so flattering.

The mother was interviewed. She was shaken, hair on end. She said that she'd heard Tony say, "Put them down!" but she hadn't caught what Stane had said in return—that is, she hadn't heard him call Tony by his name. She had laughed, frazzled, saying that she wished she hadn't mowed him down afterwards. She was just so scared, but she knew that he had saved them. She had known, in her words, "he wasn't the bad guy."

Is that it? Tony's mind scoffs at him. You want to be praised? You want the world to love you? You're no hero, Tony, super or otherwise.

Even his most 'noble' actions have only been him fixing his mistakes. He went to Gulmira to take out the thieves of his weapons—neverminding that he'd already has his name bloodsoaked. He pursued Stane only after years of being blind to his actions, letting him use his weapons for some cash on the side, letting him take his son away.

They may not hate Iron Man now, but they might when they find out who's behind the mask. Plenty of people have hated him for years and years. They've protested on the campus of Stark Industries, lashed him with their newspaper articles documenting his sins. "Tony Stark thinks saving a few random souls on the street is going to make up for everything else? What about all the people who died because of his weapons?"

You're just holding onto that sliver of hope, Tony. That fraction of a chance that maybe they'll accept it and praise you. You don't deserve to be praised.

He thinks all the people in the room have to hear the thoughts that bounce off the walls of his head. He doesn't deserve to be heralded as a hero, he deserves all the loathing even if he doesn't want it, but not for the story Stane came up with and is still going, it's a coin toss how the world will react...

All this time that he's spent out of the cave, in this "new life", his goal has been to change things, make things right. That's what Yinsen said he was still alive for. To be better.

Better.

The world comes into Tony's mind, crisp and clear.

He is...

...better.

He is not good.

He is not sinless.

He has blood on his hands that he can't wash off.

He has things that he can never take back.

But, he is not as bad as he was before.

He cares now. Now he looks at the blood. He wishes, he wishes, that he could take things back. He does not lock them away, out of sight, out of mind.

He is better.

How many people know? How many people care?

When he stopped manufacturing weapons, there was outrage, some dismissal, scoffs of, "Figures it takes seeing it all up-close for him to finally stop making killing machines." Yet, there were still whispers. Gratitude. Even just silence, patience, to see what would happen next.

This is what happens next.

He can't erase the past, but he will build a better future. He will keep getting better.

There will certainly be consequences. That's okay. He can shoulder them.

If they try to take his work away from him, he will fight.

If they call him crazy, he will defend himself.

If anyone else comes in harm's way because of this, Tony will protect them. He's not going to let anything happen to his world ever again.

He is the Modern-Day Da Vinci.

He is the Merchant of Death.

He is Iron Man.

Notes:

Yeah I know the last line is cringe but here we are lol.

Anywho, I cannot thank everyone who has reviewed, kudos'd, or even just silently read this fic up until now. 28 chapters in and we've finally finished Iron Man. What a ride so far.

So I'm just going to let you guys know that this fic will be taking a short break and will be returning in March. Unfortunately I was not prepared for the workload of school + work this semester and with three fics to write (which was just...so dumb of me), I think I should give this one a little break while I'm between arcs. I shall see you all in March!!

Chapter 29: Chapter Twenty-Nine

Summary:

He wonders if he regrets it.

No, he doesn't.

He really doesn't.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

What happens after is as clear as a dream.

Cameras flash. Voices cry out. He is grabbed and taken away. He's reminded of the Afghan desert again, when he unleashed Jericho but turned his back from the detonation.

He is questioned. He is questioned. He is questioned.

People are talking. Everyone is talking. The world has stopped spinning.

He is told to stay away from the press. Far away. No answers. Don't even look.

They talk anyway.

He is everywhere. On every screen. On every cover. Just ten minutes after, and all of the world knows:

Tony Stark is the Iron Man.

Pepper is there. She looks worried.

Rhodey is there. He looks disappointed.

Obie is not.

Peter is not.

The Parkers are gone.

He is still here.

So many things, all at once.

Happy takes him home. It seems pointless. It's not as though anything is finished. He doesn't get why he needs to take a break.

Home is empty, and so quiet that he can hear the blood rushing in his ears. He closes the door to Peter's room and looks at the rocket-ship bed that he'd been taken from. He almost sits on the same spot on the couch where he almost died.

He wonders if he regrets it.

No, he doesn't.

He really doesn't.

He's just tired already, from the fight to come. The idea of going to sleep just exhausts him more, because if he does then he'll have to wake up.

But he won't wallow in despair. He made this decision knowing what the cost would be.

He keeps the TVs off, his news notifications silent. He can still hear the voices, though, if not the words. Many are still reeling, but some have snapped out of it—lucid enough to think about what this means.

Tony Stark is Iron Man. Is this a good thing, or a bad thing?

Whoever that was that was tearing up the streets, he was trying to stop them. He wasn't hurting anyone, he wasn't on a blind rampage. He had come to save the day, and even if the damage was costly, he'd done what an entire battalion of policemen could not have been able to.

So what? He was in the right once. Who was to say he wasn't going to end up just like the other guy, crumbling roads to dust, throwing around cars like they were toys, mowing down everyone and everything in his path—and no one would be able to stop him. It was already obvious that Tony Stark was insane. Could they just let him have an artillery like that?

He passes the time by repairing J.A.R.V.I.S. It's easy. Too easy. It makes him angry.

Pepper isn't here. He told her to do as he did, refuse to answer any and all questions and disappear for however long she needed. Because if Tony Stark wouldn't answer questions, then hunting Pepper Potts down instead was always the next step. He wasn't going to make her deal with all of this—least of all because she wouldn't have any answers to give.

Rhodey isn't here. He's still dealing with his side of this whole ordeal, and Tony's just made that a whole lot harder, considering he set fire to the story they had constructed. It wasn't as if Rhodey could just deny that they knew it was Tony, so he was left to find a reason why they let him do what he did. Moreso than that, though, people are going to think this is him getting back to weapons manufacturing, and it is not.

The Parkers aren't here. There was no good reason for them to stay, anyway. It wasn't as though they were going to be able to get anywhere near Tony any time soon. Pepper said that they were getting ready to head back to Queens. Peter needs to get far away from here, if not for his safety, then for his mind. He has to get as far away from what happened as possible, and back to the familiar safety of home.

So Peter isn't here. No one can hurt him.

Though Tony wonders when he'll get to see him again. He wonders when he should make the first phone call—how soon is too soon? He will have to talk to the Parkers just to figure out how this is going to work now. How should they arrange visits? Peter still has the phone, maybe they can just let him call whenever he wants.

If he wants.

It is strange, to know that the next chapter is beginning, to know that he's in the quiet before the storm. Even if he knew what to expect, it's hard to imagine what life will be like now. At least before all of this happened, he had some idea of where he would be in ten years, twenty years. Now he doesn't know what to expect.

He should probably be worried, for the dangers and the trials to come. He's in for a rough ride, that's for sure. It looks like every day is going to be a fight for a long time to come.

Somehow, though, he isn't worried. He isn't afraid. In a way, it's like setting out on a new project in the lab. It will be troublesome, time-consuming. He will push himself past the breaking point, skip nights of sleep, sweat and bleed—but it will be worth it in the end. He was living in cushy luxury before, but for what? Obliterated homes, families torn to pieces? He would give up the mansion, his fortune, anything if it meant proving that he was better. And he is.

And now that it's done, he is happy that Peter won't be around. Well, no, not exactly. He will miss him every day he isn't here. He's going to be repelled from that room down the hall for forever. But again, it's all about the cost. Any time he feels the pain coming on, all he has to do is remind himself of how much safer and happier his son will be, and it's a balm to his wounds.

So even though he's exhausted, he is also excited. He knows what's going to come, and he's ready to take on all of it.

That said:

Weird guy with an eyepatch, introducing himself as "Mr. Fury," who talked to Peter on the phone while he was hiding from Obie—and after mentioning Peter by name, punctuating it with "Yes, Stark, I met your boy"—but skipping right over that to invite him to join a league of superheroes with the mission to defend not just the United States, but the entire world…

…was a bit of a curveball.

Notes:

Alright, guys, here is a little chapter to segue into the next part. Sorry it isn't more, but I'm going to need just a little bit more time to get the next proper chapter out - but it will be coming in this month! Hope you guys enjoy it, and I'm looking forward to this next part!

Chapter 30: Chapter Thirty

Summary:

"Improvement means deterioration."

Notes:

Hello, my dear readers! So good to be back.

So, first off, my sincerest apologies for this taking so long. I looked back on this chapter and realized it was just thousands of words of pure exposition, not at all engaging to read. Thus this whole chapter had to go through a major re-write. All I can say is that I hope it was worth the wait.

Also, a HUGE THANK YOOOOOUU to anyone and everyone that nominated this story for the IronDad creator awards. Just a nomination means so much to me!!!

Thanks to all of your continued reading, comments, favorites, etc. And now, the long-awaited next chapter.

Chapter Text

Tony is a man of science and he always will be. Because of that, he was always quite familiar with laws.

That is, Archie's law, Bragg's law, Coulumb's law—laws created from the very purpose of science itself, to explain and understand. They provide a groundwork to build up from. Now that these discoveries are out of the way, we can work towards the next.

It always ticked him off when someone threw Murphy or Finagle in there. They are not laws, they are philosophies, and Tony keeps a line between philosophy and science. That said, he's been thinking very much about the things Murphy and Finagle were trying to "explain": fate.

He should stop, really, because there is no problem to solve there. It's a riddle that doesn't have an answer. What is happenstance, and what is sequential logic? What is luck, and what is choice?

The only thing he can settle is that choice does in fact play a large part in the course of time. Not always, of course. Does anyone choose for there to be earthquakes and tsunamis, do they choose when they lose their parents? No, but he did choose to let Mary Fitzpatrick enthrall him, and that gave him a son. He chose not to give his mother a proper goodbye, and that gave him a pain in his chest that hasn't gone away even years after the fact. Even in a roundabout way choice comes through—he chose to leave those jagged pieces on his bed, and that's why he has a scar on his palm now.

For a longest time, the length of which he cannot map, the course of Tony's life seemed to be orchestrated by nothing but his choices. His shitty, thoughtless choices. Choosing to keep Stane around despite the red flags that flashed before his eyes, choosing to create weapons that slaughtered innocents because he couldn't be bothered to break from routine, choosing to treat his son like a nuisance just for existing,

He's trying to remedy all of that by making better choices now: Stane's gone, Stark Industries has ceased all weapons manufacturing, and he is trying to fix what he broke with Peter. He has not succeeded, but he is trying, and not actively choosing to break it into any more pieces.

And why did he choose to let the world know he is Iron Man? Because he wanted the world to know he was making better choices. Perhaps it was self-congratulatory of him, but he had this unshakable notion that it was how he was going to move away from the Tony Stark that went into the cave.

Not that he's trying to erase all of his sins from existence, of course. He's trying to wash the stains out, not set fire to the cloth. The Iron Man is the greatest thing he's ever created, because its purpose is to protect. Not make money, not kill and destroy, not make him look new and shiny and impressive.

So Tony is sure that being the Iron Man is not fate, it was a choice with improvement in mind.

Now, though, he is reminded of another law: Hutber's.

"Improvement means deterioration."


Peter is improving.

He's fallen back into place at Queens, as easy as a piece in a puzzle. He's back at his old school, and making friends easily. The teachers brag on him for his intelligence, as they always have. His days are simple and easy. If he's not at school, then he's with the Parkers. There's an actual, decent Italian restaurant with properly-spelled menu items that they frequent often. Not too far from the Parkers' apartment, a park is being built. They take down the paper in Peter's room and paint the walls red. May tells Tony that sometimes he has entire conversations with R2D2 (who stays hidden in his room)—that is, Peter speaks, R2 says beep-bwa-ba-bweep, and Peter goes on. Apparently he once chided the robot with, "Whoa! Language!"

Tony sends over money each month: the exact thing that May had denied they were going to do. They talk about it during one of their phone calls. Sort of. May swears on the highest heavens that everything he sends is going to Peter and Peter only, and the last spare dime is going to go right back to him. "I can't believe we were going to let other people take care of him," she says, and Tony sounds like he's eavesdropping even though she's talking to him alone. "Just family friends that he met once or twice, because we were scared. How could we think that?"

Honestly, it's not that Tony doesn't care whether Peter is being fed and cared for or not, because he knew that would never be a problem being with the Parkers. He gobbles up each and every thing he hears about Peter being okay.

He has begun his therapy appointments. SHIELD ended up suggesting her, and Tony only initially hesitated out of fear that Peter was going to have to go down an alley, under a bridge, to an underground bunker just to talk to another Man in Black. Thankfully, Doctor Rittenburg is just a doctor. One who specifically treats patients recommended by the CIA on steroids, but a doctor, who has apparently specialized in each and every form of psychology there is. Peter does not fear going to her office. Under oath she can't report back every tiny thing Peter tells her, but apparently he's being honest, and not holding himself back.

Since he's left, the only threats he's had to deal with have been scraping his knees on the pavement and the occasional cold. Sometimes he has nightmares about Stane and the suit, but they have been fading out as time goes by. Since May hung up fairy lights in his room, he's sleep much more soundly.

Tony, meanwhile, is deteriorating. And he deserves it.

He knew how heartbroken he was going to be when Peter was gone, but he wasn't quite prepared for the emptiness of his house. Even if he has J.A.R.V.I.S. blast music to the point that the AI advises against possible ear damage, it is quiet. He hadn't realized how much space Peter had taken up—without sneakers kicked beneath the sofa, or a Dahl book left dog-eared on the table, the mansion feels sterile and barren.

He won't linger on it too long, because he made this bed. If he hadn't made a mess of things so badly, then he wouldn't have to realize how quiet things were. It's funny in a way that doesn't make him laugh, to think that not many months ago, he was starting to tire of his son's presence.

He keeps Peter's room cleaned, not in case he comes back, but because he'd feel even more like shit if he let everything collect dust. There are things Peter has left behind. Tony finds a copy of Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day near the end of the bed, some Nerf foam bullets fallen behind the nightstand. Little things that he wonders if he should send to Queens, or not for fear of pushing too soon.

The house is quiet because Peter is not there, and if he is not there, then he is safe. So really, nothing deteriorates.


Iron Man improves...

Well.

Everything.

Tony was prepared for some support. He already had a few, some random Malibu citizens who bore witness to his and Stane's battle, the family in the car he had saved.

The vast majority were either holding their breaths, or were vocally unconvinced. The glimpses he caught on TV screens and magazine covers were exactly as he imagined them. IRON MAN—DANGER OR PROTECTOR? they scream. Within the week, every single news channel debate has been about Iron Man, what he is or can be. They cry the same things Tony would be crying, too. "But how can we know? What if he just snaps one day, and he has that on him?"

He almost goes off the map for a while. The entire U.S. postal service seems to be packed with letters to him, begging for interviews, demanding answers. For over a week Tony does not step foot outside the mansion. With his security system, no one can come in within a mile of it, but reporters still prowl undeterred at the perimeter. He avoids looking out the front windows, afraid that just a tiny shadow of him will send them into a frenzy.

Then, at long last—and as he goes to bed that night, Tony actually wonders why it didn't happen sooner—his Gulmira debut makes it out into the world.

Within an hour of uploading, footage of Iron Man laying waste to the Ten Rings becomes the most popular videos on every platform—Facebook, Twitter, YouTube. There only seem to be two variants, and neither are exactly HD. The people recording have shaky hands, and the wind makes the audio snap and crackle. Regardless, the video is clear enough to show him, glinting gold and crimson under the blazing sun, the suit's face as stoic as ever as he sends Ten Rings gunmen flying through the air, crashing into the sides of buildings in sprays of dust. The more popular version shows him being told to stand down, barrels pointing at him in every direction. Iron Man lowers his hands...and with a quick flicker (because the video is just too grainy to really show what happened) all the visible Ten Rings members collapse to the floor, leaving the innocent survivors standing with mouths agape and eyes disbelieving. It ends just two seconds after he takes off in a blaze.

Who took the videos? Who uploaded them? It doesn't matter. What matters is the shockwave that follows.

As soon as J.A.R.V.I.S. informed him of them, Tony thought, Uh-oh, here we go. Because surely this was just going to be fuel to the fire. Former War Monger Tony Stark Lethally Deploys New Death Machine: The Sequel.

No.

Everyone...loves it?

Really, really loves it.

Tony almost feels physical whiplash at how quickly things change. Magazines now call him, The Vigilante We Need(?) Random passerby grabbed for an interview just gush about him. A weathered gentleman says that he's been waiting for someone like Iron Man to take initiative. A little boy chirps and squeals about how cool! Iron Man is, and pew-pews his hands in his dramatic reenactment—Tony would have watched it longer, but the boy bears an unnerving resemblance to Peter, so it turns it off after that. The CNN crew who were once debating if the entire U.S. Army should have him under lockdown, now defend him, praise him.

Thank him.

Tony knows that he should feel nothing but relief flooding through his bones, but he's cautious. He thinks this has to be some kind of dream, because on his list of Things That Are Probably Going to Happen When You Tell People You're Iron Man, glowing praise was not on it. That's why he continues to decline interviews and TV segments even when they're posed in good faith, because there has to be some kind of...catch.

It's not unanimous, though, which proves to him this is a little too good. Some journalists—including an anonymous one who may...or may not... be Christine Everhart, point to the fact that Tony has a personal history with the Ten Rings. This wasn't just a random attack from a "good Samaritan," this was an act of revenge. Those articles, though, were buried under a resounding chorus of Who cares?

Tony hides because he knows that once he comes out, he's going to have to give answers that he does not have. The world wants to know what Iron Man is. A vigilante, inspired by his time in the cave to right the wrongs of the world? An outlet for the bloodlust brewing under his skin? Or nothing more than a past time? Tony Stark's "thing" now that he's no longer producing weapons for the military?

For a time, Tony himself doesn't know. He works on the suit, tweaks it, betters it. But what for?

He gets his answer when he begins to fill a thrum in his bones, like when his body aches to move after being stationary for so long—but it is never satiated. The closer he is to the suit, the more it intensifies. He catches his fingers twitching.

It scares him: that this sudden ache in his joints may be bloodlust. He thought he'd answered the call when he went to Gulmira. For months he dreamed of that same rush when he came out of the cave, the ecstasy that pumped with his blood as he finally struck back not just as the men who took him hostage, but the men who killed Yinsen, Yinsen's family, with his the weapons branded with his name. He recalls the disappointment he'd felt when he'd returned home, the armor chipped with gunfire, and could not remember the details.

He knows it's a slippery slope, but he indulges in the thought, if only to test a hypothesis. It turns a negative. The thought of crushing Ten Rings cronies with his hands, filling them with bullets, watching blood gush from torn flesh. It makes him sick. Unclean. That's not what he wants. When he thought of them just being taken away, erased, unable to hurt anyone again, that set him at ease.

The Ten Rings wasn't just his fight. On top of that, Tony doubted he'd be able to do much of anything to them ever again, not unless he was going to join with the Department of Defense—which he was not going to do. So he had this ache to do something more, and no way to actually follow through with it.

He should have let it go, he knew. Let it rest. Move on with his life—it wasn't as though he didn't have a million other things to fix.

Tony couldn't ignore it, though, anymore than a starving man could ignore his stomach. He could not sit nice and pretty in his lavish mansion and all its toys when there were still people being killed in their homes. Parents never seeing their children again. Boys and girls, forever small.

The Ten Rings were untouchable.

But there were...other targets.

Just—to be clear, Tony didn't have vigilantism in mind. Being some kind of bounty hunter, a neighborhood hero, that just wasn't him. He wasn't about to start prowling the streets for any sign of trouble.

That didn't mean he couldn't...indulge a little, though.

His first indulgence came not a month after Iron Man's debut. Two girls were out and about in Malibu, teenagers, vacationing in California in the middle of winter because of the teenage drive of 'why not?' They'd been waiting for an Uber, standing on the curb, when a car pulled up and claimed to be their ride. Yet the driver would not give his name, would not confirm it on the app, would not answer any questions. By the time the girls realized something was horribly, dreadfully wrong, it was too late. As one of them was leaning towards the open passenger window to squabble with the driver, a man who had been leaning against a wall suddenly sprinted forward and pushed her inside. He wrangled with the other girl, but she went feral, clawing and screaming at him, so the driver took off with the one they had, and his tag-team buddy scurried away.

Instantly everyone was alerted to watch for the car, to call if they saw anything. Tony saw it as he was working on the suit. As he sat there, unmoving but wanting, a child unsure of stepping off the diving board, at last it was announced the car was spotted not far from his very mansion.

So, Tony had responded, and yes, he wants to say that it was because how could he just turn a blind eye to doing something to help the poor girl, when he himself was a parent, one who had had his own child taken in a similar way? But he knows, unspoken forever, that he was almost glad to see it. Glad for the opportunity.

It was easy, and his disappointment, too, went unvoiced. With the radioed updates in his ear, it took no time at all to locate the vehicle, to verify the heat signatures inside, to scan and confirm that the driver had no weapon, just an iron grip on the girl's arm as she batted and screamed at the window. All Tony had to do was wrench open the door and pull her out. The driver spiraled out of control, shocked out of his mind, just the same as the girl: even after Tony had set her back down on her feet and the police cars drifted to them, she'd just stood still, unmoving.

Tony had flown out of there before reporters could swarm the place. He wasn't about to do the kiss and cry. That didn't stop another round of media gushing, though. The dissenting went quieter still. This wasn't personal. This wasn't a story of revenge.

Even after that, even after stopping a gang of thieves from making away with museum pieces, even after flying out to a sinking sailing boat to fly its crew to safety, it all hits Tony like a truck.

Because suddenly, Iron Man is. Everywhere.

Street vendors sell sweatshirts emblazoned with him, red-and-gold baseball caps, keychains, lanyards, mugs. Children walk the streets with miniature masks, tiny gloves with LED lights. The Arc Reactor itself becomes a symbol. T-shirts with nothing more than a bright blue circle on the chest sell for twenty dollars a pop on the boardwalks. In the thickest tourist traps, actors in dedicated plastic recreations of the suit snap photos. Ice cream trucks sell little Iron Man pops with candies for eyes. Toys, plushies and dolls and action figures, line up in children's stores. Iron Man appears in chalk and graffiti. Balloons on corner carts.

There are whole news segments dedicated to him now. International news segments. Hombre de Acero. Jernmand. Uomo di ferro. Tetsujin. Zheleznyy chelovek. Newspapers and magazines dedicate entire spreads to him. Shelves gleam red and gold. Journalists have dedicated their careers to watching him now. The interview requests keep pouring in, but so do others, people begging him to show up not just at birthday parties and banquets and galas, but just in the street, just to do a quick fly over Malibu to satiate the masses. To endorse charities. To help with their essays about him. A school in Pennsylvania has "Dress as Your Hero Day," and miniature Iron Men roam the halls with their little backpacks and lunchboxes. Tourists going through Stark Industries complain when they don't see the suit in action. People scream, people cheer, people cry.

He gets letters from people thanking him for what he does. Giving their condolences for what happened in the cave. And condolences for Stane, lost to a "plane crash," but he burns those. Sending him good wishes. Crayola-drawn invites to children's birthday parties. He gets paintings and drawings of Iron Man to hang on the walls. Just a request for a signature.

Tony is used to applause. He's used to standing under the spotlight and waving to a wild crowd. This is new. This is alien.

Something else fills his bloodstreams. It's bright and electric. Addicting. He gets a hit every time he opens an envelope, or turns on the news, or sees the red and gold in the streets.

He didn't do this for praise. He didn't set out for a comeback story. He just wanted everyone to know that he got better.

They do.

And they love him for it.


Then things deteriorate when the hunger leads to more hunger.

He never had a taste for it before. Oh, he drank it all in. He let the masses drool over him, let them cheer as he walked across a stage—let them titter behind their hands if he so much as walked across their paths.

But there was always a disconnect. He didn't care that the why was because he was the Modern Day Da Vinci. The Prodigal Son. And really, did many of them care, either? How many people would lose their minds over a celebrity, with no care to their work or accomplishments, just that they are famous, and there, standing before them? Making weapons was so easy to Tony, he never gave it a thought. It was like scribbling a paper with Crayola, turning it into his professor, and being praised and acclaimed for such a revolutionary thesis.

All that mattered was that everyone loved him, and not long ago, he'd have said How couldn't they?

This is not the same. He cares about what he's doing and why. It isn't easy.

And people now care about the why's. Once there was Tony Stark, the guy on TV, the guy in the news. Now there is Iron Man, the hero who confronted the Ten Rings, the Samaritan who protects the little people.

So when he opens a letter, or turns on a news, Tony feels like he's taking a drink of tonic. Like whiskey, it warms him from the inside out. Like vodka, it makes everything unwind and come undone.

He's addicted to the stardom. He is high on fame. He'd been so scared of what would happen, and now he is consumed by knowing the world loves, loves, loves him.

Then there are the withdrawals.

Sometimes Tony does not realize how intoxicated he is by the uproar until he's in the quiet solitude of his bedroom, with nothing but his own thoughts. When he's staring up at the dark ceiling, he can no longer procure the images of talkshow hosts raving about him with their guests, little children proclaiming him as their "hero." Tony can only think of the empty bedroom down the hall. He preens when he sees how badly Stane failed to ruin him, but then he thinks about all the time wasted with Obie. He wishes that his mother was here to see him. He realizes that the strangers who wear Arc Reactor T-shirts and red-and-gold lanyards love him more than his father ever did.

Someone had said you don't realize how addicted you are until you're without your poison. He doesn't know who, but they were right. Tony is used to sleepless nights, but he is tired of being tired.

Thus, the bar in the mansion is consistently stocked. He doesn't chug down bottle after bottle—remembering all the times Richard had to come and take care of him when Tony was supposed to be taking care of Peter has forever soured the idea of getting hammered. He just...takes what he needs to make his thoughts go quiet. Sometimes it's just a shot or two. Sometimes it's more.

Sometimes he mixes things together—makes specialty drinks to distract his hands more. One night he makes a rum and coke, takes a drink, and realizes he added too much Coke. He almost laughs.


In the months that follow, Tony gets an improvement he hadn't even realized he needed: a new friend.

He had always like Ben. He was thoroughly convinced the guy had never done a bad thing in his entire life, and for added measure he loved Peter and Peter loved him. Tony appreciated his role as peacekeeper—back when they were talking arguing about Peter coming with him, Ben had not raged NO at him, but neither had he blindly taken Tony's side. He also had a sort of quiet strength to him. He did everything he did even with his job, a child, and the loss of a dear friend.

They do not see each other very often at all now, living on opposite sides of the country. At first their talks were always about Peter, or maybe they started about Peter and then evolved from there. Then, eventually, they talk just to talk.

Tony hadn't even realized how much he needed someone to talk to about absolutely nothing. Sports teams. Car problems. Which restaurant chain had the best burger.

("Five Guys," Ben insists.

"Burger King."

"Five Guys."

"He's the King of burgers, Benjamin. I don't need to go anywhere else."

"When's the last time you went to Five Guys?"

"Never. That's my point."

Ben doesn't answer his calls for three days after.)

Workout routines. The absolutely insane people of New York. Cooking. Books. Saturday Night Live. Tarantino movies. The Olympics.

He knows that this is strange, at least a bit. If Tony had never met Mary, it's unlikely he would have ever met Ben Parker in the first place. Now they are two guys who live on opposite sides of the country who kinda-sorta have the same kid.

He's no replacement for Peter, but Ben helps things get a little louder. Sometimes a phone call with him cuts the silent midnight hours in half—helps tune out the sound of his own blood rushing in his ears.

As an added bonus, they never talk about anything deeper than Peter's wellbeing. They don't talk about Stane, Mary, SHIELD, the cave, the Ten Rings, nothing. It might be pathetic, but in these phone calls Tony can just pretend for a second that he is just a guy living the same ordinary life that Ben does.

Well. It might not be accurate to say that they never, ever talk about serious things.

Case en point, January, two weeks after the new year.

"Ben, no."

"Hey, hey, no. It's not like we're going to go to opposite sides of the globe to get away from each other." Despite his attempt to keep his voice light, the heaviness drips through. Tony doesn't wax poetry, but he thinks it's the voice of a breaking heart. "This isn't even final, for now. It's just…a break."

Sitting in the fluorescent light of the lab, Tony leans back in his chair and presses his palms into his eyes. He hadn't realized until now how much he'd made Ben and May into a package deal, that one was a given for the other. Even when they fought, they seemed unbreakable.

Turns out they are. It isn't even happening to him, but Tony can't help but feel gutted. Because he can't help but have the thought: Did I do this?

"What…" Tony knows the answer, but he has to hear Ben say it. He thinks back to them at the hospital, standing outside Peter's room, standing side-by-side and sticking together but…weary. "Can I ask what happened, or am I just pouring lemon juice in the wound?"

"Before you get it into your head, it's not all of…this." Tony is almost reeling by how quickly Ben saw right through him. Even across the country. "Even a long, long time ago, we were having some problems. Even before Mary…Anyway. Our jobs, and money, and decisions we were trying to figure out. May was thinking about going back to school, but it was right after I started at the academy. And neither of us were helping by just being us."

"Being 'us'? What do you mean?"

"Well, May doesn't censor herself, you know. If she wants to say something, she does. But sometimes, when she's really stressed, she says stuff she doesn't want to say. She says that it's like she just keeps finding things to be angry about. And I'm not always great at talking, because I don't like to fight or anything, so I can bottle stuff up and let it go sour, and…Well, we've been making strides. Making things better. But it just…wasn't enough, I guess."

Tony rubs at the back of his neck, sticky with sweat from a night of hard work. "And…Pete? Are you guys still going to be okay with him around?"

"Oh, yeah, absolutely. We're not going to take a break from him."

"Right, but if you two are separating, how…?"

"We actually got it pretty good. I'm going to move into an apartment in the same building. Owner's a longtime friend, giving me a bit of a discount on rent. So Peter doesn't have to worry about bouncing all over Queens just to see us; all he has to do is walk down the stairs."

For a long minute, Tony doesn't say anything, which in and of itself is saying something. He's not sure what to tell Ben. He doesn't think he wants to hear him chipperly assure him that it's going to be just fine, man, you two will get back together in no time! But neither does he want to just moan and groan about how bad he has it right now—that would just be rubbing it in, wouldn't it?

Maybe a good, old-fashioned 'you can talk to me' will do, Tony thinks. That seems a good an idea as any—

"So! We're just going to take it day-by-day and see where it goes. Anyway…You see that, uh…That thing Apple's going to start making? The iPad?"

Tony's mouth snaps shut even though he hadn't spoken a syllable. It could not have been more blatant how Ben had swerved into a new topic like a driver avoiding a deer. But what is he supposed to do, call him out on it? Insist that they keep talking about this?

Of course he doesn't want to talk about it. Just humor the poor guy.

"Yeah, it's hit my radar. What about it?"

"Is it actually impressive? Because I thought the 3G was impressive until you said kindergarten macaroni necklaces were built better."

So the rest of the conversation is spent talking about Apple products and the upcoming iPad—Tony trying to be at least a little forgiving, because he's aware that any technology he doesn't make himself looks as advanced as an Atari to him. Ben doesn't bring up May again, and neither does Tony. He's not upset, because it would make no sense to be—he just hopes that Ben is getting to talk about this to someone.

With that thought, Tony wonders if Ben wanted to talk about it at all. Whenever they talk, they always ignore the elephants in the room. So why would do differently now?


Everything with Rhodey deteriorates.

Almost instantly.

What multiplies the force of its hit is that Tony had never even thought about it happening. And he feels like an idiot for it.

No, scratch that, he feels like an idiot for thinking things had ever improved between them. For so long he'd made Rhodey out to be this uncaring bastard who couldn't give less of a shit what Tony wanted so long as he kept making pretty little weapons for him. So many people had turned against him when he came back, and Rhodey had just disappeared into the crowd.

It took forever and a half for Tony to come around and realize it wasn't just about winning for Rhodey—the man didn't look at war like it was just a game of Risk. What Tony went through in the cave was probably just a little snippet of things Rhodey had seen time and time again. He flew out to Gulmira fueled by a white-hot rage that Rhodey knew like an old friend. Then Tony took away Rhodey's greatest chance of enacting that rage. He could not believe he'd never realized before just how much Rhodey depended on him to make things easier for him.

He'd felt like shit for turning Rhodey into a shadow. Swatting him away like an annoying bug. So when they had their talk in the beige hospital, he thought he'd put broken pieces back together. Tony apologized for not giving him a heads-up. Rhodey apologized for acting like Tony broke a promise to him.

He had said: "If you don't want anything to do with all of this anymore, I'm not going to judge. I just ask you to do the same thing, because I'm staying."

Which Tony had thought was the best possible way for it all to end. He'd made up his mind to make things right with Rhodey, but that didn't mean going right back to producing bullets for him. They had agreed to disagree. They both saw the world was in need of saving, but had different ideas of how to do so. And that was that.

Or so Tony thought.

"This is the most extreme case of déjà vu I have ever felt in my life. I swear to you, we have had this exact conversation before."

Rhodey's lips purse into a thin, hard line, but Tony can't feel bothered by it. He can't feel anything but calm, because otherwise he's going to unleash the torrent of outrage that's bubbling under his skin. He had an inkling that they were going to discuss something about Iron Man when they came for dinner tonight. He didn't think it was going to be this.

"Things have changed, Tones. This isn't the 'exact same conversation.'"

"No, no, it really is." Tony looks down at his plate, pokes at the leftover bits of sushi rice with his chopsticks. Not ten minutes ago he was mocking Rhodey for still not being able to use a pair. "I said I wasn't making weapons anymore, you said 'no, you have to,' I said 'no' again, you said 'fine,' and that was that."

"Well, I guess I got naïve." Rhodey takes his napkin and wipes down the sides of his mouth, looking away from Tony. The new-age Japanese restaurant looks ridiculous because of this conversation now. With the neon cherry blossom trees and the little rivers that run between the tables, they might as well be having this talk at a Chuck E. Cheese. "I thought all we'd have to do is let you keep the Iron Man suit and just keep an eye on you and that would be that."

One of Tony's incisors cuts into his lip. He takes a sip of sake. "Despite what you hear on the Today Show, I'm not crazy."

"I don't think you are, but we at least have to keep up appearances. We have to at least let people know we haven't slapped you on the back and told you to go nuts."

That had been their compromise thus far. The settlement was that the Iron Man was good…for now. They would let him keep saving the world…for now. There were always some that awaited with bated breath for him to lose it. One day he was foiling robbers' escape plans, and the next, he was decimating a guy who bumped into him on the were building, like water boiling closer to the edge of a pot. Tony knew that many, most of all Senator Stern, were just dying for the evidence and the chance to prove that Tony was insane, just like Stane wanted them to believe.

Hm. Stane and Stern. They even sounded similar.

Rhodey continues, "For years and years now, people have tried to recreate your stuff. No matter what your intentions, you gave them ideas."

"And they're just so spectacular at copycatting, aren't they? Remember when that town got hit with three missiles, but they were Stark Industries Lite, and it took three days just to find out where they landed because they didn't so much as peep? I remember that. Had a lot of laughs."

"This isn't the same. That suit is the best thing you've ever made, Tones, and they know that. So they're going to work a million times harder to recreate it." Rhodey lowers his voice, casts a dark look around the neon restaurant. Only a single waitress walks by, her heels clacking on the tile floors. "We're already getting reports, Tony. People walking around in recreations like kids in Halloween costumes."

"Aw."

"Yeah, it's cute when it's pathetic, isn't it?" Rhodey isn't smiling. Far from it. Tony knows that he's pushing him closer and closer to losing his composure, sitting here completely nonplussed and unmoved. "Then one of those Halloween costumes destroys an entire neighborhood. Is that going to be cute?"

"No, because that's not going to happen. You want to know how I got the upper hand on Stane?" Tony tapped a finger against his temple. "Originality. Stane couldn't get creative for the life of him. They all think the same. Give 'em some crayons and they think they can copy the Mona Lisa. Show them a tank, they'll recreate it with Legos. They only know the outs, not the ins."

"They don't need to get the fine details right, it just has to be enough. They may not have the firepower, but they may be durable enough that they can't get taken down. Or maybe they have no durability at all, but we only find out when one malfunctions and blows the entire city off the map."

"Here's where I'm confused, James. The words you're saying imply that you want me to just go cold turkey on the Iron Man, but that's not what you want. You want me to give you more. And how does that solve any of the problems you just listed?"

"Give us an upper hand. Give us something to knock 'em out cold before they can start on their rough drafts."

"Let me posit a hypothetical." Rhodey looks off to nothing in particular, thrumming with annoyance, but hell, so is Tony. "One of your tin soldiers gets taken down in enemy territory. They get a nice Christmas present right on their doorstep. Then what?"

"Yeah. Then what? It's not like they're going to know how to pilot it."

"Oh, they will dedicate time to finding it out."

"So they do. We'll still have an army against their one." Rhodey holds out a hand towards him and curls in his fingers, like he almost wants to grab Tony to shake him. "You said it yourself, Tony, they'll never know how to actually get it to work, make their own copies, not without you."

"That is true. But as a counterpoint, let's take a trip back on memory lane." Tony tosses back the rest of his sake—how much did he drink?—and levels Rhodey with an unblinking gaze. "I said I was done."

"And I said I wasn't." Rhodey's eyes are just as icy, just as unbreaking. The look of disdain is not one Tony likes to see on his best friend's face. Yet he's seeing it quite often as of late. "The Iron Man is going to cause problems, Tony. The least you could do is help us with them."

"Yeah, see, right there is another point. Us. Who is 'us'? All your Air Force friends, or the entire Armed Forces? Or do you mean 'us' as in 'U.S.'?" Tony's voice only gets harder as Rhodey starts to imperceptibly shake his head, the exact same way he did when he visited him at the base. He's in disbelief at Tony's ineptitude, his insanity. "You think that every soldier should have a suit just because they're a soldier? Not every one of our star-spangled troops is a good person. You always tell me about the freaks who got it into their heads that every non-American creature is a devil. Imagine what happens when he decides to go vigilante on a village."

Even from across the table, Tony can see how Rhodey is biting into his cheek. "Vigilante. You say that like it's not exactly what you're doing."

"Goddamn. I'm convinced. You got me there, Colonel, I'll have a whole box of Iron Men shipped to you by morning." Tony slaps down on the cherrywood table. The waitress across the way startles, but he can't think to feel guilty. "Okanjou wo onegai shimasu."

"I have been doing nothing but cover your ass ever since this all started. The only way people like Stern are going to get off your case is if you make Iron Men suits for the military."

"Tell me something I don't know."

The check is slipped over to him. Rhodey moves to take it. Tony is quicker.

"Look, I told you, I got why you didn't want to make any more weapons for us. Even when I thought, wow, that would really be something for us to have, I let it go. I knew you were done and I wasn't going to drag you back in. Things. Are. Different." Once his card is returned, Tony stands to his feet, and Rhodey follows suit. He moves like he's boxing Tony in, but Tony isn't even looking at him anymore. "There's a lot of trouble headed our way and you've got to help."

"All my points still stand. The answer is no."

He can feel Rhodey's glare stabbing into his back like blades as he turns away. Rhodey calls out to him still, his voice sounding whiplike in the silence. "So that's it? You're just going to turn your back on us when we need you?"

"No, that's just what you've decided I'm doing. You can keep going. Don't attach my name to it."

"It already is."

No, not yet. For now, Iron Man is me, and I am him. Once 'Iron Man' become synonymous with 'war,' then it's all over for me.

I'm not going back.

Tony doesn't say this to Rhodey. He keeps walking, past the neon pink cherry blossoms and over the little rivers. Rhodey is calling out to him. He's furious. And scared. But Tony can't be bothered to listen to his words, and just keeps walking, first out into the night and into the silence of his home.

Rhodey's gone now. He only wishes he hadn't gotten it into his head that he was ever going to stay.


The future of Stark Industries improves—though anything would have been a relief, considering how certain its demise seemed to be.

For one thing, stock skyrockets up through the ceiling, but that is more forboding than it is exciting. Clearly people think that the Iron Man is just the first taste of what's to come, no matter how much Tony insists that it is not. Even the board—which is a bit smaller now that Stane's "loyalists" have been culled—hints and pushes for it. They just want him to "consider" it. Tony does not.

With weapons now forever on the shelf, attention is shifted to other Stark Industries creations, everything from wristwatches to toasters to security systems to fire alarms to pacemakers. Most importantly, research on the Arc Reactor finally comes to the forefront, which Tony hopes makes Stane roll in his grave. There is much work to do, but already there is extreme interest in it. If household wares aren't going to cover the loss of weapons, then this sure will.

However, Stark Industries has become another thing that has just fundamentally changed ever since Iron Man emerged. It's not as though Tony can just drop everything like it's all just been a hobby that he's finally tired of.

He'd been more than used to the mundane torture of being a CEO. Long business meetings. Signing papers until his wrist was sore. Just like the fanfare, Tony just took it without caring, because he was good at it and people liked it and that was that.

Now, it's just...excruciating. Time after time Tony sits at the head of the conference table, listening to someone or another talk about projections and invoices and estimations, and he wants to just...rip his skin off. Just walking into and out of work, his fingers twitch and his limbs spasm. Any second away from the lab, away from Iron Man, is pure torture.

And again, Tony knows he should suck it up, because he is Stark Industries. Yet he knows that if this keeps going, he's going to screw something up. If he can't force himself to care, or even just pay attention, then there will be consequences. Like when he singes his fingertips in the lab when he spaces out.

The most logical solution would be for someone else to take up the mantle of CEO. Someone who was trustworthy, knew what they were doing, and—unlike Stane—was real.

And how perfect, that he already has just the person in mind?

Tony deliberates for a while. He thinks of it especially as Pepper gives him his agenda for the day, or even just as she does something as mundane as deliver him a cup of espresso espresso espresso—even at the cost of her scolding him for not paying attention.

Would she appreciate it, or would she be offended?

On the one hand, Pepper has more than earned herself a paid permanent vacation. Good god, she comforted his crying son in the middle of the night because he had no idea how to. She almost lost her life saving him from Stane's machinations. Even after that, after all of that, now she has to clean up his messes.

She has to shoo away the journalists who won't take no for an answer. She has to sift through his mail to find the fan letters and the requests and the children's pictures. It's all bled over into her daily life, too—no everyday person will point at her across the way, crying, "Look! It's Iron Man's secretary!" But the people who really, really want answers and inside secrets flag her down in cafes, grind her schedule to a halt when they come to SI not because they want to speak to Tony Stark, ma'am, no, I would like to talk to you. Once someone shows up on her doorstep for an impromptu interview. Thankfully it was just a twenty-something journalist major too blinded by the stars in her eyes to realize she'd crossed a line. Even so, Tony insists that Happy take her to and from work every day, and Pepper insists that if he keeps insisting that she's going to pour salt, not sugar, into his coffee.

On the other hand, if it weren't for the big, glaring issue of Tony, then probably she'd have smooth sailing. If he stepped away from Stark Industries, then they'd no longer have that connection, and not only would people stop seeking her out in his name, she wouldn't have to beat off his pursuers anymore. There would probably be some outcry, because what is Stark Industries without the Stark, but she could teach a class in How to Calm People Down 101. Besides, Tony would be absolutely willing to help her with whatever she needed, whenever she needed it. Pepper glows with the pride of what she does.

He remembers, once, when he was sitting down for a meeting, and Pepper lingered to inform him of a change in their schedule. Someone on the board—was it Jameson? Tony can't recall. He turned out to be a follower of Stane, so he doesn't think of him much—flicked a hand at her, said, "Why don't you ask your secretary to bring us another round of coffee, huh?" Someone else—not a Stane follower, but that's not why Tony feels guilty for not remembering who it was—quickly scolded him: "Watch your tone. Miss Potts doesn't just bring coffee and answer phone calls. She probably does more work here than you ever have." Pepper had been professional, of course, accepting the grumbled apology, but she was shining as she left.

She'd be more than deserving of it. And probably better than he ever was.

Not to mention, she'd be able to worry about him a little less.

She assures him that she doesn't. That she's asking if he wants something to eat just because she's on her way to lunch anyway, not because she's wary of him skipping a meal. That when the day is so packed that they must begin to snip, she always offers the earliest events, for varying reasons that are never because she's worried that he's not getting enough sleep. Tony shows her some mercy by not saying anything when he catches her staring at him from the side of her eye. Especially when he fumbles a pen in his grip, or runs a hand down his face.

It makes him happy. Actually, more than that, it's a balm to a scorch Stane had left. Pepper is real. Pepper doesn't pretend to care, she just does. At the same time, it's just not fair to her. Hardly anything she does for his sake is, but when she's juggling the day's plans, she shouldn't have to account for if her boss is going to finally collapse.

Also...For just a minute—just a minute!—Tony entertains the intrusive idea that maybe this would finally let them be whatever it was they kinda-maybe-sorta wanted to be.

Then he stuffs the thought away just as fast. Pepper becoming CEO won't just put a nice little Hello Kitty Band-Aid on the issue. People are still going to whisper and throw all her years of hard work down the drain. Of course Tony Stark made her CEO.

He also knows that—even if he can't look at her for too long lest he go blind, even if the sound of her laughter hits him like a comet, even if he sometimes hovers over her number in the dead of night just because he wants to hear a human voice—Pepper deserves better than him. As if she didn't feel an unfair responsibility for him before...

Anyway, it's just a thought. And Tony is a grown man, not a tween with their first puppy love. It probably won't be soon, what with the everything going on, but he imagines that he can find someone to settle down with. That time will come. After he stops seeing Pepper's face every time he so much as glances at another woman.

Stark Industries is going to go into good hands. Its future will be brighter than the Arc Reactor.


He just isn't going to be able to see it.

Not thirty seconds after he realizes this, the monitor above his workbench lets out a ring. Peter is calling. Peter wants to see him.

Tony throws his shirt back down in a hurry, shuts down all the screens with the results and the scans and whatever else. He knows Peter won't be able to see it, but he wipes the pearling blood off his fingertip anyway.

"Send him through," Tony tells J.A.R.V.I.S. He hopes his voice doesn't sound as unsteady as it feels.

Peter's face appears instantly, jolting and jumping around as he fumbles to steady his camera on his desk. He is getting taller, very slowly. Tony doesn't think he's going to be able to carry him around for much longer. His limbs are stretching out and he's starting to put on some of those youngling muscles from running around at recess. If Tony didn't know any better, he'd say that Peter's eyes are picking up just the tiniest bit of his mother's green.

Beyond Peter's face is his Queens bedroom, and Tony's fingers curl on his lap. He remembers when the bedroom down the hall had its walls covered in robots and rocket ships, monsters and animals. Now it's almost solely Iron Man. Each one is just a little different, obvious signs of an artist perfecting his craft. Iron Man flying. Iron Man punching a bad guy. Iron Man surrounded by stars and fireworks. The only paper not covered in Crayola is the front cover of the TIME magazine naming Iron Man Person of the Year. Among Peter's star-studded bedspread, a pillow shaped like the helmet lies front and center. A bust balloon is tapered to one of his bedposts-not quite new, the string loose, swaying and bobbing about. On his nightstand is the cast that's finally been sawed away—tilted just so Tony can see the 'T'.

Everyone loves Iron Man. But Peter loves him the most.

The first time Peter had presented a picture, Tony had been shocked. He praised it, declared it better than Leonardo, but he was still shocked. He was certain that Peter could only be...okay with Iron Man. Because really, isn't he just a walking, talking reminder of what happened? Can Peter really look at it and not see the icy glow of Stane's eyes, staring down at him, I found you.

The answer is a resounding YES, apparently.

"I don't know how much longer this secret is going to be a secret," Ben tells him during one of their face-to-face calls, after Peter has zipped out of sight to grab another piece from his portfolio. "Any time someone mentions Iron Man, he's two seconds away from screaming, 'THAT'S MY DAD!'"

It's impossible to have a talk without him now. Tony has had to tell him to slow down, tell him about his day, don't rush through just so he can answer more of Peter's questions. Peter does not run out of questions. How fast can he fly? How do his blasters work? What does the inside look like? Is it comfortable? Is it heavy? How high can he go? How many pounds can he lift? It's all top-secret, but despite Ben's warnings, he thinks Peter likes it like that. He's like a spy. Knowing things that no one else can know.

He asks Dr. Rittenburg about it, if only because it's too good to be true. She tells him it's fine—laughing, because Peter rambles to her just as much as he does to his father. After all, wouldn't Tony be bouncing off the walls if he was related to one of the most famous people on the planet? Moreso than that, though, she tells him this is a good thing. Not only does Peter talk less and less of Stane, but remembering what happened may be easier for him now. He may be looking back on the terror and "realizing" that he was never in trouble in the first place, because Iron Man was around. He would have never let Peter die.

It's almost too much for Tony to take. He doesn't deserve this. He's supposed to be trying to mend things over time, keeping his distance so that Peter can heal properly. Peter isn't supposed to be starry-eyed for him. Peter isn't supposed to be asking when he can come stay with him again.

Tony needs more time. He needs to wait and see if this is going to fade. Surely one day Peter will "snap out of it," right? Remember that he just forgot about everything Tony did because oooh, look, Iron Man!

Still, as he keeps his distance, Tony allows himself to indulge a little. If only in the moment, he pretends that this is normal and okay. Just a son excited over what his father does.

"Hi, Dad!" Peter exclaims as soon as the camera steadies. Leaning back in his seat, he almost knocks over a cup of pencils.

"Pete," Tony exclaims back. He presses his thumb to his forefinger to stop any more blood from oozing. "How was—How was school today?"

"It's Saturday."

"Trick question. I almost had you." Tony narrows his eyes and points a finger at him, and Peter laughs. It's gotten a bit deeper—boyish. "Really, though, what's happening? How did that science project turn out?"

Peter disappears for a moment, and returns with a yellow orb in his hands. It had taken him a fine time to not just form the papier-mâché sphere, but then paint it, and plaster tiny ruffles of yellow, orange, and red tissue paper to its outside until it looked to be engulfed in flames. Peter flicks a switch on its base, and it glows from within.

"Look at that, look at that," Tony crows. "What did that get?"

"An A-plus," Peter affirms, but then adds, "Luke's got an A-plus-plus."

"What, did he actually light his on fire?"

"He did the Earth. It was..." Peter's hands move about in front of him, struggling. "It was a plastic bowl with the—land painted on it, and he filled it with blue water. Like, water dyed blue."

"Hm. I still say that's too safe."

"Maybe I can light mine on fire next time."

"See?" Tony taps a finger on his temple. "Great minds think alike."

Peter giggles, and sets his sun aside, flicking off the light again. "We have another project to do in History. Can you help me with it?"

"I sure can, but Pete, it's Saturday. Don't you want to forget about school? Go outside and smell the daisies?"

"I'm excited about this one," Peter protests. "I want to do mine on Iron Man."

Something keeps Tony from answering at once, although he smiles. His heart swells. His heart constricts. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. We have to do a poster about someone really important—a hero." Peter reaches under the desk and pulls out a blank white canvas that fwubba-wubbs as he shakes it. "And if I did mine on Iron Man, it would be the best one, because you can tell me anything about Iron Man." His voice suddenly bitters. "Sidney keeps asking why you don't rust if you're made of iron, and I keep trying to tell him that the suit's made outta titanium alloy, but he won't listen to me."

Tony lets the vision appear in front of his eyes. Peter, standing in front of his class, bouncing animatedly around as he presents his poster, spitting out facts about Iron Man at a mile a minute. Tony imagines that, like all his crafts, Peter will go above and beyond in his design. Maybe he'll draw all the pictures himself, or cover the poster in red and gold foil to look like the armor. Or attach a blue LED Arc Reactor to it.

"Can we?" Peter bounces in his seat. "I have to tell Mrs. Matilda who I'm going to do mine on this Monday. Can we?"

The image dissipates. Before it does, Tony sees Peter say something just a little too specific, and an unseen child call out, 'How do you know that?' After that, best case scenario is Peter is penalized for "lying." Worst case, the secret is out.

"Listen, Pete." Tony leans back in his seat. He folds his arms, wary of his still-throbbing fingertip. Wary of what the screens behind him would show if they were on, and wary of what he's just learned throbbing in the back of his head like a tumor. "Hand to God, I want to. And we both know that it would be the best one. But, I can't tell you anything secret. If you say something only Iron Man knows, then people will know that you know Iron Man, and then you're going to have to start lying."

Peter's face has been falling all the time he's spoken, but now it scrunches together. "Haven't I been lying this whole time?"

"...Okay, touché. Still." Peter sighs, sets the poster down. "We can still do it if you want, I just can't tell any secrets. Do you still want to?"

"No, it's okay." Peter switches the button and makes his sun die and live again, over and over. "Everyone's probably going to do Iron Man, anyway. I just thought maybe mine would be the best, just because."

"Well, I will still be more than happy to help. I'm sure there are a ton of 'heroes' you could do. Now, granted, none of them will be as great as me—" Tony preens and presses his hands to his chest, which succeeds in a chuckle from Peter. "—but you can try to come close, right?"

Peter presses his hands to his desk and leans forward. "Oh! What about Captain America? We watched a video about him last month. He's just like Iron Man! He was super strong and was always helping people, and he wore a really cool costume—his wasn't like yours, it wasn't just a-a suit made from clothes, not titanium, but it still looked really cool, and he had his shield. I could make a shield if I did him! It would be really easy."

As sourness floods Tony's mouth as though he'd just bitten into an overripe lemon, he wonders if he should backtrack. Go for possibly spilling his secrets again.

Tony can't believe it had never occurred to him that Peter would find out about Captain America. Of course he would. He's one of the most in-your-face symbols of American patriotism, it's like if he expected Peter to never find out who George Washington was. Children, especially at Peter's age, still eat him up. Every historical museum in the States still sells star-branded backpacks and plastic shields and bicycle helmets with those little stupid wings on the sides. Now Tony gets another vision, Peter's gaping face in a dark classroom, illuminated only by the glow of a projector, playing grainy black-and-white footage of the Star-Spangled Man with a Plan slumming it in Nazi territory.

What kid at that age wouldn't love Captain America?

Answer: Tony. Tony at that age hated Captain America.

Hated that all the Stark family photos were grim and unsmiling, like morose Victorian portraits, but Howard beamed on a stage with Cap and his backup dancers. Hated how every history book just had to have a section dedicated to him, and hated how he had to carefully wade through the paragraphs until he finally got away from him, like a car coming out of fog. Hated how Howard never had a good word to say about him but wouldn't shut the hell up about the guy prancing around in felt stripes.

'Course, Peter doesn't know that, and Tony isn't going to tell him that.

He is going to be a little...selfish, though.

"Yeah, yeah, that would be a good one. Just, uh...Why don't you ask Mrs. Matilda what everyone else is doing? Who knows, everyone might do Captain America, too."

Peter nods, but looks crestfallen again. It's the face of a kid who just saw the newest, coolest toys on sale, but was then told that they could only pick out a tiny little thing from the checkout line. Who else is going to be just as cool as Captain America or Iron Man?

Tony opens his mouth again, unsure if he's going go tell him to do Iron Man, or spit out some lackluster suggestion—kids still think Neil Armstrong is cool, right?—but Peter beats him to the chase, suddenly perking up. "Can I show you something?"

Tony's teeth click as he stops himself. "Yeah, yeah. Lay it on me."

Peter pulls his desk drawer out with such force that the pens and paper in the cup rattle. He pulls out a handful of papers haphazardly stocked together, and rifles through them one-by-one, as expertly as an archivist. Finally he flourishes to Tony one of his latest masterpieces, so close that Tony has to tell him to back it up. It's a side-view of Iron Man (a pretty decent side-view, for just a child, though Peter did just about everything well for "just a child") with a chunky, geometric backpack. Or rather, because it has no straps, a kind of turtle shell. There are many notes and sidebars to it, but all in such hurried chicken scratch that Tony can't even begin to decipher it.

"What if," Peter says, "You had a backpack so you could carry stuff around? Like when you stop a bunch of bad guys from stealing and you take back what they stole but you still have to use your hands to fly?"

Tony pinches his chin in his fingers, humming contemplatively. It was one in a long series of Peter's suggestions, including but not limited to: a sword (in case he runs out of the...pew pew stuff), a water fountain (in case he gets thirsty in the middle of flying but can't take his helmet off) and a mechanism to instantly change the color of the suit (in case he ever, you know, gets tired of being red or if he needs to camouflage and he's too bright or something like that you know?)

"I will contemplate over this," he tells Peter, as he always does. "I need to run it by I first, I'm going to need myself to sign off on the paperwork, so you should be hearing back from Tony in about...four to five business days."

Peter rolls his eyes at him, but does not protest. Tony likes to joke that he and Iron Man are two different people. He realizes that this is very much a "dad joke."

"Do you think..." Peter flicks the sun's light on and off again. "Do you think maybe you could take me flying one day?"

Tony thinks about it. More specifically, about dropping his son mid-flight and having to find the splat that used to be him.

"If I recall correctly, you have quite a fear of heights."

Peter shrugs, embarrassed, and Tony feels a touch guilty. Peter and Ben had not too long ago ventured out to an amusement park for a nephew-honorary-uncle day. They had waited in line for the spinning swings for upwards of a half-hour, but when he was finally about to be strapped into his chair, Peter lost it and refused to go. Ben had assured him a hundred times over that he hadn't "ruined the trip," but Peter was unconvinced.

"It'll be different," his son protests. "You won't drop me. I know you won't. Please?"

Tony doesn't even pretend to think it over this time. "Sorry, sport. Maybe when you're just a little older, okay?"

Peter deflates like a balloon. He's hearing it more and more, and Tony remembers how frustrating it is, but sometimes he has to be the "bad guy." He isn't going to risk Peter turning into a smear on the Earth just to keep from hurting his feelings.

"What if I got my own suit?" This time Peter's hands drift toward the pull-out shelf under his desk, but stops. There's nothing down there Tony hasn't seen before. Peter is dead-set on the idea of being Iron Man's "sidekick." Maybe he'd be called "Iron Kid," he would say, and then he'd show Tony his ideas for his suit, still gold and red but just a touch different, to make it his. "Then we could fly together."

Tony's lips purse again, and Peter already deflates a little more. "When you're much older. Being in the suit isn't like the kiddie Ferris wheel at the park, okay? It's dangerous. I got banged up pretty bad my first few times with it." Peter doesn't say anything. "Hey, Pete, come on. I know Iron Man is cool. And very handsome. But you're just—" Tony pinches his forefinger and thumb together. "—too little. And I'm not doing this to mean 'too much,' I mean you're actually this small. You're tiny."

His jokes only get him a little, obligatory pull in the corner of Peter's mouth. "I..."

Tony taps his fingertips on his knee, waiting patiently. "You..."

"I miss hanging out in the lab," mumbles Peter. He looks down at his backpack blueprints again, and numbly stuffs them away, down into the rolling drawer. "I miss being at the mansion and building it together. Now we just..." Peter shrugs. "We just talk about it."

It takes a lot of effort to practice his self-control. It would bring such a smile to both of their faces if Tony just said, 'Alrighty then, you can come back home first thing in the morning! We'll get you settled and eat pizza and have a party, won't that be fun?'

He can't. At least not until he's absolutely certain Peter isn't being blinded by stardom, and even then, not until he's certain that the mansion is 100%, faultlessly safe for Peter, and he doesn't think that's ever going to happen.

"You said I could come back when I wanted to," says Peter. "But every time I do, you say 'no.'"

"That's not really what I said, Pete. I know you want to come back, but we still don't know if it's safe yet. I can't let you come back if I know you could get hurt."

Peter again says nothing, and it makes Tony wonder if he's shouting hypocrisy.

"Look, I'll broker with you here. We'll wait until the summer to talk about it." The light that sparks in Peter's eyes has Tony sticking up a finger. "Talk about it. No promises. And until then, maybe you can come for a visit. That's two maybe's, alright?"

Peter nods. Tony could almost laugh at how obviously he's reining in his excitement. He's trying to be more mature, Tony knows. He's trying to break out of the mold as the precious baby Peter that everyone takes care of. And adults don't say "yay!"

"Until then, we can try to set something up." Tony claps his hands together. "You know what? We've done a million and one things in Malibu; it's high time I come over there and see what's so great about Queens."

Peter holds up his chin. "I'm what's so great about Queens."

"Whoa, whoa!" Tony pretends to fall back in his chair, inching away from the monitor as he tries to push back against an unseen force. "Your ego! It's so big it's pushing through the screen! Someone help!"

Peter laughs again. It's so nice to hear him laugh, to think back on how quiet and small he was in his hospital bed. Peter is bright, and colorful, and right now he's just a fraction of everything to come. He's gonna lead the world one day.

Watching him, Tony tries to imagine him older. Taller. Eyes not so big and round, hands not so small. Tony wonders if he'll start taking on traits of him, or if he will continue in his mother's image. He hopes it's the latter.

"Dad?"

Tony blinks. "Son?"

"I said Aunt May's calling me. Can we talk later?"

"We sure can. It's going to be hard to fit it in my schedule, though. I mean, me and the President are having lunch at five, the Rock and I are going bowling, I just can't cancel on ACDC again…"

Peter hops off his chair with sass. "Well, I'm about to go hang out with the Power Rangers. So."

"Wh—Hey. That's not fair."

Peter smiles one last time, and his hands reaches out to Tony. "Bye, Dad."

"See you, kid."

Then Peter goes dark, and Tony is alone again, sitting among wires and steel. He looks at the blood smeared dry across his fingertip. He wonders if there truly is a hint of toxic purple in it, or if he's just seeing things.

Things are improving. Stark Industries is looking towards a golden age. The Iron Man has created a shockwave of hope. Peter will grow into something amazing.

He's going to miss it.

Chapter 31: Chapter Thirty-One

Summary:

He's going to have to tell Peter. And he's going to have to find a way to cushion the blow.

Cushion and cushion and cushion it.

Chapter Text

So...Here Tony is again. Staring his inevitable demise in the face.

This time, though, he has no idea what the hell he's going to do.

He can figure out the logistics simply enough. Pepper becoming CEO will just have to happen, now. There's no one else who will be able to fill in his shoes. No, outgrow his shoes. He can write a will and get his affairs taken care of. Peter will be a bit tricky to figure out...He plans on leaving just about everything to him, but how to do that without pointing a giant neon sign that says IRON MAN'S SON! at him? He can't give him the mansion...He could give it to Pepper. Sell it and donate the money?

It's all numbers and calculations, and Tony can do that. It's everything else that's crushing him down, like he's at the bottom of the ocean.

He tried. He's still trying. He's looking for any way out of this, but not only is he coming up short, his efforts just feel humiliating. Like he's pushing and pushing and pushing against a giant brick wall. He can only choose which way he wants to die: take out the Arc Reactor, spend maybe ten or so minutes just like he did when Stane took it from him: gasping for air like a fish out of water, spasming and crumpling up, nerves firing off in a panic. Or, he can just ride out the time he has left.

The first days after Tony realizes the hopelessness of it all, he ceases to function. He doesn't remember anything. He did not eat, or sleep. He walked in his house like a ghost, and only snapped out of it three days in, when J.A.R.V.I.S.'s voice shot out like a gunshot to remind him to take care of himself, that his health was at risk. Tony could have laughed at that, but the sound of the A.I.'s voice had rattled him thoroughly. He'd spent the last three days in utter silence. No ACDC, no Guns N' Roses, just the poisoned blood rushing in his ears.

Probably everyone gets asked the question, What would you do if you found out you were going to die in one day? How would you spend your last time alive?

And of course people always answer with the most inspiring and uplifting of things. I'd do everything on my bucket list! I'd go bungee jumping, mountain climbing! I'd spend the rest of my time with my family. I would take all the money I have and spend every last cent of it.

Tony, though, he thought it was just a dumb question, for this exact reason. Does anyone really think they're going to discover they have a day to live, and get right to business? Put on a smile and get started? No. They're human. They're going to freak the hell out. They're going to panic. They're going to try and save themselves. Like anyone thinks they're going to go through the five stages of acceptance in record time.

He still holds onto what he thought in the cave: that it's crueler to have time instead of having it all be over in an instant.

Tony knows he's only going to go faster if he spends his every waking moment in dread. So many things he has to do, with a deadline he won't be able to meet. With Pepper, what regret does he want to go with? The regret that he never did pursue that Unsaid Thing Between Them, or the regret of doing all that damage to her image and then leaving her? Or even just the regret of bothering to start something at all when it was all going to go away so soon?

Things with Rhodey are just going to stay broken, he supposes. This isn't like last time, where he's starving for his presence, too proud to just try and make amends. He isn't going to mend the bridge this time. No, that's all on him. Him and his patriotism-rotted, subborn-as-steel brain of his, so it's already a done deal.

And yes, Tony is simply scared. No one is supposed to think about their own death. Tony is incapable of imagining himself unable to breathe, unable to move, never feeling the warmth of the sun or the ground beneath his feet again.

This is all without mentioning the countless things Iron Man will never be able to accomplish now—possibilities even Tony can't imagine. This wasn't supposed to be his last huzzah. He was supposed to be the dawn of a new era, and now it looks like he isn't even going to make it to the first anniversary of being named Person of the Year.

Oh, Stane's probably having a field day in hell right now. He'll probably welcome Tony with that plastic smile of his.

Maybe he should just be grateful it didn't end in the cave. Grateful for all the things he has accomplished, instead of just dwelling on the things he hadn't. Won't.

And Peter...

Peter is just...

Tony doesn't know.

This can be considered a good thing, in a morbid, deranged, sick definition of the word "good." Peter is blinded with adoration for him right now. Tony cannot remember the last time Peter so much as implied to Stane's existence, or those dreaded days with the father who hated him. Is this a blessing in disguise? Peter's last memories of him will be that of the world-beloved, unstoppable hero who always saves the day. As long as he doesn't ruin that between now and his demise.

Yet he also knows that this is going to crush Peter. If he loves Iron Man so much that it's becoming his stable ground, then Tony can only imagine what will happen to him when that, too, is ripped out of his hands. He can't take the slightest bit of relief in Peter's love. He just can't. All he can think about is all his promises to make things right, and then just vanishing. Like he's leaving Peter behind on purpose.

Whether he lives or he dies, Tony is still waiting for Peter to wake up and smell the daisies. Remember everything that's happened and purge every hint of Iron Man from his room, set fire to his designs, pop that deflating balloon. He'll probably do what Tony did when his father died: feel the first hints of grief, then remember everything that happened, and feel that grief evaporate.

He probably doesn't even love Tony. Maybe he just loves Iron Man.

Whatever the case, however Peter is going to take it, Tony knows that he can't blindside him. He can't blindside anyone. He has to tell Peter, and Pepper. Rhodey. Happy, even. He flirts with the idea of a public announcement, and just as quickly tosses it in the trash. Like he wants to deal with flashing cameras and recorders in his mouth after that.

He's going to have to tell Peter. And he's going to have to find a way to cushion the blow.

Cushion and cushion and cushion it.

He thinks he can do that.


Nevermind.

The second he sees Peter standing in the bed of the truck, Tony's mouth goes dry. He is bouncing on his heels, only deterred when Ben steadies him, and even then still buzzing. His cargo shorts are barely covering his knees. He has a striped Band-Aid on his shin. Not two weeks ago another baby tooth had fallen out, and he tries to hide it when he smiles, lips stretching to the point of snapping but never pulling open.

Behind him is an image right out of a dream. The New Jersey Kite Festival. Tony had thought he'd found the absolute perfect thing, because it was exciting and colorful and everything a kid would love, while the beach could offer him the privacy that New York could never. Tony had never done such a thing in his childhood—he doubted Howard would let him bother with something so tripe—but looking at the blue sky stirs that little part of him that's still a child. Some are just stars and jetstreams, triangular gliders, but the real stars of the show are the dragons, the winding snakes, squids with writhing tentacles. The tiny people wandering at their tethers don't even seem to exist.

Peter looks between his approaching car and the kites, split between them. He'd probably love to actually be with them now, dwarfed in their shadows, but he stays waiting for Tony. He is young, and excited, and thrumming with joy. A little kid living his best life.

Aaaaaaand here Tony is with the plan to emotionally bodyslam him when this is all over.

As Tony parks, he wonders if he can actually do this. Peter is supposed to head back to Queens with Ben afterwards, so at what point is Tony supposed to pull him aside and tell him? God, this feels cruel now. Peter's probably going to be bawling his eyes out and those colorful, smiling kites are still going to be flying.

The second that the door opens, Peter runs up to him and throws his arms around his legs. "Hey, Dad!" Then, remembering himself, he whispers, "Hey, Dad."

"Hey, Pete," he whispers back. Though they're probably in the clear. They're so far away from the mingling crowd, they all look like ants. He ruffles Peter's hair, then opens the back door and reaches in. "Are we ready to roll?"

"Mm-hm! What can I do?"

"You are going to be our Designated Pole-Stick-Thing Holder," Tony declares. He gives all of them to Peter, whose hands have grown large enough to hold them all. Another reminder of how big he's getting. "Benjamin, how goes it?"

"It goes fine," Ben replies. He has the whole "Cool Uncle" ensemble going at the moment—Brooklyn T-shirt, cargo shorts, sunglasses. He looks more like a dad than Tony does. "May wanted to say she was sorry she couldn't make it. Someone at work didn't show up and they begged hands-and-knees for her to come."

"When I see her again, I'll keep my rubbing it in how much fun we had to a minimum." It's the only thing he will say in acknowledgement. This is still a thing that does not ask for conversation. Even Peter glances away, like watching the kites will tune out the words he's not supposed to be hearing. "Alright, get over here with your freakish gorilla hands."

It takes a good fifteen or twenty minutes to get everything in place. Tony wonders why he didn't just make a kite himself—it's not like it would've been out of his skillset. It would have spared them the issue of the instruction manual being in French, necessitating Tony to translate into English while Ben translates the English to his hands. Peter does the best job out of all three of them, dutifully passing over whatever rods they need. Though he is often distracted by the kites flying behind them.

Finally they have their masterpiece completed, and again Tony has that feeling of, "If I were still a child, I would be drooling over this." The kite is in the shape of a pirate's ship, with crossbones on the sails and a mermaid mast. Folded just once, it still takes the entire span of Ben's arms to hold it—and Ben is far from a small fellow.

"Alright." Ben dusts his hands off and looks around them, like someone may be hiding in the knee-high grass. "I hope no one noticed us banging away at this like monkeys."

"You were being the monkey, I was translating." Tony folds up the manual, calls out, "Take a look at her, Pete. It's the S.S. Parker."

Peter has already admired it, but he admires it some more, kicking himself off from the side of the truck to come around and see it up close. The whole thing is bigger than him. However, his smile drops off his face, and he looks down at his hand. "What about this one?"

He holds up one last rod. Ben and Tony look at one another, then the pirate ship. It looks completed.

"That is..." Tony takes the rod from Peter, but after thinking over disassembling the kite for another fifteen minutes, he chucks it over his shoulder. "Well, we're just not going to worry about it. Go, Captains. Set wind to her sails."

While Ben grapples with the massive thing, Peter frowns and inches closer. "You're not coming with us?"

Tony sighs, looking back at the shore. Someone is lifted up a great orca kite—it's curving up through the air like it's about to surface from the ocean. He imagines how pleasant it would be, to stand with Peter under all those fantastical shapes and creatures, guiding his hands as their pirate ship sails overhead. He knows it won't be that simple. It never will.

"It would be so much fun, and we would show all those amateurs how kite-flying is done," he tells Peter, "but someone will recognize me. And I don't want to deal with a crowd while we're supposed to be hanging out."

Peter quietly chews on the inside of his cheek, and Tony can guess the retort that he wants to give: "But we're not hanging out." Ben gives him a tiny nudge with his boot—he can't even see Peter past the pirate ship—and gently encourages, "He has to stay here and judge how well we're doing anyway, sport."

Unfortunately, Peter is getting older now, and these attempts at swaying him to perk up do not work anymore. The nod he gives is not happy or determined to show Tony his best effort out on the beach, but resigned, not wanting to fight. He leads Ben through the grass solemnly, not racing ahead, not calling behind for him to hurry up.

Fortunately, he does not stay upset for long. As he's reaching back into the car for a bottle of water, not so much out of thirst but to distract from the guilt, Tony hears Peter gasp and call out, "Dad! Dad! Look!" He doesn't even think to chide him, just follows his tiny pointing finger to the shore. Iron Man rises up from the sand with his hands and feet tilted down to blast him through the air. The material is shiny, almost like tinfoil—he almost looks as heavy as his true self, even as mere strings tie him to the earth. From his palms and soles, blue ribbons form jet streams.

"I see it!" He calls out to Peter, and his son stops his jumping and pointing, satisfied. Now he carries on with some pep to his step. Tony wonders if he and Ben will set sail to their pirate ship first, or if Peter will run to stand beneath Iron Man's shadow.

As Peter and Ben shrink smaller and smaller, until at last Tony loses them among the other dots mingling across the shoreline, he looks back up to Iron Man and feels something he can't name. Humor, discomfit? Iron Man looks giant and otherwordly, like a god someone just barely managed to form an image of. That's probably how Peter sees him. And there is jealousy, too, jealousy for himself. That Peter is now standing among the sand, gaping up at that godlike visage flying above him, while Tony sits in the bed of a truck and waits for him to return.

Remembering why he decided to come here in the first place, a stone sinks down to his stomach. He doesn't think he can do it; not today. It would just be heartless. How many good memories has Peter made ever since that night at Stark Industries? And now here Tony is to ruin it all. Not "the day me and my dad and Uncle Ben went to the kite festival," but "the day my dad told me he was going to die." Peter and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day.

Thing is, Tony can't even imagine how Peter could deal with such a thing—or how anyone deals with the knowledge that their time with a loved one is limited. He didn't think he could crumble into any more pieces when he was told his mother and father were killed in a car crash. If he was told it was coming, would that make things worse, better? Would getting to spend more time together be a blessing, or a curse? He imagines one more Christmas with his mother. His skills in sneaking out would be master-class—they could go look at the lights for hours and hours without Howard ever knowing.

This could very well be their last good day together. They could go to Legoland, or Rio, or the damn moon, and it will never be like this again. If all Tony will be able to think about is all the "lasts," how soon they will be unable to do any more "firsts," then he can't expect Pete to do anything different.

The pirate ship rises up from the earth. It is no larger than the half-moon of his fingernail from here, but Tony smiles anyway. It drifts up between the squids and the dragons. A new jealousy sours inside of him, jealousy of Peter. How marvelous it would be to be young again, to see all those kites above you and have the rest of the world and all its problems fade away.

Peter has probably already forgotten he is here. Tony feels almost like a ghost. A specter. That leads his mind down a different path, wondering if maybe this is a hopeful glimpse of things to come. If he's seeing a vision of next year, or the next, or the next. Peter happy, Peter smiling, Peter with nothing to worry about but keeping his grip on the string of a pirate ship kite. Tony is not there, but Tony does not need to be.

An hour goes by. He finishes his water. He takes off his jacket and leans back against the truck window, stretching his legs across the bed. The kites dance and glide and sometimes stay utterly still in the sky.

He knows that that hope is in and of itself rather selfish. Not wanting Peter to heal, but the expectation that his loss will be a wound. In only a few years Peter will be a teenager. The world will have to brace itself for him, if he's already so mature now. He's going to look back on all the memories of Tony with a different lens, and see things he never saw before. No matter what has happened already, or what will happen later, there is always the possibility that Peter may one day regret ever going with him to Malibu in the first place.

After maybe two hours, Peter and Ben return, Peter prancing through the grass and utterly oblivious to his uncle's wrestling match with the ship. Tony scoots over on the bed to let Peter on, but doesn't help him up—he doesn't like for anyone to do that anymore.

"How'd we do?" he asks once he's situated. "Did you show everyone who's boss?"

"They were all jealous," Peter preens. "You could tell."

"That's my boy." As Ben sets the kite down, anchoring it with Peter's sneaker, Tony asks, "Got everything, Ben?"

"Yeah, everything's alright. Now! Lunch time. Water."

"Water," Peter affirms as he passes the sweaty bottle over to Tony.

"Fruit."

"Fruit," Peter affirms as he sets the little Tupperware bowl between them.

"And Lunchables."

"Lunchables," Peter affirms as he takes the two boxes with his small-but-not-as-small-as-they-were-before hands.

Tony whistles. "Two Lunchables? You're getting a second stomach."

"One's for you!" Peter hands it over to him with a big, toothy grin, flashing the new tooth peeking out of his gums. "You always said you wanted to try one."

"Well, isn't that nice?" Tony tears off the plastic, looks inside. A Capri-Sun, mozzarella, packets of marinara sauce, candies, and bread. "See, this is what Stark Industries should do now. We could make millions."

"You could come up with new kinds," Peter says, and Tony almost wants to laugh at how different he sounds now. Not long ago everything Peter said had to be fast and energetic, stumbling over his words. Now he's mastered the blasé of casual conversation. "Or make them really, really big. Like—like whole pizzas in the box."

Tony takes his notepad out from his pocket, clicks his pen, and scribbles down, BIG PIZZA LUNCHABLES—GOLDMINE? "I got you, I got you."

"Here." Peter lifts his foot off the kite, which stirs across the bed in the gentle breeze, and hands Tony the string with eager fingers. "You can do it now."

"How am I going to eat my—" Tony looks at the label. "—pasteurized prepared cheese product if I'm flying the kite?"

"I can make it for you." Peter pulls the box back over to him, and tears open the marinara packets with surprising deftness. "It's your turn."

Tony lets out feet upon feet of string, until the pirate ship is no larger than a dollar coin. The crossbones sails look a bit lonesome with nothing else in the blue sky with it, but somehow Tony feels a quaint calm, like sitting in the shade. He holds the kite string while Peter makes him his tiny pizzas (which aren't nearly as bad as Tony thought they'd be, maybe there is a profit here).

"Hey." Tony nudges Peter's foot with his own. "How'd that poster project go?"

"A-plus," Peter nods. He reaches for the chocolate sauce and candies in Tony's Lunchable, but Tony waves at him.

"Eat some of yours, Pete. Who'd you do yours on?"

But Peter shakes his head. There's a coy smile on his face as he reaches into the Tupperware and pulls out a honeydew cube—he must be the only child on the planet who likes honeydew, Tony is sure—and pops it into his mouth. "It's a surprise."

"Uh-oh. So secretive. It's foreboding."

"'For-boad-ing.'"

"It means I'm keeping an eye on you."

"You'll like it. Promise."

Tony leans forward to look at Ben. He's leaning back against the car door, peering out at the kites. He is also eating a Lunchable.

"Can you vouch for that?"

Ben locks his lips and throws away the key.

Tony takes a drink of Capri-Sun and gives the pirate ship a bit more slack. Peter is showing the first hints of redness on his nose. Why didn't they think about sunscreen?

"Hey, let me ask you something. What do you want to be when you grow up?"

"An astronaut," Peter says without hesitating for a moment. "I wanna go to space. Mrs. Powell says that the stars are so far away that the light we see is old light. It takes so long for it to get here."

"What else? When you get older?"

"I don't know. I think I want to live in New York still but I want to go to other places, too. Like Japan and Paris. And I want to go to Omaha."

"Omaha?" Tony takes his eyes off the kite, looks down at him. "What do you have waiting for you in Omaha?"

"Mom said she wanted to go there. I dunno why."

Tony nods. He hopes that Mary could see Peter right now, just sitting in the bed of a truck and watching kites fly. Maybe not okay in the grand scheme of things, but okay right now.

He doesn't like to think of what happened to Mary often, because even if he's more than familiar with death, it makes his gut turn to know that someone so filled with life could be snuffed out like a candle flame, a single breath and gone. If he remembers it right, she was gone on impact, but no one but Mary really knows that. Tony wishes she did. He wishes she wasn't like he is now, and that she didn't have time to think, I'll never see my son grow.

"What's the Stark Expo?"

"Hm?" Tony snaps himself out of it.

"The Stark Expo. That thing that's coming to Flushing Meadows. It's like—your Stark, right? What is it?"

"Yeah. It's...It's kind of like a talent show, I guess." Tony wonders if it's fate or some kind of weird joke that the Expo is happening, and always has happened, in the same town his son now lives in. Out of all the places in the world. "Stark Industries and other companies just kind of show off what they're working on."

"Oh. But it's an old thing, right?" Peter scratches at his head with the hand not holding his pizza. "I thought I saw it in museums and stuff."

"It was something that S.I. used to do. Stopped doing it after—after my dad died." Tony drinks more Capri-Sun. Empty. That was quick. "I just figured why not bring it back? Seems like it'd be fun."

Peter eats his pizza, and scratches at his nose before Tony can stop him. It doesn't look too bad; probably won't peel.

"Can I ask you something?" he says.

"You just did."

Peter blows a raspberry. "I don't like that joke."

"Alright, tough crowd. What is it?"

"How come you don't talk about your dad a lot?"

Tony sucks on his teeth. Add this to the list of "Things You Should Have Seen Coming."

Peter blinks up at him with the giant brown Stark eyes. Not just Tony's. He's tried to imagine Peter when he's older, but never once did it occur to him that he may take on some of Howard's traits.

Words cannot express how shitty Tony feels for thinking it, but he wonders, even if he somehow lived through this poisoning to see it, if he'd be able to cope with that. It makes him nauseous to think about it. Not just looking at his son and seeing his father, but himself turning away, pursing his lips, unable to take it.

Tony gives the pirate ship more slack. It's really up there now. If he lets go of the string, it may never come back.

"We were not very close," he says. Each word comes out so slow, so careful, like he's pulling a piece from a Jenga tower. "He didn't really seem like my father when I was growing up, he just seemed more like someone that I was around a lot. Does that make sense?"

Peter's brows have formed a small knot on his forehead. "Was he bad?"

Yes, Tony almost lets out. At first he doesn't know why he doesn't. He doesn't think it's going to hurt Peter to find out a person he never met was not the golden boy everyone thought he was. He thinks Peter is old enough now that he won't get his feelings hurt, as though telling him his grandfather was bad is an insult to himself.

But, thinking it over, Tony doesn't want to punish him like that. No matter how many years go by, Tony will forever be the thing that came along, not the thing Peter always had. He just wants to know more about the grandfather he never knew, the grandfather that's in the museums and built up the company that his father now runs.

"He wasn't a bad person," Tony settles on. He can feel the words running down his chin. They're thick, slimy things. He won't be around, but years from now, Peter may want to revisit this. Tony has to say something that, hypothetically, won't contradict what he would say then. An open end, not a lie. "He wasn't a bad guy. He never wanted to hurt anyone or cause any trouble. He just put his focus in the wrong places. When it came to me, he was pretty indifferent."

"'In-diff-er-ent.'"

"It's when you don't really care. When you don't pay attention to something."

Peter's fingertips are stained in the chocolate sauce. The wind is twisting his hair into a nest. He's still young, but he sounds so inquisitive when he asks, "Do you miss him?"

Tony feels that slime's bitterness anew. A rotten berry, burst in his mouth. He has to say yes. That's the only thing he's allowed to say, otherwise he will sound heartless and wrong, because how can someone lose their dad and not miss him?

Suddenly Ben's voice cuts in like a bell. "Alright, your turn with the hat." He takes the Mets cap off of his head and stuffs it over Peter's, the bill covering his eyes. Peter squawks. "Hey, why don't you tell Dad about the Mets game we just went to, huh?"

Peter lifts the cap up, looking affronted about it, but he asks, "You mean the game or the big fight that happened when they ran out of cotton candy?"

"I do want to know about the game," says Tony, "but you have to tell me the other thing first. Was it a fight-fight? People threw punches? Over cotton candy? Was there blood."

While Peter launches into his story about the "really grumpy old guy" who starting pitching a fit when the walking vendor ran out of cotton candy right when he got to his row of seats, Tony sent a thankful look Ben's way. Ben said nothing, just returned to his lunch and the kites in the distance. Tony doesn't think he's ever talked about Howard with Ben in the slightest. That doesn't make his gratitude any lesser.

Peter's hands fly about in fists as he continues the story. (Apparently the unavailable cotton candy was supposed to be for the man's daughter, who "looked like she didn't really care, you know?") He seems to have forgotten all about his grandfather in favor of this stranger with a bad temper (who didn't hit the vendor at first but waved his hand around like, "oooh, I'm going to get you!"). Or maybe he's just taken the cue that it's time to start talking about something else (like the other guy who threw his bag of cotton candy at the screaming man, saying, "Just shut up and take mine, would you?" Then fists started flying. And the little girl still didn't look like she cared).

We should probably still talk about it, Tony thinks as the story concludes. While I still can.

It occurs to him that he and Howard will both be going out not in one last blaze of glory, but a puttering gasp that no one saw coming. Instead of everything they've done, the question the world would instead ask, "What could they have done?"

He wants Peter to grow up even if he can't see it. Not just into a teenager, but a man, an old man, with a partner and children and grandchildren. He doesn't think he can accept anything else for his son.

Peter and Ben return to fly the kite one last time. The sky has melted from robin egg blue to a crisp gold. All the kites are black now, fewer and fewer. Tony stays on the bed of the truck and watches them drift down one-by-one, the orca's final dive, Iron Man's descent. He sees when the pirate ship comes to harbor, and realizes that this is it. No going back now.

Peter and Ben return with the pirate ship folded (and probably incorrectly, but whatever, Tony can just get them another one) and the cap still loose on Peter's head. He keeps swatting Ben's hands away when he tries to tighten it for him.

"Can we do this again next year?" He asks when he comes up to Tony again.

Tony pretends that he didn't hear him, which he knows is a shit thing to do, but there are zero good responses to that. "Ben, can Pete and I talk for just a minute?"

"Go right ahead." Ben waves them off. He reaches up to adjust his cap, and remembers it isn't there. "Just don't talk about me."

"Of course not." Tony waves Peter forward, hissing out a loud whisper: "Come on, let's go talk about how much of a dork Ben is!"

"The biggest dork," Peter whisper-hisses right back to him. While they walk off into the grass, Ben pretends to sniffle. Peter is smiling from ear to ear.

Tony is, too, until he remembers what he's about to say. He feels wretched for smiling at all today. And for today, as a whole. He should've just told Ben and May he needed to have a serious, face-to-face with Peter, not promised him a fun day flying kites.

"What is it?" Peter blinks up at him with his big brown eyes, and glances back towards the truck. "Are we actually going to talk about Uncle Ben?"

"No. We are going to talk about..." Tony runs a hand over his neck, then across his mother. His shoe is tapping on the dirt. "We are going to talk. Talk about..."

Peter's brow knits tighter and tighter as he fumbles. It's not a fearful look, but a "what the heck is wrong with my dad?" kind of look. He takes off the cap when the bill keeps Tony out of his sight.

Just say it.

You have to say it.

"Is something wrong?" Peter asks, and now the fear is there. Something is wrong. Adults don't act like this unless something is wrong.

"No. Well—Hold on. I'm trying to get my words together."

"Okay?"

Tony looks off into the grass and the yellow sky, unable to look at him anymore. This will be easier if he doesn't look at him the whole time, he thinks. This will be easier if he doesn't have to watch Peter's face crumple.

"I am...sick."

"Sick?" Peter looks him up and down. "Like you have a cold or something?"

"No, it's a different kind of sick. It's..." Tony scratches at the bank of his neck, then taps on the Arc Reactor through the fabric of his shirt. "It's coming from the Arc Reactor."

Peter tips his head to the side. He can't see the glow of it, but he stares under Tony's collarbone nonetheless. "What do you mean? I thought it's supposed to help you?"

"I mean that it's kind of leaking now, in a way. Getting into my blood. Making me sick."

Again Peter looks at him up and down. "Do you feel bad?"

When he asks, it only then occurs to Tony how the final days of this poisoning will not be pretty. He'd gotten it into his head that he'd just keel over and die, when really, he's probably going to be in a bed, a corpse strapped into an IV tube. He'll probably be pale and bony and too weak to stir. He feels himself rocking on his shoes—trying to familiarize himself with the feeling of his feet on the earth.

"Not right now," Tony says, "But I'm telling you this because. Because..."

"Because...?"

Tony finally returns his eyes to him. He can't stop it: the image of Peter's crying face invades his mind as easily as a sledgehammer through drywall. He thinks of his skin flushing red, the snot running over his lips. The tears that run in rivulets down his cheeks, blinding him. He hears the sound, the shuddering breaths, the croaks, the hiccups.

It's the face of when he scrapes his knee, when he lost his grip on his balloon at Legoland, but this time Tony can't stop it. No, it's not the same. He'll cry just like he cried the first night at the mansion. Not wailing in fear—gasping for breath with a broken heart. Tony never saw his face when he cried that night. Pepper soothed Peter on the other side of the door, because Tony couldn't handle it.

Peter will cry so hard that the golden sky will turn violet, then black, and he'll still have tears to shed. When Tony goes—because he has to—he'll be clinging onto Ben, perhaps unable to even wave goodbye. Their video calls will cease because Peter won't be able to look at him anymore.

When Tony is gone, Peter will cry more, because both the mother he always had and the father he thought would stay were gone. The wound may scar over in time. Tony doesn't think this will break him. But the stitches may come undone at random in the future, nights where Peter is trying to sleep but all he can think about is how his life as he knew it was shattered into pieces. He may weep simply because of the unfairness of it all, just like Tony did and still does.

Tony can't stop him from crying in the future. He won't be able to comfort him. If he sees Peter from the great beyond, that will be it: seeing.

But...

But...

"Because I'm going to be a little out for a while. Like I have the flu. I'm just going to spend every day in bed and not want to do anything."

"Oh." Peter scratches at his neck, too, and throws Ben's cap back on. "I'm sorry."

"Hey, don't be. It just means I probably won't be able to talk for a while, y'know? I don't want you to see me when I have fluids coming out of every hole in my body."

"Gross!" squawks Peter.

"Exactly. You understand."

"Yeah," he agrees. His nose is still scrunched up. "Okay. Can you call me when you're okay again? So I don't call you when you're taking a nap or anything?"

"Soon as I feel right as rain, I will let you know. That said! I do have a little gift for you. Hold out your hands."

Peter does, eagerly, and Tony withdraws it from his back pocket. Peter's eyes shoot up, but he also asks, "I already have a phone?"

"You do indeed have a phone that many others have. This is one of a kind, though. No one else in the world has this. Here, let me show you."

Tony kneels down so they can tinker with it together. Peter's eyes are glowing not just with the reflection of the screen. Tony gets it. It's sleek, it's new. It's something that will make all of his friends jealous.

"So it's all the same stuff. You can still call me, you can still message me, you can still play Angry Birds and poker and all that—"

"I don't know how to play poker."

"I'll teach you. The real star of the show is this. Wake up, Jar."

The dark home screen melts away, leaving only a glowing white circle that wavers and jolts with that familiar voice. "Hello, sir. Hello, Peter."

Peter grins from ear-to-ear and waves at the screen. "Hey, J.A.R.V.I.S.!"

"Jar," says Tony, "Let me see the living room."

"Yes, sir."

All the way across the country, the living room of the mansion is quiet and still. The sky outside the windows is a pale blue, not quite at sunset. There are the sofas, and the coffee table, the stack of papers under the lamp. Tony's lips purse when he spots the bottle set beside the coaster (aside, not on top, because Tony can't even do that right). Peter doesn't seem to notice it at all. His smile drops into a gape of wonder.

"This is the mansion?" he asks. He snatches the phone from Tony's grip. "Right now?"

"Right now. Jar, show Peter's room."

Tony hasn't looked inside for months now. Peter's smile is genuine, but Tony has to force his. He sits there and watches Peter's eyes flit about, drinking in every detail, as if he'd forgotten what it ever looked like. The board of controls still lies at the foot of his bed. The star-shaped bookshelf is a bit cocked from its last spin. At this angle, and in the daylight, it's hard to see the stars in the ceiling, but they are still there. Tony can't look at it. Peter doesn't see how the bookshelf is empty, doesn't see how long it's been since he's lied in that bed to see those stars. Tony does.

"Now," Tony goes on, "Unless I'm doing something gross, like if fluids are coming out of every hole in my body—"

"Stop!"

"—then you can look back home any time you want. The only exception is the lab. I know that may not sound fair, but, remember your pop can say some not-good words when he hurts himself while working."

"You mean like 'f-?'"

"Don't. Don't give me an example. And Jar will always be here to talk to you when you need him. One last thing I want you to know. This is very important; I need you to look at me."

Peter has to tear his eyes off of his new toy to do so. Tony's okay with that; if Peter treats his books so preciously, he'll treat this like it's fine China. He can goof around and busy J.A.R.V.I.S. with all the questions his mind can hold—barring the few that Tony has put a lock on, like "Where do babies come from?" He just needs him to pay attention to this.

"I want you to keep this on you all the time. You hear me? All the time, no matter where you're going." Peter nods. "I know you know how to call the police if you need help, and that's good. But, if you can't get to it, you call out, 'J.A.R.V.I.S., call the police!' Then there's this thing."

Tony reaches into his pocket again and withdraws the necklace. It's very simple, just a silver circle on a chain. Tony takes Peter's hand and presses his thumb flat to it. It lets out an affirming beep, and as Peter withdraws his hand again, a brief shadow of his thumbprint remains.

"This is if you can't get to it at all, but it's only for emergencies. Not for talking. You press this three times, and the police will know where you are and come right to you. And one last thing: do you remember what you said about your friend Rebekah, how she and her mom had that secret code?"

Peter nods. "In case she was in trouble but people were listening."

"Right. Now, we're going to say the same thing. If you're in trouble and someone's listening, you say, 'We're going to Burger King.'" Peter looks at the phone, but nothing happens. "You have to say it."

"We're going to Burger King."

Instantly the phone goes dark, and Tony's lets out a loud blare. Tony withdraws it to show Peter how the screen flashes red, and then changes to an overhead map that's pinpointing their exact location along the New Jersey shore.

"Now I know you need help, and like I said, the police will know, too."

"What if I just say it because I say it? Like what if we really are going to Burger King?"

"Then you say, 'I meant McDonald's.' You got that? Tell me what you say if you can't get to it but you don't need to be quiet."

"'J.A.R.V.I.S., call the police!"

"How many times do you press this if you have to be completely quiet?"

"Three."

"If someone's listening, you say..."

"'We're going to Burger King.' Then 'I meant McDonald's' if I say it by accident."

"You got it down pat." Tony pulls the necklace over Peter's neck, and sees that even with his adjusting it still hangs a bit far past his collarbone. He'll grow into it. "This takes tons of pressure to break, but I know how freaky strong you are, so just don't go hog wild on it, 'kay? Here you go."

Peter looks like he has to summon all his willpower to put the phone into his pocket instead of scouring through all its treasures. "Thanks, Dad."

"No prob, Bob. This was fun, wasn't it?" He twists the cap on Peter's head, swirling his curls around. Peter giggles. "This was a fun day."

"Yeah. Thanks for coming."

"Thanks for inviting me. But now I think it is time for us to go. We both got some long rides ahead of us."

Tony helps them get everything back in order. The pirate ship is stuffed into the back. It's odd, watching Peter get the passenger seat ready for his stay. He's big enough to sit there now, and he's preening about it.

As Ben fishes out one last water for him, and flicks the melting ice off his fingers, he asks Tony, "Everything good?"

"Everything good. I'm just going to be MIA for a while." He taps on his Arc Reactor again, like its an annoying piece of junk and not the thing that's killing him. "This thing's causing me some grievances, going to get some treatment."

Ben grimaces. "Ah, that sucks. Sorry for that. Take care of yourself."

"Will do. Also, thank you for a while ago. Appreciate it."

"Don't worry about it." Peter already cannot hear them, low as they're talking, yet Ben whispers lower still. "I don't miss my dad, either."

Tony nods and says nothing, even though he wants to ask. Part of it is just that stupid human response, the dark curiosity to know more of another's suffering just because. Especially with Ben being Ben, Tony struggles to imagine how he could have parents that were anything less than spectacular. Another part of it is maybe him wanting more. More solidarity. He thinks that it would be cathartic, for him and Ben to just sit down and vent about how shitty their fathers were.

He knows they won't. Ben doesn't talk about those things, and that's fine, it's not like he owes it to Tony. Ben closes the cooler and shuts the door and that's that.

"Bye, Dad," Peter says when he rounds to the other side. He's already strapped himself in, and even so he fights against the belt to give Tony a hug.

"Bye, Pete. Hey, try to keep that on the down-low, alright? I know you're going to want to rub it in your friends' faces."

"I won't. I hope you get better soon."

"Soon enough. Alright, you boys are past curfew. Get out of here."

Tony slaps the side door, and right on cue Ben gets the engine running. He asks Peter, "So do we get to talk about how dorky your dad is now?" but Peter answers, "No." He protests, and Peter laughs, and then the truck pulls away for the road. Peter presses himself to the window and waves for as long as he can, until Tony can only see the pair of taillights blazing red.

Good job, Tony, he thinks even as he waves. Good job.

Chapter 32: Chapter Thirty-Two

Summary:

Sometimes Tony feels his fingers twitching to call him, and he hates it. He hates that he’s gotten it into his head, even slightly, that it’s on him to extend the olive branch.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

In the grand scheme of things, people like Senator Stern are like a fly buzzing around his ear. Which is to say, very goddamn annoying.

Tony just doesn’t get how people don’t see the greed shining on their faces—they might as well have big, cartoon dollar signs blinking in their pupils. They know just what to say to get people talking. “Safety.” “Danger.” “For the good of the American people.” All of which Tony can easily translate to, We want the suit. Gimme, gimme, gimme!

Maybe Tony would be able to ignore them better if…

Okay, they do have the power to command him to a hearing whenever they want. And they have done that. Several times.

But anyway, maybe Tony would be able to ignore them better if he didn’t have to think about Rhodey every time they opened their drooling mouths.

Tony has been sitting on it for months, and he still thinks it’s such a stupid idea, there’s no way they can mean it. They have to know that they’re pulling stuff out of their asses. The Iron Man technology is dangerous, and the only way to solve that problem is to mass-produce it!

“For the American people,” Tony’s ass.

The only thing Tony fears is the day that he’s told to stand down, that they’re no longer going to take the risk of him using the suit for his own bloody desires. But he doesn’t think they’re going to do that, because that means they don’t get more ideas to incorporate into their fantasies. Plus, wouldn’t they have pulled the plug a long time ago? Several months is quite a long deliberating period.

They can force him to stop using his suit, but they can’t force him to mass-produce them, or give the knowledge of how. Tony knows it, Stern knows it. So Tony is honestly confused as to why they keep calling him to hearings over and over and over when they know nothing will change. The definition of insanity.

At the very least, they haven’t actively used Rhodey against him. Not directly, anyway—that last dinner was of Rhodey’s own violition. The Senate and Rhodey just so happened to want the exact same thing.

Sometimes Tony feels his fingers twitching to call him, and he hates it. He hates that he’s gotten it into his head, even slightly, that it’s on him to extend the olive branch.

See, the tragic thing is that Tony really isn’t angry that they’re seeing things differently. He things Rhodey’s argument is entirely illogical, but not offensive—they could have very well just talked things out. He’s just pissed that he was the bad guy from the first second. That Rhodey was never going to listen to a word he said—if he made suits for the military, he was a good guy. If he didn’t, he was a villain that Rhodey wouldn’t deal with anymore. It’s like Rhodey’s putting more blame on him than the people who are slaughtering entire villages.

Tony sometimes just wants to tell him, and all his buddies, that when he says he’d “sooner die than give them the suit,” he’s being quite literal.

It would be the first time he lets a soul know about his secret.

It’s getting just a little worse, day by day by day. The Arc Reactor, his second heart, has to be replaced and replaced and replaced like old batteries. Around it, the skin of his chest is starting to rot, his veins blackening as though burnt. There are times when he feels beestings out of nowhere. There are times when his chest suddenly bursts, and if he’s alone, he lets himself fall to the floor and wait to see if he’s going to make it. If he’s in public, he has to keep smiling and talking to the person who may be the last he ever sees.

He tests his blood every day to keep track of how fast he’s falling apart. Just a little bit, every day. A little bit more. It’s not those sudden, painful attacks, either. Tony just feels off in a way that he’d never be able to explain. Tired no matter how much he sleeps. Never really there.

Each and every day he wakes up and tells himself, This is it. Today, you confront it. You tell Pepper. You tell Rhodey. You tell Peter. You find a way of letting the world know. And each and every night, Tony goes to sleep without accomplishing a thing.

He just…He can’t.

As much as he wants to, and tells himself to, he can’t spit the words out. He hasn’t even come to terms with it himself, how is he supposed to let the only people he has left in his life know?

And he knows he’s made such a bad decision, but there is no good decision here. Either he tells Peter that he’s going to lose another parent and let him be overcome with that knowledge for months and months, or he lets Peter wake up one morning and be told that his father is dead—just like what happened with his mother.

He’s done too many wretched things in his life to count, but can’t he get a little forgiveness for this?

All he can do is hope that when Peter is older, he’ll understand. He can feel betrayed. He should feel betrayed. But maybe, maybe, he’ll be able to understand why Tony did it. And if he doesn’t: that’s okay.

Tony can’t control the way Peter feels. He doesn’t want his son to hate him for the rest of his life, but he can’t demand that he doesn’t.

Howard probably didn’t want his son to hate him, either. Tough shit.

The only way he can deal with it is this: wringing out every last second where Peter doesn’t hate him.

He can’t make anything with Pepper, but he can show her more appreciation than he had in all the years she’s worked for him. Iron Man will die with him, but while he’s still here he’s going to keep being the world-saving hero that everyone adores. He can spend as much time with Peter as he possibly can.

It seems like every other day he’s flying out to Queens or New Jersey to spend time with Peter. He thinks he’s spent more time on his plane than on solid earth now. Sometimes he just decides to go in the middle of the night, and Peter awakens the next morning to find him in the kitchen, waiting for him. His sleeping schedule is demolished, but it already was. So.

Any idea that pops into Tony’s head, he grabs: ballgames, movie nights, carnivals, everything. He has to pack the lifetime he’s going to miss into these few months he has left. Every time he leaves, he’s second-guessing, third-guessing, millionth-guessing himself. Maybe he should stay longer? Maybe they can do one last thing before he goes back home?

Pepper and the Parkers start to worry for him, but silently so: lingering looks, pursed lips. He tells Pepper to cancel his plans for the next three days so he can visit Peter, and he sees the muscle in her neck clench as she wipes everything out. Ben smiles as he opens the apartment door, but before that, he blinks. Probably the worst is when May came to Ben’s apartment with a board game Peter requested. She hadn’t seen Tony sitting on the couch, and with a single, “Hey, May,” the floor was covered in Monopoly money.

The only one who actually says anything is Richard, and though that maybe wouldn’t shock Tony a year ago, it does now. He hadn’t seen the man ever since Peter went back home to Queens. Peter was the only living link between them, so what reason did they have to meet up anymore? In a way, they were family, but not friends. Especially with the way they left each other at the hospital.

But Tony isn’t bitter about Richard’s bitterness, because in a way he’s grateful for it. He misses the days when people would call him out on his bullshit 24/7.

Any way, he’s surprised when Richard calls him to ask about his latest visit. He tells Tony he’s worried that between visiting Peter, preparing for the Stark Expo, and being Iron Man, he just doesn’t think it’s healthy. (He mentions that he is a physical therapist and not a psychologist, but he still thinks it isn’t healthy.) Tony tells him he’s fine, unsure if he’s happy at the hint at forgiveness, or longing for someone to still hold him accountable. He says something that sticks with him:

“Between all that other stuff you have going on…I don’t think you even have time to think, do you?”

And he is correct. And that is exactly what Tony wants.


“Really?!”

Peter gapes at the gleaming cards in his hands. Sleek and blue, with Stark Expo emblazoned in silvery letters.

“Really, really. Easy, whoa.” Tony has to put a hand on Peter’s chest to stop him from victory-dancing them off of the Ferris wheel. The breeze is warm up here, and so nice it would be to take his mask off, but Tony knows that one slip and he’s going to get swarmed. They’re not even safe up here. “Now, if anyone asks, you tell them that you won a sweepstakes. Otherwise it’s going to look weird.”

Peter fans all four of them out, and Tony’s heart pangs for the days when his hands were too small to do that. “What can I do with them?”

“Behind-the-scenes stuff, front row seats. Also, free snacks.”

“There’s four. Me, you, Aunt May, and Uncle Ben, right?”

“Well, I don’t really need a VIP pass to my own shebang, you know? That one’s for Richard.”

“Oh. Right.”

Tony does not miss that for a second. “What?”

“Nothing,” Peter says as he stuffs the cards into his jacket pocket. But then, just a second later, he asks, “So will you be able to come with us?”

“I’m going to try and do something with you guys, but…Well, it’s like trying to hide at your own birthday party.” Peter nods with a frustrated understanding.

Tony knows how frustrating it is that they can’t just do things normally—because it frustrates him, too. Ever since Iron Man debuted, he swears that people are starting to glance at him more, that the squinting eyes he passes by are not just from the light of the sun. He lives in terror of the day that there’s a slip, and the masses tear him apart from Peter like a tsunami.

The Ferris wheel descends down, and though Tony’s legs beg to sit a little while longer, he gets up and follows Peter down the steps and out the gate. He’s stuffed full of popcorn and cotton candy, his legs are sore from walking circles through the whole amusement park, and his arms ache from all the toy games (the ones that he just can’t tell Peter are money-grabbing scams). Still he marches on, because never more has “he can rest when he’s dead” been truer.

There’s a fear now, too, one that’s haunting him like a ghost. That tiredness is a sign of him collapsing. That one time he’s going to sit down and not be able to stand back up again.

Peter leads the way with such gusto Tony has to call for him not to move too far ahead. He’s looking left and right, at more rides and more games and the striped carts selling funnel cakes and hot dogs. Tony hopes he isn’t still hungry. He can’t stomach to look at food right now.

Then Peter slows down, and waits until Tony can fall in step with him. Or at least, until Tony can walk normally while he tries to keep pace.

“Can I ask you something?” he asks.

“Hey, new rule, alright? No more ‘can I ask you something?’ Saying that is already asking a question.” Peter’s gaze drops seriously to the ground. The childish shock of a revelation. Tony ruffles his hair, tells him, “Go on.”

“Why are we doing so much stuff?” Peter kicks at a soda cup in his path…then stops, picks it up, and dumps it in a nearby trash can. When he returns, he goes on, “It’s really fun, but I thought you were really busy.”

“Well, the busier you are, the more fun you have to have to balance it out.”

Peter pouts his lips in consideration, and finally nods, Fair enough. They walk a little ways more, and stop at one of those climb-the-ladder games. A very fit young woman is powering her way upside-down through the rungs, and a small crowd is cheering her on, including the vendor. Tony wonders if they, too, get depressed seeing so many people lose these no-win games.

“Can I—” Peter stops. Tries again. “Why haven’t I seen Rhodey in a while?”

Tony feigns interest in the climber to buy himself some time. Not that he has any shortage of things to say about Rhodey…but he knows it’d be petty to badmouth him to Peter. Peter isn’t going to see any nuances; all he’s going to know is Rhodey is being mean to Dad. It’d be quite pathetic if Tony used his seven-year-old son as backup.

“Rhodey and I are having a disagreement right now,” he tells him. “About Iron Man.”

“Does he not like Iron Man?” Peter exclaims, and though Tony hushes him, he has to stifle a laugh. Peter’s voice cracks like he’d just learned Rhodey was a war criminal.

“Not exactly. He does like Iron Man; he wants there to be more Iron Men, which I don’t think is a good idea.”

“Why?”

The climber makes it to the target at the end, and the crowd erupts into cheer. The vendor looks up to God in gratitude, and hands over the largest stuffed bear Tony has ever seen. The climber, who looks like she eats nails for breakfast, holds it over her head in victory.

“I made the Iron Man suit because I knew what I wanted to do with it,” he tells Peter as they walk on. “I wanted to help people and make the world a better place. I’m afraid that not everyone else will do that. It’s like how that Jacob kid in your class becomes Class Leader and he starts acting like a jerk to everyone.”

Peter nods wide and deep. He understands things best when Tony compares him to his classroom, he’s learned. Still, Peter’s brow remains in a knot. “What about Rhodey? Doesn’t he want to help people?”

“He does. But Rhodey doesn’t want the suit for himself, he wants it for all his friends in the military.”

“Maybe you can just give one Iron Man to Rhodey.”

Tony sucks on his teeth. “I don’t think it’s that easy-peasy, sport. Something tells me if I did that, he’d just give it to someone else for them to make copies.”

“You think he’d do that? Break a promise?”

Tony doesn’t know why it upsets him, hearing Peter’s voice so appalled. Shouldn’t he want Peter to think Rhodey is the bad guy here? Tony isn’t going to “hear him out,” so he doesn’t know why he’d expect Peter to do the same.

But again, a child’s view of the world is black and white. Tony should’ve just kept it a secret.

“Hey, let’s just forget about it for now, okay?” He squeezes Peter’s hand in his. “I shouldn’t have said anything; it’s just between us.”

Peter accepts this with no nod, no affirmation. He’s still upset and confused, because of course he is, Tony’s screwed this up, too.

For just one second, he fears with all his body and soul that Peter is remembering Stane. A friend of Dad’s. The friend that Dad liked, and trusted, and kept around a lot. The friend of Dad’s that turned out to be a monster who wanted to hurt Peter. The friend of Dad’s that had been lying the whole time, who never cared about anyone.

Now here’s Rhodey, another friend of Dad’s who he likes and trusts and keeps around a lot. And now this friend of Dad’s is starting to act ways no one thought he ever would. Now this friend of Dad’s isn’t acting like a friend at all.

Shit. Peter probably thinks he’s seeing Rhodey’s “true colors,” like this is just the first scratch that shows what’s underneath.

No, Tony tells himself. Hang on, slow down. You don’t know that.

Besides, isn’t this different? Even if Rhodey was another monster, the difference is that this time Tony is telling Peter about the bad things he’s doing, but with Stane he tried to cover everything up and pretend—

Stop.

Don’t you dare compare Rhodey to Stane.

The hand that isn’t holding Peter’s curls into so tight a fist he thinks his fingernails will carve into his palms. He must be insane, or too bitter to function. Or both.

Comparing Rhodey to Stane…

The hell is wrong with him?

Tony shakes his head, and he shakes Peter’s hand, because his whole reality just shook for a moment there. The poisoning must be reaching his brain.

“Hey,” he says. “When am I ever going to see that poster project?”

Peter is distracted by the colors and sounds, though, and answers without much attention at all. “Um…It’s at home, in the room—in my room.”

“Do you have any pictures?”

“Nuh-uh.”

“I’m keeping an eye on you.” Tony points at his eyeballs, then at Peter. “I think you’re keeping secrets.”

“Noooo,” Peter protests, and laughs.

Tony stays with him, and laughs with him, and helps him into the rides and holds his prizes for him—but he no longer feels like he’s there. Just like when he was watching the kites, he’s looking towards the future again. He hadn’t even thought about Rhodey and Peter keeping contact after he’s gone.

It’s strange, how he tries to predict his own brain, as if his thoughts are not in his control. He thinks that he’ll think that Rhodey will go no-contact after, or that he’ll slowly phase away. Peter will just be a walking, talking reminder of the jackass who never did anything for anyone else, right? And he thinks he’ll think that if Peter asks Rhodey one day about the distance that grew between them, that Rhodey will be “honest” and say that your father was a bad person, Peter. I was just trying to help people and he wouldn’t let me. I’m sorry if that hurts your feelings, but you should now.

He doesn’t, though. Because somehow Tony just knows that wouldn’t happen. He doesn’t think that Rhodey will ever say something so absurd as, “I was a jerk to your father, Peter, and I never got to tell him I’m sorry.” But like Tony, maybe he’ll try to keep things as neutral as he can, leaving it up to Peter to make what he will of it. He’ll defend himself, of course, but he won’t call Tony a “bad person”.

There has to be something wrong with his brain. His lobes must be separating from one another. One second he’s making Rhodey out to be a monster who’s strung him along as his personal weapon producer. The next second, he’s literally incapable of thinking of him that way.

Tony won’t fix this before he dies, because he doesn’t think he can. Not when he doesn’t even know what he’d do if he saw Rhodey again—keep this fight going, or ask for a chance to fix it.

Notes:

Hello, my lovely readers. Apologies that this chapter was not as long as the previous, and that this was not as plot-progressive. The good news, though, is that this fic will (if all goes to plan) be updating around once a week. I want to finally get back to a normal schedule.

The downside is that chapters will be shorter--~3,000 words each. It may be disappointing, but I think ~3,000 words every week is better than waiting three weeks for ~9,000. If that makes sense.

Anyway, thank you all so much for your reviews, favorites, follows, etc. Love you all <3

Chapter 33: Chapter Thirty-Three

Summary:

In the span of a few short days, Tony gets three things: a victory, a relief, and a heart attack. And that third one is not including the literal heart attacks that the dying Arc Reactors are giving him.

Chapter Text

When the board suggested to make the Stark Expo very Iron-Man-proud, Tony was a little hesitant. It seemed in poor taste. A little masturbatory. Sorry, other creators who want to shed a spotlight on their newest breakthroughs. You'll never have anything on Iron Man. He's who everyone is here for!

Now, emphasis on little hesitant. Not enough for him to argue, not enough for him to push back. Because…Well.

Iron Man is what people want to see, right?

Because people will probably be upset if he isn't there, and numbers will probably drop the more time goes by without him, right?

In the end, Tony agrees to having all the Iron Man merchandise sold at the kiosks. And the exhibit all about the suit, even though it's a Tony Stark creation and not a Stark Industries one. And his grand entrance, flying down through the night sky and landing on the stage. And the fireworks. And the dance crew.

Just that, though. To keep it tasteful.

He used to squirm at such huge public appearances not long ago. Realizing how eager everyone was to watch his descent into insanity left a bitter taste in his mouth. He'd thought he was everyone's hero, but he realized he was actually just like any other celebrity: the world cheered when he was awarded, but if he tripped down the stage steps afterwards, they cheered for that as well.

He accepts it now. Even looks forward to it, because if there's anyone there to boo and jeer at him, he won't be able to hear them over the roar of the crowd. He's a hero now.

He even has his fingers crossed that would be a tonic to him. Make him forget about the ache in his joints and the tiredness he can't shake.

It's for nothing. After, he has to step off stage, listening to that recording of Howard he's heard a million times and then some.. Catch his breath. Test his blood again.

Six months, it's been. The palladium poisoning has only gotten worse and worse. His Arc Reactors die faster and faster.

His blood is 19% toxic. He has maybe two weeks.

Two weeks. 336 hours. Fourteen mornings, fourteen evenings, fourteen nights. His birthday. If that.

Is Tony in shock? Denial? He isn't sure. He should be quaking in his shoes every second of the day, just waiting to keel over and die, but it just doesn't feel real enough to be afraid of. Maybe this is some kind of coping mechanism that he hasn't heard of before.

All the technical stuff has been taken care of, but hell if it wasn't hard to keep it all under wraps. Peter will be fine. The Parkers will be fine. All that's left is to hand the torch over to Pepper. He's come up with five thousand different plans, ranging from the simple (candlelit dinner) to the outlandish (fireworks that spell out CONGRATULATIONS). He thought at first that it would be funny to give her one last dose of his bullshit, but…No. Nah, he's done enough. No need for another "inside joke."

So he's just waiting for the most casual of moments. Private, of course, but casual. When she gives him his morning coffee, maybe.

Pepper isn't here now. Too many things to do than keep him company at what is basically his own party all the way across the continent. If she were here, Tony would probably be peering out at the crowd, trying to find her coppery blonde hair. Even though he's trying to stop staring at her so much.

The Parkers are here, too—somewhere. Peter, Ben, May. Not Richard, not yet. Busy with work. He'll be coming later. Peter is texting him with his new phone. That's the only thing he's been using it for, outside of J.A.R.V.I.S. It gives Tony no shortage of relief.

His phone pings again.

Another kid wanted to know where I got my stuff. I just pointed somewhere. Did I do something wrong?

Tony smiles at the image of Peter, blinking and stammering and finally just throwing an arm out to another direction. The "merch" he had given Peter was indeed better than anything else they're selling at the kiosks. Alloy instead of plastic, LED lights that didn't rely on two AA batteries (not included) to function. It had a display that was as simple as a phone's home screen, nothing more than the time and temperature. Tony thought he'd toned it down enough. He'd seen homemade Iron Man regalia that made his eyebrows shoot up just in the past hour alone. Guess not.

No, it's okay. Next time just say your dad made it for you, and then when they ask how, shrug and say you don't know.

Okay.
Look!

A picture comes through a moment later, of a crowd of young children clustered around a small cart. The vendor behind it is busying himself with another creation, but his crowd-pleaser is front-and-center: a giant Iron Man made solely of balloons. He'd even snaked a tiny blue one in for his eyes. Judging by the red and yellow in the vendor's hands, he was already working on another and another and another. Tony hadn't been sure of what to include for all their younger attendees—he made a good choice, apparently.

It's me!

It's you!

In the background of the picture, Tony thinks he sees the sleeve of Ben's jacket, maybe May's shoe. Beyond that, though, he sees a kiosk selling snacks and sodas, and one of many banners directing visitors of where to go for what.

Curious, Tony leans out of his hiding place just so. His eye just barely peeks out and already his nerves are going nuts, urging him to duck back inside. The streams of passing people never stop or falter. He is as unseen as the ground beneath their feet. And there, just across the way, he sees just what he'd suspected: that very same kiosk, almanac, and balloon vendor.

Close enough to recognize, too far to make out who is who. Is that Peter, or just another kid in a plastic Iron Man mask? Is that May and Ben, or just another couple standing in line with their child?

It may not be the Parkers, but the Parkers are there, just a minute's walk away. It's surprising, especially after the wonders of the amusement park he and Peter had been to last (overflowing trash cans! Novelty cups for twenty dollars! Mile-long bathroom lines!), but Tony finds himself aching to join them.

It's such a bland normalcy, but he wants it anyway. If he wasn't himself, then he could be just like any other parent in the crowd, pointing at the shining lights, eating overpriced food, holding their child's hand and never having to think, When I pull away, will it be the last time?

Tony hides back into the shadows and the quiet and the single McDonald's soda cup that someone has left in the corner even though there's a trashcan not a foot away outside. So much for savoring every second he has left.

Thirty seconds, and Tony will have to go. He has more appearances to make, hands to shake, crowds to wave to. Probably he'll be dogpiled for photographs, and have microphones shoved down his throat. He's set a hard cutoff for tonight—nine o'clock, and he's out of here. The good news is that no one ever asks after him anymore. They never want to know why he's in such a rush because they assume that it must be very, very important. But he could still be intercepted and pulled at, which is why Happy and some other security have had to make a whole route for him.

Twenty seconds, and Tony will have to go. He promised Peter that he'd try to do something with him at the Stark Expo tonight, but he made it clear that that "try" did not mean "I'll think about it," but rather, "it may be impossible no matter what I do." Looks like that not-promise will be broken tonight. For most of Peter's life he's been all the way across the country, too many miles between them to country. Now he's right here and nothing's changed. This should be a memory. It's the perfect opportunity to cultivate something for Peter to look back on when he's gone. But Tony can't seize it.

Ten seconds, and Tony will have to go. The night is almost over. Another step closer to the end. And just like every day that's passed, he asks himself, Did I make it worth it? How many minutes did I waste today? What could I have done, to do something? Perhaps he should be looking at everything—the sea of people, the stars in the sky, even that McDonald's cup in the corner—before his eyes are forever closed. He has not decided if he wants to do something beautiful at the end, if he wants to watch the sun rise over the ocean, or a night sky without pollution.

Time to go. The world keeps on spinning.


In the span of a few short days, Tony gets three things: a victory, a relief, and a heart attack. And that third one is not including the literal heart attacks that the dying Arc Reactors are giving him.

Victory: for now, it looks like the Senate is finally off his ass.

Tony regrets—Mm.

Tony somewhat—No.

Tony almost—Not even.

Tony doesn't regret his behavior.

He didn't have to make a laughingstock of the Senate…And he didn't! They did that all by themselves.

He can never take people like Stern seriously—people who think they're being so eloquent and almighty, when the rest of the world is averting their eyes out of secondhand embarrassment. Watching Senator Stern sitting above him with that plastic smile on his slimy lips, Tony only saw a spoiled little boy waiting for Mommy and Daddy to reward him for snitching. Tony doesn't even know why Stern expects to be taken seriously when he doesn't even try. Case en point: having Justin Hammer as backup.

Hammer is the new Primary Systems Contractor. Tony's replacement. Tony wouldn't care even if he did give it any thought.

Why? Because no one cares about Hammer.

Well, scratch that. Hammer cares about Hammer. Hammer cares about Hammer so much Narcissus would call him self-absorbed.

All throughout the hearing, Tony was choking where he sat—praying to God he didn't sound like a regurgitating pig while the world was listening. Hammer is just so damn funny without trying to be. The man is a peacock, swaying around with all his pretty feathers on display, head held high, and—mostly—crowing high and loud for attention.

He was the court jester even before that video (which Tony now has saved onto his phone). Honestly, Stern would have better luck getting Iron Man if he begged Tony, "Please, please, look at who we're dealing with and have mercy on us!"

The only thing Stern did that Tony could even remotely call "good" was throwing Rhodey at him.

And hell, he even managed to screw that up.

Tony almost wants to apologize to Rhodey for thinking he and the Senate were as buddy-buddy as a bunch of college fratboys. From the second the Colonel sat down, he was subtly shaking his head at Stern and his…antics? Is antics the right word? For just one moment there, he and Tony even had a moment of solidarity, sending each other a half-smile that whispered, Can you believe this guy?

Tony recovered quickly because there was nothing to recover from. Stern had made it so blatantly obvious that he wanted Rhodey to be his dancing monkey that no one in the entire country would listen to him.

At the end, Tony had walked out of there to the sound of applause, Hammer's attempts to save himself, and Stern's temper tantrum. He'd felt better than he had in months.

Even better, not long after that came the relief.

Telling Pepper she was CEO went so much better than he ever thought it would.

He'd been right to do it casually, out of the blue—the only prep being DUM-E on standby with the champagne. How hard it was, not to bust out laughing at her gaping mouth and saucer-wide eyes. She had protested, but it was meek, thankful protest, the way you tell people, "You shouldn't have!" when they give you gifts.

And a gift it was. No, actually, it was a reward. Because hell if Pepper didn't earn it. Just like that, he watched as all her worries evaporated. All her problems were going to become so much easier, now that she didn't have to run her decisions by him first.

Afterwards, while she was still so dazed that her champagne glass was still quite full, Tony had told her, "Now, you have two options. Number One: Huge celebratory dinner, Hyatt Regency, champagne pyramid, I hit up Jamie Oliver for a menu, fireworks, Cirque du Soleil—"

"No."

"—Or Number Two: I give you the rest of the day off and you go buy the most expensive meal you've ever had on my dime."

"That'll do."

Pepper slid into her new pair of shoes before she even woke up in the morning. She took care of the sign-over and the 99,999 other documents and protocols that it took, because of course she did. Thankfully there was much less kickback than Tony was expecting. The media jumped on it, of course, but the board didn't lose its collective mind. Tony's worst-case scenario was the same anarchy that followed the cease of weapons manufacturing.

Still, just to be sure he's not missing something when he's not around, he asked after it. They were moving her into her new office. She insisted he didn't have to, they had plenty of hands as-is. Tony in turn dramatically sighed and said he was just saying goodbye to the place, to the nice window view and the Newton's cradle that just popped up on his desk one day. The truth being that he was drowning in desperation. He could no longer ignore the pain in his chest, and her presence was a balm to it.

"No one's giving you any hell, are they?" Tony had asked as he set another box on the desk. Pepper had labeled them in pure hieroglyphics. What could DIIEGABO possibly mean? "If anyone's passing you mean notes in class, you need to tell me."

"I have gone hell-free for now," she'd answered breezily, stuffing books into the tall case in the corner. "Why? Do you think I should get some?"

"You know, I wasn't going to say anything, but I've been in serious doubt ever since I decided this, and I don't know, maybe we should reconsider…"

"Mm. You want to know what I'm looking forward to the most about this?"

"Pray tell."

"The amount of daily time I spend listening to your awful jokes will be cut in half."

"And you say routine is so important. But seriously, wh—Alright. Explain this."

Tony had jabbed the next Sharpie scrawl. OSTKIDD.

Pepper shook her head at him, as if he should be fluent in such a language. "'Office Supplies to Keep Inside Desk Drawer.'"

"'Office supplies,' Ms. Potts. There are only so many minutes in the day, just leave it at 'Office Supplies.' Anyway. I'm serious. I want to know if you start getting trouble."

This time Pepper had stopped entirely. She stared him down with her mouth in a flat line, and walked over in three long strides with her arms crossed.

"I'm serious, too," she'd said. "Why are you so sure that I should be getting trouble."

"None of our recent changes have been met with applause," he reminded her. "No more weapons, everyone went crazy. Stane dead, everyone went crazy. Focus on the Arc technology, start the Expo again, over and over."

"Yeah, I was at the forefront of all of those things, you don't have to remind me."

"So is it unreasonable to think that me stepping down would make everyone go crazy, too?"

Pepper had nodded once, like she figured that was the answer and was just being polite letting him say it. She had a strange sort of smile on her face, tired and invigorated at the same time. Tony thought it was the same smile he gets in the lab, when his joints ache and his knuckles are bleeding but he just can't stop himself from going forward.

"Well, there's a pretty logical answer to that," she'd told him. She rummaged inside the OSTKIDD box. "No one really thinks you're stepping down. I'm just the stand-in that goes to all the boring meetings while you pull all the strings."

Tony's mouth went sour, but Pepper wasn't even looking at him. He was still planning on having some role in SI, but to say that Pepper was just his puppet…"That's not fair."

"I wasn't trying to say that's what I think you're doing—"

"I mean that's not fair to you. To just be me."

Pepper just shook her head without a moment's pause. "If it keeps everyone quiet, I will let them think whatever they want. And for the record…" She pulled out a small, plastic-wrapped package. It was a small kit of a notepad, pens, pencils, and erasers, all shaped like dinosaurs and robots. "This is why it's the 'to keep inside desk drawer' box."

Tony had plenty more that he wanted to say, first and foremost, Why isn't she angrier about this? Then he'd reminded himself, boss or not, he couldn't tell her what to feel. Plus, she's always been the more rational one. So all he did was look away and mumble, "I'm telling Peter you hide all his gifts because you're embarrassed."

"No you're not."

"What are you going to do? Fire me?"

"Tony, I swear."

It had occurred to him later the true reason why he was upset. If that is Pepper's only insurance now, what will happen once Tony's gone?

And the heart attack.

The redheaded, Latin-speaking (correction, Latin-writing or Latin-reading), former model heart attack.

It does not happen when he sees her for the first time, despite all logic. Now, Tony's body may be falling to pieces, but he's not blind, not yet. That "Natalie Rushman" is a gorgeous woman is a fact as true as the sky being blue. She's the kind of beauty that can quiet a room the second she walks in.

It's just pure, physical attraction, though. She catches his attention without mesmerizing him. She does not draw him to her like a moth to flame. He'd realized why not five seconds after seeing her for the first time. It was that light that kept shining off of Pepper. It makes every other woman he sees look dull.

So why does Tony keep his attention on her?

First, going back to that physical attraction, Tony couldn't feel that it was a bit…deliberate. In a sense.

He knows, he knows, that he'd sound like a slimy creep if he ever implied that she was trying to seduce him, that just looking the way she does is flirtation. She's allowed to look whatever way she chooses.

Still, he's just saying, she chooses to wear shirts buttoned just low enough for a glimpse of her bra to peek through, and she chooses to look at him not head-on, but through the curtains of her eyelashes.

Tony knows when a woman is trying to flirt with him. And maybe a few years ago, the skeevy, selfish, hungry version of him would be trying to figure out how to answer her calls without getting her or himself in trouble. Or without having to keep her around after.

Now, though, Tony's wondering what the deal is. What exactly brought her to him?

Well, Iron Man, obviously. Obviously to him. He's not going to say it. No detective just lets their suspect know their suspicions.

And if she wasn't obviously flirting? If she wasn't so cartoonishly overqualified for this job? Well, he'd keep her around anyway, because anyone who can knock Happy Hogan on his ass will be welcomed with open arms.

(Also, also, also…He's still a little sick, somewhere deep down. He likes how Pepper so obviously does not want her to stick around.)

Before Tony actually goes through with it, before he gives her Pepper's old spot that he he'd never even wanted to re-fill, they meet one more time. Not long after he finishes up with Happy, both of them a sweaty mess and Happy still jelly-legged from Natalie slamming the life out of him. Pepper leaves, lips still pursed and head still shaking at him. Tony wants to head into the lab next, but he knows he has to be a wise, responsible, hygienic adult and not put off a shower because "Oh, well, I'm about to get dirty, anyway."

When he goes upstairs, Natalie is there, walking towards him as he walks towards her. They stop and look each other up and down. He's trying to figure her out. He's trying to figure out why she's so blatant that she's trying to figure him out.

"Mr. Stark," she says coolly. "Are you done for the day?"

"The state Hap's in right now, I might as well go for the punching bags." He looks down at her heels, still pointed to him, to the stairs. He hopes she doesn't mistake it for leering. "Forget something?"

"Yes. I need one more signature from you." She flips open the binder in her hands. "I can't believe I missed it."

"All is forgiven." Tony takes the pen from her and scribbles his last signature across the blank. "That all?"

"For this, yes. But…" She tucks a long scarlet curl over her ear. "Can I ask where the bathroom is?"

He points. "That hall, last door on the left."

"Thank you, Mr. Stark."

Tony just nods to her, and she turns away. He's half-expecting her to sway her hips as she goes, but she doesn't. He hopes it's a sign that she's giving up already, or that she was never interested to begin with. It'd make it so much easier to keep her around.

The sweat is starting to cool on his skin, sticking to his hoodie. His hair feels greasy on his scalp. He's tempted to just shuck off his shirt entirely, but that would get a sexual harassment case in .05 seconds, so he keeps it on. He instead elects to just go to his bedroom and get a change of clothes. Natalie will know the way out, he thinks.

Then, as he's walking there, he takes another look down the hall Natalie has gone through.

Then he gets the heart attack.

"A-hem!"

Natalie whips around, hand retreating from the knob. It is locked. He heard it click. Yet his heart is still thundering.

He points a finger behind her. "To the right."

She looks back at Peter's bedroom door, pursing her full lips. "You said left?"

"I said—" He did, didn't he? Shit, Tony. Focus. That was close. "Right. You're right, I said left. My mistake."

She tips her head at him in a way that makes a curtain of curls fall over her shoulders. Tony can't imagine having to deal with all that hair every morning. Peeling her eyes off of him, she looks at the door again.

"Something secret?"

Tony is scared at the spark that ignites inside of him. He almost snaps that it's none of her business. To just go to the bathroom and get out of here. She's being coy, but pot calling the kettle black, much?

He hadn't realized how much of a sacred place he'd made of Peter's bedroom. It's not just that a stranger almost figured it out, or that said stranger may have let the world know. Maybe that's what she's here for, to get an inside scoop of Iron Man's life. The idea of her just looking into the room, before Peter ever got to again, just crawls under his skin and singes into his nerves.

"It's personal," he says at last. "Hence why it's locked."

She says nothing, but Tony imagines she wants to argue, So why the panic when I couldn't have opened it in the first place? She opens the bathroom door, and looks up at him again. I'm going now. Don't worry.

He could give in and leave, or stay and be even more suspicious. He chooses to leave. He goes up to his bedroom, but still sweat-slick and oily and aching, he tells J.A.R.V.I.S. to give him a feed of the hall and the living room. There is nothing at all for about two minutes, until Natalie finally reemerges, out of the bathroom, down the hall, and finally off the premises.

If he makes her his personal assistant, she's going to be doing everything Pepper did before, and that means walking in and out of the mansion like her own home. So that bedroom door will have to stay locked forever. And he can never even hint to what's inside. And he will probably tear the place apart daily, checking and double-checking and hundredth-checking that there isn't a stray sneaker or Crayola to be found. It would be easier for her to go.

If he lets her go, though, the investigation is over. He'll never figure out why she's here, what she wants. That didn't matter before. It matters now.

Chapter 34: Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Text

When he can't see Peter, Tony is writhing.

If he is not spending every single second with Peter, talking to him, making memories with him, then they are wasted seconds. Even when he lies down to sleep (which isn't often), he feels guilty for it. He isn't going to tell Peter the truth, so he has to make up for it by giving him every last heartbeat.

He's heard that when some animals die, they wander off to do it away from home. He almost wants to do that: abandon everything and run to Queens. While the world is trying to figure out where Tony Stark vanished to, Tony will be sitting on the couch with Peter, watching Animal Planet and eating pizza. That would be a fine time to go, he thinks.

This guilt, this skin-crawling guilt, was already unbearable when he was with Peter—at the amusement park, the museum, the movie theater.

Having not seen Peter in person for a week, he is in agony.

Not even the lab can distract him from his pain anymore. He finally figured out his new delivery system for the suit, a project that had taken him months. It was supposed to be a breakthrough, it was supposed to be a milestone, he was supposed to have a celebratory drink and toast to his success. Not that he doesn't drink, but it's quick and meaningless and he spills rum on the counter. A little more than a week to live now, and he's still just doing his hobbies.

Just after Maria died, it was never the good memories that Tony could think about, just the memories that did not exist. He could only focus on how that Christmas was the first time he'd seen her in months. Before that, the last time they'd seen each other was him slamming the door behind him, his and Howard's yells still ringing off the walls.

Tony's going to die soon and he's going to leave his young son behind. But yay! He made something cool!

Natalie almost going into Peter's room—well, not almost, it was locked—tips him over the edge. That night, he sits staring up at the ceiling, trying to figure out what to do next. At first, he's a little reasonable. Anything to do with the beach seems too easy. They'd have to travel a ways just to get to a planetarium or aquarium or any other -iums he hasn't been to yet. There has to be things that Peter would like to do that are unique and special and can't be done just any day. He thinks a Mets game would be nice, but he doesn't want to ruin one of Peter's favorite things for him.

Reason fades quickly. Tony is a balloon with too much air, a soda can that's been shaken too much.

Thus, he sees no problem in inviting Peter to go to Monaco at the last possible minute.

Alright, he does see problem with it, in a passing way. A "eh, that's just a little kink to be ironed out, let's go!" kind of way. Dying or not, he can't just sweep Peter across the ocean on a whim.

He asks Ben and May, emphasizing how aware he is that this is insanely short-notice and very unreasonable and likely unlikely. They keep hush-hush about it to Peter while they talk it out. They don't want to get him too excited for something that will almost surely not be able to work out.

Even as Tony's on the phone with them about it, he knows how off-the-wall he's being, but he's out of control at this point. Honestly, if and when they decline, Tony ponders if he'll just cancel going altogether. He doesn't think he can sip wine and watch the cars blaze past and keep his sanity intact.

So he's very grateful when Ben and May give the a-okay.

Not without discussion, not without hesitation. May says, "this is coming out of left field" more than once. Ultimately, it comes down to nothing but sheer luck. May and Ben both manage to get some vacation days, and there were no other plans to cancel. Peter is out for summer vacation now.

Of course, Tony would have paid for every last penny, including their lost pay. But money has become a sore subject between them. Peter is the line in the sand. Monthly payments for his care, school trips, doctor appointments—those are fine. But Ben and May both sounded a bit sour about going on the trip to one of the most expensive countries in the world. Tony convinced them that they had to come because they and Peter are a package deal, but he imagines that the look on their faces when they see the suite he bought for them will be miffed, not amazed.

Is it pride? Maybe. That's what May said it was. It took some time to convince her that this was completely fair—as Peter's father, it only makes sense for Tony to contribute to expenses, and that wasn't "charity." Besides that, Tony thinks they're afraid of a slippery slope to reliance on him. Tony wonders, once he's gone, how they'll handle the news of the titanic fund he'd set aside for them. Relieved? Outraged?

The trip itself is not easy to plan out, but it gets done. The first day will be all about the race, but the next day Tony will sneak from the public eye to enjoy the Monacan streets with them all. He's not looking forward to melting beneath a hat and a mask, but it's such a non-issue. Eating bouillabaisse, hearing the music, seeing the sapphire ocean and the rolling cliffs…It saddens him to know that he'll have to come home after that.

That would also be a good time to die.

And Peter is, of course, over the moon. He's not very knowledgeable about Monaco, but the second Ben and May tell him of their impromptu trip, he starts cramming his brain full of information. In the span of a single day he has a near-encyclopedic knowledge of the country. The population (~35,600), the language ("Bonjour! Mon nom est Peter!") and too many cultural facts to number ("Did you know 32% of the people there are millionaires? That's like 11,400 millionaires!") He calls Tony all of five minutes after the news to ask what they'll be doing specifically, and even when Tony can only say that they'll "figure something out," he's bouncing off the walls. When Tony goes to bed that night, sleep comes to him easily.

The next morning throws him a curveball, though.

Tony has been quite the hermit for the past few months. He only ventures out into the world when there are cameras waiting for him—whether that "him" is Iron Man or Tony Stark. Waking up to the sun sparkling on the water, he realizes it's been…Hell, too long for him to even remember since he's actually gone out just to go out. Too long since he's been to a bar, or a club, or even just a Burger King, since he would just ask Pepper or Happy to bring some if it was on their way. (Maybe he should include that in Natalie's job description. Responsibilities will include irregularly delivering lunch from the fast-food chain restaurant, Burger King.)

This is why he decides to put on his big boy pants and go out into public for the first time in forever. Partially because he thinks it'll be good for him, physically and mentally, but also because Pepper isn't his assistant anymore, Happy's sick, and his cooking is somewhere between inedible and lethal.

It's not that it wouldn't be nice to just go into a restaurant, sit down, eat, and have that be that. He just doesn't bother to expect it. It starts as soon as he picks out a healthy-looking little place covered in green leaves and yellow bamboo with pictures in the windows advertising salads and wraps and salads and protein bowls and a few salads. It doesn't look too busy, even for a Malibu restaurant with a decent view of the shore, but the second Tony opens his car door he hears an exclamation from some stranger or another.

There are a few shouts of, "Look!" A few of, "It's Tony Stark!" He gives a quick pageant-girl wave before ducking inside, and even then there's no safe haven. The employee behind the counter was taking a drink, and when he looks at Tony (first an acknowledging look, then a holy shit it's Iron Man look), his hand left his cup but his teeth death-gripped the straw. So the cashier and Tony just kind of looked at each other while the cashier's straw stuck out of his mouth and dripped into the pile of ice on the floor.

Tony sits at a booth to eat his spinach-and-turkey wrap that's probably very healthy but also infuriatingly bland. He won't be able to sit here for long, probably. Within two minutes of sitting, two teenage girls appear from utter nowhere to trill and sing and beg for a photograph. The other patrons are far and few between, and either ignore him after initial wonder (great) or stare at him while he wipes turkey off his lip (digestible). There's no telling how long it'll be until word spreads that he's here, and everyone comes to see—like when he and Peter go to the zoo, and one of the lions finally gets up from lounging, to a shrill chorus of "Mommy! Daddy! Look, look, look!"

By all means, just sitting in a small, too-healthy restaurant eating lunch and looking out the window shouldn't be so aggravating. Being stared at the whole time, that should be aggravating—and it is. But mostly, it's the things that shouldn't be of any issue at all. The uncomfortable vinyl seats, the food that has as much flavor as the plastic straw in his cup. The fact that he's alone.

Tony hates that he wants to be bothered. Being hounded for photographs would be a little less pathetic than just not looking at the seat across from him.

Then, as if the universe is answering his call (for once), he hears a familiar voice say, "Tony?"

Richard is standing with one hand frozen on the sling of his satchel and the other holding onto a paper bag. He blinks at Tony, and Tony blinks at him. He honestly cannot recall the last time they've laid eyes on each other.

Richard goes on, sputtering, "T-Tony Stark! Wow! It's you."

Tony flicks his gaze to the other patrons. None are giving their undivided attention, but they can see, and they are listening.

"It's me," he says as casually as he can. "What can I help you with?"

"Uh…I was wondering…" Richard digs into his pants pocket and pulls out his phone. "I was wondering if I could get a picture? But maybe not in here, m-maybe outside? With better light?"

Someone snorts, but neither Richard nor Tony pay them any mind. Tony makes a show of wiping his mouth with his napkin and swinging up to his feet. He slaps a ten dollar bill onto the table. "Sure thing. Just make sure you get my good side. Not that I have a bad side."

As he's standing, Richard asks, "What about your food?"

"That's not food, it's cardboard."

He and Richard duck out of the door to the back deck of the restaurant. There are some tables shadowed by their umbrellas—and Tony thinks that's quite distressing, that a place like this can be so busy that that it has outdoor dining.

Beyond the deck it's a stretch of blank space, a road, and the last line of buildings and cars before the shore. If anyone saw them from out here, they'd be too far away to tell it was really them. Still, they step behind the building to get away from the eyes no doubt peeking through the window.

"So." Tony leans back against the wall. He hopes it looks casual, and that Richard can't tell how easy it is for him to get out of breath now. "What brings you to a place like this?"

Richard wrinkles his nose, and looks almost like he's going to protest that it's just a health-nut restaurant and not a seedy downtown bar. Instead he holds up the paper bag. "Lunch."

"All the Panera Bread knockoffs in Malibu, and you chose this one? I mean, props to you for supporting local businesses, but I think this is the one restaurant in the world where the vegetables are bad for you."

Richard doesn't crack a smile in the slightest, and doesn't even protest. He looks uncomfortable. Like he really doesn't want to be here, but he's making himself stay. The paper bag crinkles in his fingers as they clench and unclench, and he sways a bit as he shifts his weight from leg-to-prosthetic-leg.

"Anyway…If you really want a picture, go for it, but I have a feeling you wanted to talk about something."

"Yes," Richard says, with a little bite, a little impatience. Yet he still buffers like an old computer. "You're taking Peter to Monaco? For the Prix?"

"Technically, Ben and May are taking Peter to Monaco. I'm covering the expenses, and we'll meet up at some point. Eat some barbajuan, do some sight-seeing. I think Pete would love the Musée Océanographique. It'll be like all the other museums he's been to, but French." Tony scratches at his face. He's forgotten his razor for a few days; stubble prickles under his fingertips. "I don't know if something was lost in translation, but I thought I'd made it clear that you were welcome to come, too. Ben said you were free."

"Y-Yeah, I'm free." Richard's shoulder brushed against the brick wall. He seemed to consider leaning against it like Tony, but chose not, seemingly to avoid doing anything 'like Tony'. "I was just…just—You don't th…You don't think that maybe it's a little…Much? A-a little too much? For Peter, I mean. I-It just seems like it'd be a little overwem—overwhelming. On such short notice."

Though he stumbles and fumbles over his words, Tony nods along. He's listening and he's understanding. He's made his peace with it, but Richard is certainly echoing is past thoughts.

"It crossed my mind. I did think I was jumping the gun—I thought it'd be a given that it wouldn't be able to happen. Wouldn't have been surprised or offended if Ben called me a dumbass for thinking it'd happen. Or May. Ben wouldn't call me a dumbass. Does Ben curse? I don't think he curses."

"Not really."

"Anyway, the second it was even hinted that there was going to be a problem, I was going to call it off. Not that I could make them fly across the Atlantic by force."

"That's not…That isn't what I…" Tony doesn't urge him, but he still feels guilty when Richard takes a deep breath and unscrambles his syllables. "That's not what I said, though. I was talking about Peter."

"Well…He seems pretty okay with it. More than pretty okay, he's been talking to me about it nonstop. He found out that Monaco is smaller than Central Park, and I had to spend about an hour explaining to him how that could be possible. And then I had to explain to him what a city-state was. He wanted me to teach him some French, but I told him that it was a really tricky language, and he asked how, and I told him that 'avocado' and 'lawyer' sound exactly the same, and he laughed so hard Coke came spewing out of his nose—"

"Okay. Tony. That—Hm." Richard's lips purse into a tight line. He presses a finger over them for a moment. "Of course he's excited. He gets to go on vacation to a—to a cool country and do cool things with his cool dad. But…Still. I don't think that really makes it okay."

Now it's Tony's turn to buffer. He feels like he has a spinning circle in front of his forehead. "If you're worried about jetlag, we've got a day set aside for all of you to get caught up to time. And if it's safety you're worried about, the entirety of Monaco is safer than any one city block in New York. No offense."

Richard blinks at him, slow and pointed, and Tony hasn't the slightest idea of what to make of it.

Finally Richard rubs at his brow with such force it's like he's trying to scrape it off of his head. Tony stands there and waits because he has no idea of what else to do.

"I thought you said you were going to back off for a while. After everything that happened with Ob—Stane, I thought we agreed you'd back off."

Tony suddenly feels cold.

While Richard stares him down—has he always been so much taller than him?—Tony tries to retrace his steps to six months ago. That was when Peter had returned to Queens, and Tony talked to him maybe…five? six? Times over the phone. He'd almost solely relied on Ben and May to keep him up-to-date. His greatest effect on Peter's life, aside from the money he sent, had been the memories he'd inflicted upon him.

But that was months and months ago, and then he just more or less matched Peter's energy. Before, phone call conversations began with "Peter, Dad's on the phone, do you want to say hi?" Then it was Peter himself who hit the call button. If Peter didn't want to talk about something, Tony didn't make him. If he did, Tony would ramble until his voice was raw. It was maybe three months until they saw each other in person again, and another month after that until they got back to their regular ventures. Tony can't recall the exact pace at which Peter fell for Iron Man. It seemed like all the red and gold just appeared in his bedroom in one instant.

"I…did," Tony says at last. He taps a finger on the brick wall behind him. "I did back off. I'm not—Well, I didn't think I was plowing my way back into his life. I thought things have been…fine."

"I thought it would be a little while longer," says Richard. "I just don't think that all the stuff that's happened to Peter can be really dealt with in such a short time. And I know he's in therapy, and I know he's getting better, but when we said you'd be stepping back, I thought we meant for a while, not just a couple of weeks."

"Okay. Okay." Tony scratches his stubble again. He feels very strange all of the sudden—uncomfortable in his own skin. This conversation has made the world tighten in on him. "I get that. It's just that I thought I was doing what he wanted?" Richard's eyes squint at him. "I talked to him when he wanted to talk, I met him when he wanted to meet."

"Have you ever—" Richard presses his palms together and then to his lips, looking like he's praying. "Do you remember being a kid, and your mom was on a phone call with someone, and she said, 'Oh, here's Tony. Tony, do you want to talk to so-and-so?' And you had to say 'yes,' because the number-one thing you were taught as a kid was to never hurt anyone's feelings?"

"Even if I said 'yes,' which would be a lie…I still don't quite get what you're trying to say." Richard huffs, and Tony continues, "Rich, I'm not trying to be obtuse. I honestly don't understand what you're getting at. So please be point-blank with me."

Even then Richard's lips twist and purse. Tony thinks he and his brother share a philosophy: that to be blunt is to be rude, so you have to hint and imply and nudge to be polite.

"I don't like how you've been with Peter lately." Richard's shoulders relax after he says it, but he sure doesn't look relaxed anywhere else. "You're going to see him basically every day, sending him all these amazing presents…"

Again, not to be obtuse, but…erm…that doesn't…sound bad? To Tony?

And he doesn't say it out loud because he doesn't want to interrupt, but his confusion must be on his face, because Richard huffs again.

"I'm not trying to say you're bribing him, but it kind of feels like you're smothering him."

"If I had even the hint that Peter didn't want to do something, then I wouldn't make him do it. If he'd paused for half a second when I told him about the trip, then I would have put a hard stop on it. But I'm just telling you, I haven't picked up on it. I don't think you need me to tell you he's an open book."

"He's not—he's just—kids don't—" Richard swipes a hand through his hair, rough and quick and painful. Tony hadn't realized how long it had gotten since he'd last seen him—it's almost brushing his shoulders now. "Kids don't always know when things aren't okay. That's why they want to eat fifteen chocolate bars at once, that's why they want to pick up sharp things just because they 'look cool'. Just—what happens if your workload surges and you don't get to go on your trips for a while? Or what if you don't call for just one day too long? I just don't want him getting hurt because you stopped doing stuff 'like normal,' and I…I'm sure you don't want him thinking you're mad at him or something just because you went one week without going to an amusement park."

The more Richard talks, the more Tony's stomach twists and knots, until he thinks bile is about to come up his throat. He knows Richard is right. Of course Richard is right, absolutely, air-tight, logically right. Tony's gone too far too fast, and now he's established what's 'normal'. He's basically told Peter that his love language is huge gifts and oversea trips twenty-four-seven. So if time kept going, he'd inevitably hurt Peter.

Except that time isn't going to keep going.

Except that Tony is going to be dead soon, and he won't be with Peter much longer at all. Except that because he's now established this 'normalcy', he cannot change it back just before he dies, because that's already going to scar Peter for the rest of his life.

Only now does Tony realize that he may spend his last few days on this earth too weak to draw his breath, let alone go to Legoland. Meaning Peter may ask, 'Why hasn't Dad called me today? Is he starting to not love me again?' and then he'll be answered with the news of his passing.

Well.

Shit.

Shit, shit, shit.

He's really screwed the pooch on this one.

Richard is just standing there staring at him, but he seems comforted by Tony's silence, probably thinking that Tony's taking his words to heart. Which he is, but not in the Hallmark-movie way.

When Tony decided not to tell Peter of the poisoning, he'd come to bitter peace with it, knowing that there was no good decision. And once again there's no good decision, but it's only his fault. Every trip and gift was just another shovelful of dirt out of his own grave. So Tony is going to have to come to another bitter, angry peace.

"I hear you," he tells Richard. "You make a solid point. So after this trip I will try to…take it down a notch."

Richard nods. "Good."

"You are coming, aren't you? I know Pete wants you to be there."

"Yeah, I'm coming."

It's the horrifyingly awkward silence of a dying conversation, but there's something else to it. Tony thinks Richard isn't being completely candid with him. The way he stands so stiffly and the tiny twitches in his face, Tony thinks that there's something more he wants to say.

He doesn't. Richard moves his bag to his other hand and stands straight again. For a split second he wobbles on his leg, and Tony's whole body seizes to help him, but Richard finds his balance just as quickly.

"So," says Richard, "I guess I'll see you in Monaco. I guess."

"See you then." Tony nods to him, and Richard goes, walking down the deck that curves to the front of the restaurant. "Enjoy the salad."

"It's kale."

"Only kale?"

"It's—No, it's a kale salad."

"So…A salad. I wasn't wrong."

"No, I was just—it's not a salad-salad, it's a—"

"—a kale salad. This is horrifying. Have a nice day, Doctor Parker."

Tony gives Richard a wave over his shoulder and ducks back inside, feeling so awkward he wants to peel his skin off. Someone has already cleared his table, and once he's back inside all eyes are on him, so finally he flees. He just barely makes it into his car before the cameras flash, and Tony smiles and waves his apologies.

He hates the idea of coming into the city for nothing more than a plastic turkey wrap, but he drives home anyway. Besides, he has two things to think about. Firstly, how should this trip to Monaco go? Should he go all-out like he planned, or dial it back? It could be the last trip he and Peter take, and Tony doesn't know if it should end with a bang or a whimper.

Secondly, what was it that Richard wanted to say, but didn't? Maybe nothing at all, but Tony thinks otherwise.

Chapter 35: Chapter Thirty-Five

Summary:

More than anything, Peter is happy that Aunt May and Uncle Richard get to go on a cool vacation instead of just driving him to where he and Dad are going. He’s happy that they get to have fun and shop and go to the beach without worrying about school or work or who’s going to cook dinner. He thinks that after this trip things won’t be as weird.

Chapter Text

Peter likes to go places but he doesn’t really like to go to places. He wants to be an astronaut when he grows up, but he also wants to be a scientist. He wants to invent a machine that lets you teleport anywhere you want to go.

When his mom was still alive, she and Peter didn’t get to go on vacations a lot. They went to the beach sometimes, but it was pretty close anyway. She told Peter that vacations cost a lot of money and if they went on vacation, then she couldn’t work, and she couldn’t make money. Before Dad came, Peter had never been on a plane before, and the only boat he’d ever gone on was one of the ferries that went around the Statue of Liberty.

Now he travels all the time with Dad. But Dad travels more than he does. He does a lot moving and Peter and Uncle Ben or Aunt May or Uncle Ben and Aunt May just move a little bit until they meet up. It’s always fun once he actually gets there. He wants to tell all his friends about the museums and parks and all the other places he goes to, but one time his friend Oliver asked how he and his aunt and uncle can go to so many places if they’re so busy all the time and the only reason Peter didn’t have to answer him was because the bell rang.

Peter doesn’t like to sit in the car for a loooong time reading books (which makes him carsick) and listening to Uncle Ben’s CDs (which Peter doesn’t really like but he tells Uncle Ben he does because he doesn’t want to hurt his feelings). Sometimes when he comes home it’s really late and he has to be carried back up to the apartment because he’s asleep. He’s asked Uncle Ben and Aunt May and Dad to just wake him up because only babies get carried like that, but they still do it.

Peter would like it if he and Dad could just do normal hangout stuff. He wants to ask Dad if maybe they can make pizzas at home one night, or if they could get another one of those really-super-mega-big LEGO sets and work on it all day.

But Dad is always really happy when they go on their trips, so Peter doesn’t say anything. It still makes him happy no matter what. He likes spending time with Dad, especially now that they’re so far away from each other. He wants to go back to the lab and see the Iron Man up close again. He misses seeing Pepper and Happy and he even misses Malibu even though he didn’t like it that much when he first got there. But for right now all he and Dad can do is meet up for trips—even if that sometimes meant going to the Stark Expo while Dad was there but not with him.

Peter really wants to go back. He also really doesn’t want to go back. Going back to Malibu means neither Uncle Ben or Aunt May will have him around, and Peter would feel weird and scared if he had to live in a place by himself, so now he sleeps one night at Aunt May’s apartment and the next at Uncle Ben’s. He has friends in Malibu, but he has friends here, too, and they’ve had to say goodbye and hello and goodbye and hello over and over again. Moving isn’t fun, either. Peter hates moving.

Also on Sunday mornings Uncle Ben makes pancakes and bacon and no one makes pancakes and bacon like Uncle Ben does and Peter loves Dad but Dad can’t really cook and the last time he tried to make pancakes they were flatter than pancakes are supposed to be even though they’re pancakes.

Plus, he just kinda knows he’s not going to be able to go back. Not just because he’s older and smarter now, and not just because Dad told him “maybe” in that “no” way adults do. Aunt May always lets him and Dad talk alone, but after she comes in the room and smiles and asks if he wants to do anything later. Sometimes Uncle Ben asks him if he’s okay and if he’s happy when it seems really weird to—like when Peter is just working on his homework.

Peter doesn’t know if they don’t like Dad and they think he’s going to get him hurt, or if they just love him and don’t want him to go. Peter doesn’t ask because he doesn’t want to. Aunt May and Uncle Ben don’t ask about what he and Dr. Rittenburg talk about. They just ask, “Did it go okay?” and that’s that. But Peter thinks that they want him to talk to them, and Peter knows it’s because they want to take care of him, but even though everything is “normal” now, he still feels like he’s a problem. Aunt May and Uncle Ben already have to take him to school and pick him up later and take him to the doctor when he’s sick and make breakfast and lunch and dinner for him.

So Peter didn’t really like to travel, but when Dad told him that he could come to Monaco for the race, Peter realized that it would be the first-ever family vacation they’d all have.

Peter had never heard of Monaco before, and he spent so long on the computer looking up stuff about it that Aunt May had to come in and tell him to go to bed. Monaco was a really pretty place. It looked like the places in the paintings he sees in Italian restaurants, orange and white with an ocean that looks like it’s filled with blue paint. He looks up all the things there are to do in Monaco and they all look so cool, even if they’re in French and he doesn’t know how to speak French.

More than anything, Peter is happy that Aunt May and Uncle Richard get to go on a cool vacation instead of just driving him to where he and Dad are going. He’s happy that they get to have fun and shop and go to the beach without worrying about school or work or who’s going to cook dinner. He thinks that after this trip things won’t be as weird.

Peter is so excited that Aunt May and Uncle Ben have to tell him to calm down a lot. When they come off the plane, everything and everyone is bright and colorful, and speaking languages that sound like baby garbles to Peter’s ears. Uncle Ben has to use Google on his phone to ask a taxi driver to take them to their hotel, which is nothing like the hotels back home. Those are all shiny and gray and this one is brick and orange. The beds are huge, the bathtub is huge, and the ocean is right outside (and huge), but Peter’s seen all that stuff in Malibu so he just waits until everyone stops looking around going whoa and you’ve gotta be kidding me so they can start doing stuff.

They don’t, because they have to get over jetlag, which is hard because Peter can’t go to sleep when there are so many things to do.

The race—Uncle Ben and Aunt May say it’s a Grand Prix, but Peter just calls it “the race”—has more people than Peter has ever seen in one place. He can’t find one spot where something isn’t going on. Some people are dressed for the beach and some people are wearing fancy suits and shiny jewellry. Sometimes Peter hears people stuff like over here and I’m coming. Everything else is French and Italian and a whole bunch of sounds he’s never heard.

Aunt May doesn’t like crowds. She never has, so she always tries to be doing something when she’s in one, like getting drinks or going to the bathroom. Right now she’s looking at a little map to find their seats, except it’s in French and Aunt May doesn’t know how to speak French, either. “Okay, I think we’re close. Or really far away.”

Uncle Ben walks up, holding Peter up near his shoulders. He looks at the map while Peter looks out at all the heads that are moving around, and the giant road where the racecars will be. They’re walking behind the bleachers, and every time they pass a staircase Peter gets excited but then they keep walking.

“Show me where we are, again?” says Uncle Ben. Aunt May shows it to him, but Uncle Ben looks up and shakes his head. “I don’t know if that’s right.”

“No, see, we just passed that, so now we’re here.”

“I think we just passed that.”

“How? That’s way over there.”

Uncle Ben flips the map rightside-up. If anyone else did that, it would be mean, but Uncle Ben does it in a nice way. Still, Aunt May ducks her head because she’s embarrassed and says, “Okay, we need to go back, then.”

So they turn around, and Peter asks, “Can I walk now?”

“Pete, I don’t want you getting lost in this crowd,” Uncle Ben says. “Way too many people here.”

“You don’t have to carry me. I can walk with Uncle Richard.”

“Alright. But you hold his hand. And don’t let go!”

Uncle Ben sets Peter down, and Peter waits until Uncle Richard comes up so he can hold his hand. Uncle Richard smiles and Peter smiles too, but it’s kind of weird because Uncle Richard has been kind of weird lately.

Aunt May and Uncle Ben don’t want Peter to go back to Malibu, but Uncle Richard really doesn’t want Peter to go back to Malibu, even though he lives in Malibu, too.

When Peter was in the hospital and asked Uncle Ben and Aunt May if he was going to keep living with Dad, they said, “We’ll see, buddy” or “Don’t worry about it, hon.” Uncle Richard said, “I don’t think so, Pete.” The last time Uncle Richard came over to visit, Dad called Peter and when he left to go talk to him, he heard Uncle Richard asking if Dad should be calling Peter at the same time every day instead of just whenever.

Peter thinks that Aunt May and Uncle Ben like Dad a little but he thinks Uncle Richard doesn’t like Dad at all.

But he doesn’t really know that, and he doesn’t want to tell Dad because he doesn’t want to hurt his feelings, and he doesn’t want to ask Uncle Richard until he knows 100% that it’s true. Uncle Richard is a doctor, and everyone tells Peter that being a doctor is hard because you work allll day, even on holidays, and you don’t get to take breaks, so it’s easy to get all grumpy. And he loves Uncle Richard, and he knows Uncle Richard loves him. Sometimes the adults just get a little too upset about him, like when Aunt May freaks out because she didn’t put a fruit in his lunchbox, or when Uncle Ben was going to take him to the movies but he got the time wrong.

Peter hopes that this vacation will help Uncle Richard relax. He thinks it’s working because everyone is having fun even if they’ve been busy so far. They keep going wow and look and that’s so beautiful. Uncle Richard is like Peter; they keep looking out at the ocean because it doesn’t look the way it does in Queens or Malibu.

“How’re we doing?” Uncle Richard asks when they’re walking together.

“’M okay.” Peter holds up his water bottle, which isn’t as cold anymore but is still all drippy. “Here, you have some. You’re sweaty.”

Uncle Richard does that weird smile he does when he doesn’t want to take something from Peter but he also kinda does. Peter holds onto his shirt while he’s unscrewing the bottle cap.

“Have you ever been to a race before?” Peter asks.

Uncle Richard shakes his head. “When I was a teenager I did track at my school, and we had races then. But that’s all.”

“You drove racecars?”

“No, like running and jumping and all that.” Peter doesn’t really mean to, but he guesses he makes a face or something, because Uncle Richard laughs in a way that doesn’t really sound that funny. “It was way before I lost my leg, bud.”

“Oh.” Somewhere a speaker comes on and a man’s voice says something in French. It’s loud but far away and Peter can’t tell where it’s coming from. “I don’t know what he’s saying.”

“Me neither. Probably just saying the race is going to start soon. Hey, Pete, look.”

There’s a tall stand covered in little flags on poles. Peter recognizes some of them, like America,  Italy, and France, but some he doesn’t. People are just walking up to the stand and grabbing flags without paying for them, because the man at the stand keeps saying “Take one! Prends-en un!” When he sees Peter he waves at all the flags but he keeps really pointing to the French one. When Peter takes the American one instead, the man throws his head back and howls, and Peter and Richard both laugh. Then they hurry to keep up with Uncle Ben and Aunt May.

Peter twirls the little flag in his hand and looks up at the buildings. They aren’t like they are in Queens, not just because they’re not shiny and made of glass. They all just stand there without signs, no Hyatt Place or Holiday Inn or Warwick.

“Where’s the Hotel de Paris?”

Uncle Richard takes so long to answer that Peter almost pulls on his hand again. “I dunno, Pete. I can’t really tell.”

“I hope Dad can see. Hey! Why are we going to our seats if it’s just a race? I-I still want to, but if they’re just going to go one time, why do we—why does anyone come out here to watch? What if you’re in the bathroom when they pass by?”

“Races have laps. The cars don’t just pass buy one time, they’ll probably come by…Fifty? Sixty times? Maybe more than that.”

“Ohhhh. How long is it going to be?”

“I don’t know. Hey, Peter—”

“How fast are the cars going to go? I thought you’re not supposed to go too fast in a car because you can crash, so how come it’s okay if you’re doing a race?”

“It’s—Well. I’m not sure. Hey—”

“Are the cars going to crash? Do cars crash when they’re in races?”

“The cars aren’t going to crash, Pete, I promise. Now, hey. Listen for a second, okay? There was something I was wanting to ask you.”

Peter ducks really quick because a lady wearing heels almost as tall as him just walked way too close and almost hit him with her leather bag. Uncle Richard gives her a mean look while she walks away, but Peter just asks, “What?”

“Why did you want to come here?” Peter doesn’t like feeling stupid, but he does, because he doesn’t really get the question. So now Uncle Richard has to say it in a different way so he can  get it, because that’s what adults have to do when kids are too dumb to get it. “I mean. Okay…What were you looking forward to the most when Dad asked you if you wanted to come to Monaco?”

Peter’s trying not to shrug so much anymore but he does this time. “I like to go places. Don’t you like to go places?”

“Well…yeah. But I mean—what about—here, what is…”

Uncle Richard does this sometimes, and Uncle Ben and Aunt May tell him not to get angry with him for it and not to make fun of him. Peter keeps talking so he doesn’t have to.

“I like going places that are new. And I like eating new food. And I’ve never been to a race before, so I wanted to go to one. And it’s really pretty here. And I wanted us all to go on a trip together.”

“Yeah?”

“Uh-huh. I don’t think me and you and Uncle Ben and Aunt May and Dad have all been on a trip before.”

“Mm-hm.” Uncle Richard nods and nods and nods even though Peter didn’t ask a question, but okay. “Was there anything you weren’t looking forward to?”

Peter doesn’t get this question, either, but he doesn’t let himself feel stupid again. “I don’t like it when I have to sit on a plane or in a car or something for a long time. I get bored.”

“Hm. Well, me neither.”

“I don’t like it when planes get bumpy or when I can’t move around. And I don’t like it when there are babies that are crying or when someone’s talking too loud. And I don’t like it when they have movies but all the movies are for adults or little babies or I’ve already seen them before—”

“Let me ask you this, buddy.” Richard squeezes his hand. Peter knows that that means Uncle Richard is about to get a little serious, and he doesn’t like it. He never does, but he really doesn’t like it now, when they’re supposed to be having fun on vacation and when they’re about to see a race. “Do you like going on trips a lot?”

“We don’t go on trips a lot.”

“Well, no, we don’t. But you and To—your dad do. Do you like that? Does that make you happy?”

Peter scratches under the ballcap that Uncle Ben let him wear. He doesn’t want to lie to Uncle Richard but he doesn’t want him to baby him when he tells him about something that makes him sad.

“I like hanging out with Dad. And I like going to the movies and museums and restaurants and the beach and parks and—”

“Yes, Pete, yes.”

“But.” Peter almost shrugs again, but he stops himself. “I don’t know. I wish we didn’t always have to go and do things. Like sometimes I wish he could just come home and we could watch a movie there or something. Or maybe we could just go to the park. We haven’t built Legos together for a long time. But maybe we can only do big stuff because Dad’s always busy so he can only stop working when it’s a big thing and not a small thing.”

Uncle Richard doesn’t say anything for a long time even when he’s done talking. At least it isn’t super quiet. Everyone’s talking and yelling and walking so it’s still really loud.

“So if you didn’t get to go on a trip with your dad for a while, would that make you sad?”

Peter shakes his head. “I would only be sad if we couldn’t—I wouldn’t be sad if we couldn’t go on trips, but I’d be sad if he didn’t talk to me or call me. Even when he gets sick or really busy we still talk on the phone.”

Uncle Richard squeezes his hand again, but this time he says something that isn’t that bad. “Do you want me to tell him that?”

“Um…” Peter scratches his ballcap again. Aunt May has been saying he needs a haircut and now he’s thinking she’s right because his hair feels all sweaty and scratchy on his neck. “No. Maybe…Maybe I’ll just ask him if we can do small stuff. Not like all the time but sometimes. But I’ll—I’ll tell him, you don’t have to.”

Uncle Richard doesn’t say anything this time, but Peter doesn’t know if he was going to. All of a sudden Uncle Richard is yelling and falling and he lets go of Peter but Peter holds on because Uncle Ben told him to so he ends up stumbling but not falling.

There’s a lot of popping and bopping and Uncle Ben saying, “Whoa!” Peter lets go of Uncle Richard’s hand so he can push himself back up, and looks back to see what happened. There’s another souvenir stand, except this one is selling cups instead of flags, and it’s been knocked over instead of standing up. The man selling the cups doesn’t seem angry that Uncle Richard knocked the stand over, but it’s hard to tell because he’s speaking French. All around them people are backing up and stepping over because the cups are rolling everywhere.

Aunt May helps Uncle Richard up on his feet. It’s not the first time she’s done that, and just like every time before, Uncle Richard looks really embarrassed and Peter feels sorry for him. Sometimes Uncle Richard’s prosthetic foot (sometimes Peter can’t really say that word right, pross-theh-tick, but Uncle Ben asked him to stop calling it his “fake foot” so he tries) makes him stumble and trip on things. Uncle Richard always gets really embarrassed even if people are really nice about it, but they’re not always nice. Like that time he knocked over the microphone of a street performer and the performer said some really bad words but afterwards Uncle Richard said I’m sorry to PETER just because he heard the bad words.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Uncle Richard is saying, and Peter tries to help him out by telling the man selling the cups, “He’s excusez-moi! He’s excusez-moi!”

“Oh, here, here.” Aunt May is picking up as many of the cups as she can, but she still has the map and her water bottle and backpack.

All the adults are stooping down to pick up the cups. Peter tries to help, too. He hopes that the man can still sell them even if they’re dirty now, and he wonders if they’re going to be late for the race but he knows they should help.

Peter looks up and sees another cup—he thinks it has the Russian flag on it?—still rolling away. He tries to run after it, but then someone kicks it away without even noticing.

He tries to grab it over and over but then it gets kicked again and agin. He’s starting to bump into people, and some of them say Oh! and Whoa! and a few words he doesn’t get but he thinks aren’t nice. He tries to say excuse me as much as he can.

Peter thinks he’s finally about to get it when it goes past an open door behind the bleachers and down a staircase. Peter hears it pink-ponk down the steps. Uh-oh.

He stands outside the door and looks down—the sun is really bright, and even all the way at the bottom of the stairs, he can see where the cup is. He looks on the other side of the door, but the sign’s in French again. It says P-E-R-S-O-N-N-E-L and U-N-I-Q-U-E-M-E-N-T and he has no idea what that means, but if it was important than the door wouldn’t just be open like this, right? Besides, he’s just running down real quick to grab the cup.

He tries to be fast and careful at the same time—it’s quieter here, and all the noise outside sounds cloudy. Peter grabs the cup, stacks it with the other two that he has, and turns around to go back up the stairs.

But then someone shuts the door.

All of a sudden it is dark. Not pitch-dark because there’s a tunnel at the end of where Peter is and he can still see sunlight, but darker than it was before.

He goes back up the rest of the stairs extra careful, but when he tries to press on the bar on the door, it doesn’t move. Is it locked? Is someone holding it shut? Is he just not strong enough?

Aunt May,” he calls out. His voice hurts his ears. “Uncle Ben!”

They can’t hear him.

Peter turns back around, holding the cups so tight they go oval. It is dark, and quiet, and he doesn’t know where he is or where he’s supposed to go, and Monaco is big and new and filled with strangers.

He feels small and lost, but worse than that, this place is reminding Peter a lot of the staircase back at Stark Industries. The long, dark one that he had to run down all by himself while Stane was looking for him and trying to kill him.

But Peter tries to be brave. He’s not a baby anymore and he’s not going to sit here and cry.

He goes back down the stairs and walks towards the end of the tunnel. Outside there are a lot of fences, and the giant road that the racecars are going to drive on. Peter is pretty sure he’s not supposed to be here after all, but he hopes he won’t get in trouble if he tells everyone he was just trying to help the man selling cups.

The closer he comes to the end of the tunnel, the more Peter can hear—lots of people, and the man speaking French on the speaker. Suddenly a big group of men in orange suits come jogging by. They aren’t police officers, but Peter is pretty sure they work here. He calls out to them, but they don’t hear. Peter starts running to try and catch up with them.

Being back in the sunlight doesn’t make him feel any better. The fences are tall and wide; they look like a giant maze. There are signs and arrows and bright stickers, and even though Peter can’t tell what they say, he knows that children aren’t supposed to be here.

There are some men in suits and helmets a little far away, but Peter doesn’t know how to get to them. He doesn’t know if he should go left or right, or even if he should just turn back around and wait by the stairs.

Aunt May and Uncle Ben and Uncle Richard are probably worried, Peter thinks. Uncle Ben told me to hold Uncle Richard’s hand so I didn’t get lost but now I am. They’re going to be mad.

Peter keeps walking without even knowing where he’s going, but his courage doesn’t last long. The closer he comes to being seen by the crowd, the more nervous he is. Will everyone start freaking out when they see him? Will people point at him and yell at him? All he wants is to get back with his family but he’s scared of getting in trouble when he wasn’t trying to be bad.

He turns around. He’ll go the other way or he’ll go back to the door.

Then Peter sees one of the men in the orange suits, and the man sees him, too, because he’s very close.

Peter feels kind of…scared while he looks up at the man. He is very tall, so tall that Peter has to back up just to see him right. He has a serious face that Peter thinks means he’s angry a lot. He has long black hair and a mustache, and tattoos that Peter can’t really see that well. His hands are huge. He looks very strong, but Peter’s scared that it makes it easier for him to hurt people.

Still, Peter doesn’t run away and he doesn’t say anything. Mom and Uncle Ben and Aunt May and Uncle Richard have always told him not to judge other people just because of how they look. He thought Happy looked a little scary when they met but Happy’s his friend now, so maybe this man is like that.

The man is looking down at Peter kind of funny, squinting even though the sunlight isn’t on him. He’s wearing a helmet that says INTERVENTION on it, and Peter knows what that word means, but he doesn’t know what the man does.

Peter clears his throat and says what he’s been practicing for the past few days. “Mon nom est Peter. Je suis perdu. Pouvez-vous m’aider s’il vous plait?”

That’s what Google told him to say, but Peter knows he’s doing it wrong. He says his name like “Peter,” not “Peet-air”. The last sentence always gets him. He tries to go slow, but he knows he sounds jumbled and weird, like a baby that wants to talk but doesn’t know how.

The man squints a little more. Does he know French? Even if he did, he probably wouldn’t have understood…

Disappointment fills Peter, but the man bends down, putting his wrists on his knees as he squats down in front of Peter. He takes out the toothpick from his mouth and points at the American flag Peter still has with it.

“Are you American, зайчик?” Peter doesn’t know what the man’s is speaking, but it isn’t French. And zay-chick doesn’t sound French. “Do you speak English?”

Peter nods. “My name is Peter. I’m lost. Can you help me?”

The man squints again. “How did you get here?”

“There was a—a man selling these cups.” Peter holds them up as proof. “And my Uncle Richard, he has a pross-theh-tick leg and he accidentally knocked over the stand, and all the cups went falling everywhere. We were all trying to pick them up to help, but one of them fell down the stairs over there, and I went down to get it but the door closed behind me and I couldn’t open it again. I don’t know how to get back to my family now.”

While Peter is talking, the man stands back up to his feet and stops looking at him. He starts looking around but in a way that doesn’t look like he’s looking for something, just kind of looking. One of his huge hands scratches his cheek.

Without saying anything, he holds out his hand. Peter takes it. It’s rough and hard—like Dad’s hands, and Dad said they got that way because he worked in the lab a lot so maybe the man does something like that. He and Peter start walking, the man a little slower than normal and Peter a little faster. When they come out in front of the crowd, a few people look at them kind of funny but no one really says anything.

The man leans down. “Do you see your family?”

Peter looks as hard as he can. There are so many colors and too many people, walking and waving and clapping. He thinks he sees Aunt May’s hat, but it’s not her. He thinks he sees Uncle Ben’s shirt, but it’s not him. Peter is still really short, so he can’t even see all the people.

“No, I can’t,” he answers.

The man stoops down, lower this time, and waves to Peter to come closer. Peter thinks he knows what he means but he still waits for the man to say, “Climb on.”

When he’s on the man’s shoulders it’s waaaay easier to see everyone. More people look at him, a few point, but Peter stays focused and looks all over. No, no, no. Maybe? No. No. There! No? No.

Finally, finally, Peter sees two arms way near the top of the bleachers waving back and forth. It’s Uncle Ben. He’s waving to Peter, and beside him Aunt May is waving too, and bouncing up and down. Uncle Richard knows he doesn’t have to wave too, but does when Peter waves back. Aunt May puts a hand to her chest and sighs in relief. Uncle Ben starts rushing over.

It takes a minute of winding through the people and the fences and the stairs—Peter staying high and mighty on the man’s shoulders—but finally the man bends down and lets Peter climb off. As soon as his feet are down, Peter runs to Uncle Ben and hugs him.

“Ohhhh, buddy.” Uncle Ben lifts him up, holding a hand to the back of his head. “Oh, buddy, don’t ever scare me like that again. You can’t go wandering off like that.”

“I wasn’t,” says Peter. “I was trying to get more of the cups, and one fell down the stairs and the door shut behind me and I couldn’t get back out—”

“Okay, okay, slow down. I understand.” Peter doesn’t think he does. He talks too fast sometimes, especially when he’s scared or excited.

“But this worker helped me—”

Peter turns around to thank the tall man.

But he’s gone.

Peter looks left and right, but the man is just gone now. Like a ghost. Even Uncle Ben looks confused, but after a second he just says, “Well, it’s alright now, Peter. Come on, let’s head back. Race is about to start.”

So he and Peter go back up to the bleachers, even though Peter feels guilty for not being able to say thank-you to the tall man. Aunt May and Uncle Richard say what he thought they were going to say. You had us worried sick and don’t ever do that again. But they’re not too angry, and finally they start going to their seats, which Aunt May is absolutely positive are very close now. Peter thinks he’s going to be holding someone’s hand for the whole rest of the trip, no matter what.

The trip hasn’t been ruined, and Peter’s happy about that. It’s like when he pours a bowl of cereal but finds out they’re out of milk. It’s bad but everything’s fine. Peter wonders if he should tell Dad or not when he sees him later.

It was a good vacation. It was supposed to be a good vacation. They were all going to be happy, Aunt May and Uncle Ben were going to get along just fine, and Uncle Richard was going to relax, and Dad was going to spend time with all of them. It was going to be fun and normal and good.

So why did that change?

Peter doesn’t know. Peter doesn’t know anything.

When he was little, Mom would sometimes let him watch her grownup movies with her. Sometimes she’d shoo him back into his room if they started saying bad words or if it got too scary, but it was never stuff like that that bothered Peter. He didn’t like it when the good guys and bad guys were fighting and everything just went crazy. He couldn’t tell what was happening or who was who or where anyone was, and he always left during those scenes because he felt dizzy and stupid.

For a minute they’re just sitting there while everyone is cheering and clapping. Uncle Ben spills his water bottle and he and Aunt May fight over whether he should take hers or not. While Uncle Richard is talking to Uncle Ben, Peter notices that the people in front of him have American flags and taps them on the shoulder, asking if they could maybe scooch over so Uncle Richard can see better without standing up and down and up and down.

Peter tries to stay seated until the race begins but then he looks at one of the giant televisions that have been set up and he sees Dad—dressed up in a cool suit and climbing into one of the cars. He screams, “He’s going to race! He’s going to be in a car!” and his family nods but shushes him, probably scared he’s going to say “Dad” in front of everyone.

The race starts, and they wait, and everyone’s cheering even when the road is still empty. Peter is jumping in his seat. It’s warm and bright, and he twists his hat to cover his eyes so he doesn’t squint too hard.

Then the cheering changes. People sound confused, not excited. Everyone’s looking at something, and it’s not where the cars are supposed to be coming. Aunt May says, “What’s he doing?”

One of the men in the orange INTERVENTION suits is going out onto the road, but isn’t that what they’re supposed to do? Or maybe it’s too late now and it’s dangerous. Peter tries not to feel scared that the man will be hit. He tells himself, He knows what he’s doing. This is his job.

But then the man is burning. His suit goes up in smoke and he’s covered in metal, all over his arms and chest. People start to gasp and yell when he holds out two long whips that start to spark and zap, and it’s scary…but what scares Peter more is the white circle in the man’s chest. It looks like Dad’s.

“What’s he doing?” asks Peter, but he’s just one scared kid in a crowd of scared people, so no one answers him. “What are those things?”

That’s when Peter thinks of those old movies he watched with Mom. One second he sees the first car come zooming down the road.

The next second, the man throws out one of his zapping whips, and the car flies over his head in two burning pieces.

People scream. Peter screams. There are sparks and smoke and fire—the insides of the car are bright orange and burning and it looks wrong, like the inside of a person. The crash hurts Peter’s ears. The person behind him sits up so fast he knocks into Peter.

Someone grabs him, and Peter starts to fight without looking—it’s Uncle Ben. But it’s a scared Uncle Ben, an Uncle Ben that’s moving fast and sloppy, hauling Peter onto his shoulder and grabbing Uncle Richard’s shirt to pull him. Aunt May is fighting through to the other side of the bleachers. Not everyone is moving like she is. Some people are frozen.

Peter is so scared and confused that his brain isn’t working. He can’t think of anything—just that he wants to stay, for some reason. Like maybe if he stays he can do something.

Peter is high in the air, bumping around on Uncle Ben’s shoulders, when the next car comes.

And it’s Dad’s.

And it’s burning and smoking and flying across the road in pieces.

They leave the bleachers. They run somewhere, far far away from the road and the crowd, until they can’t even hear the man speaking French on the speakers. It doesn’t matter how far they run, though, because all Peter can see is Dad’s car all broken and smashed and burning while he was still inside of it.

“It’s okay,” Uncle Ben and Aunt May and Uncle Richard tell him over and over and over, “It’s okay, it’s okay.”

Peter wants them to say that Dad is okay, but they don’t have to, because for some reason he knows that. Dad may be scratched up and bleeding, but he’s Iron Man. He’s probably taking care of the bad guy right now.

That’s not why Peter’s crying, in that hiccupping, snotty, red way that babies do. He buries his face into Uncle Ben’s shirt so no one can see. He’s scared and confused and embarrassed. He tries to tell his family why he’s like this, but every time he tries to say it, his voice just won’t work.

It was the man, Peter can’t say. It was the man that helped me get back to you guys. I was with him. He was right there. I could’ve stopped him.

Chapter 36: Chapter Thirty-Six

Summary:

Even if Tony can string things together in a semi-logical way, the Parkers cannot. They do not see it as the continuing consequences of what Howard did, and the legacy Tony had continued. All they know is that if Mary had gotten together with any other man on the planet, this wouldn't be happening to them. Their lives are the way that they are because a waiter spilled champagne on Tony's suit.

Maybe there exists a timeline like that. Maybe he's George Bailey, but the inverse—the world with him in it is not a wonderful life at all.

Chapter Text

"That was just to pass the time on the flight over. I don't make it a habit to read on the job."

Tony shakes his head at Natalie, and tucks the bookmark back into place before setting the book down again. Howard, Stark and Unabridged. Such a pretentious name for an glorified Wikipedia page. Tony just skimmed through the section dedicated to his father's experimentations with the Arc technology and found nothing that he hasn't heard a million times before.

"No worries. Full of inaccuracies, though. 'Met Maria Collins Carbonell at a Christmas Party' should be followed by 'when he spilled eggnog on her dress'."

Natalie's smile is as amused as it is fleeting. "Everything has been cancelled. We're ready to go whenever you are."

"Fantastic."

A cluster of their bags and suitcases is near the door. Packing up had been quick and effortless, since there was hardly any unpacking in the first place. Natalie is taking everything amazingly well. She and Pepper must be cut from the same cloth, to not be losing her mind over everything that has transpired over the last few hours.

Natalie sweeps up the last spread of sheets on the coffee table by the window. Outside, Monaco looks as bright and lush as ever—which upsets Tony, like after what's happened the day shouldn't be allowed to be so sunny and clear.

"I would offer to reschedule for you, but the best I can do for now is hold off on scheduling anything else." Natalie tucks her folder away and shuts her laptop. "Between how chaotic things are likely about to get—"

"Yeah, no vacations anytime soon. I can find other ways to get out of the house."

"Is there anything in particular you were looking forward to?" she asks, in calculated sweetness. It's not her job to try and put him at ease, but Tony supposes he can appreciate it.

Watching Peter point to anything and everything and shouting, 'Look! Look!' Teaching him French words that he'll actually be able to pronounce. Showing him just how big the world is. "Monaco is Monaco. Be easier to say what I wasn't looking forward to. Here." Tony pushes the book over to her. "I won't stop you, just know that the little booklets we sell to kids in the gift shop are more accurate."

She takes it, lips pursed. "I know you said you don't wish to speak to Colonel Rhodes right now, but he's very adamant. It might be urgent."

"Have I ever told you that I'm clairvoyant? If you give me a second, I can actually type out a script of exactly how the conversation will go."

"Mr. Stark, it would be highly unprofessional of me to interfere or give advice regarding your personal matters, but I would imagine at the moment that Colonel Rhodes is attempting to make contact over what has transpired today."

"Yeah, don't think he won't throw in a dash of personal matters in there for seasoning. He's quite the expert at that."

Tony's phone vibrates in his pocket, as it has been for the past three hours, but he's obligated to check it every single time. Peter has not responded to him yet. Only Ben has given him his reassurance that they're all fine, but he needs to hear it from his son. Tony needs some kind of proof that everything has not come undone—that all the therapy and the time and the talking hasn't been erased, and that Peter's healing process has not gone back to square one.

Of all the seats around the Prix, they had to have the ones right there.

Ben has texted again, but this time it sets Tony's gears in motion.

Plane leaves in just over an hour.

Tony types back, Be there in twenty.

"Alright, Ms. Rushman. You are about to have your first experience of the ol' Shake 'Em Off protocol."


It is always Happy's job to carry out the Shake 'Em Off protocol—which he always does with great determination, always eager to show off his brain power and not just his brute strength. This is why Tony prefers an everyman for a bodyguard (eugh) rather than a highly-trained FBI agent: Happy doesn't need to have a squad of armed men at his disposal, he just needs to know how people think.

Tony first has to convince Natalie to wait a while before taking her own taxi to the airport—saying it'd be to spare her if he got swarmed. As for Tony, he donned his old friends Mr. Hat and Mr. Mask and snuck out the back door to the streets, which he knows are warm and vibrant and teeming with culture in every brick, but now seem as dismal as a New York alley during a cold rain.

Three turns from the hotel, the black car curls around a corner, and Tony sticks his hand out to hail down his 'taxi'. For added effect, he gives a fake address in French as he climbs in, not that Happy could even try to say okay back. The tinted glass of the windows washes Monaco out, which pleases Tony. More fitting for the mood, and now his eyes won't be drawn to look at all the experiences that Peter won't have.

A few more streets, and the car slows again. Ben and May tuck their luggage into the trunk, but Peter scrambles into the back too fast for anyone to scold him.

Tony hugs him tight, though he knows that Peter is hugging him. It makes him feel almost guilty, as if he should've known better than to nearly be murdered in front of Peter. Of all the times and places Mr. Ivan Vanko could have made his attempt on Tony's life, he just had to do it when his son was there and watching.

"Are you okay?" Peter asks. His voice is muffled into Tony's T-shirt, but he doesn't sound that worried, already comforted but asking regardless.

"M'fine. Not a scratch. What about you? Are you okay?"

He isn't expecting Peter to look so…well, pissed when he pulls back. Tony wants to say that he's still a child and can't fully understand, but he knows that seven or seventeen or seventy, his father almost got julienned by a psychopath with giant electric whips and asked if Peter was okay.

"Alright. Sore subject."

"I'm okay."

"I hear you." Has he ever had to use his take it easy voice on Peter before? Woof.

Peter shuffles to sit right next to him, and ducks his head when the door opens again. Ben climbs in first, and as May follows, she puts on a perfect pedestrian voice and tells Happy, "To the airport, please."

Happy gives a double-intended thumbs-up and sets the car in motion. Everyone buckles in, and they all fall apart. Tony can almost feel the car grinding down on the road from the sudden weight. They are safe in a little car driving down the street, and it feels very, very wrong, as it always does when something quakes the Earth but it keeps turning regardless.

Ben runs his hands down his face until his cheeks drag off his jaw. Then he straightens up and asks, "You sure you're okay?"

"I'm fine, Scout's Honor. Didn't even make a dent in me." Tony realizes then that there are only three Parkers in the car. "Where's Richard?"

"He, uh…He decided to meet us there. He had to take care of something."

It's such a vague answer that Ben might as well have been silent, but Tony doesn't think a thing of it. Whether the Parkers are driving in one car or a hundred is so very inconsequential right now. "What about all of you?"

"We're okay." May nods and nods and keeps nodding, until the auburn hair in her bun falls loose and she has to push her glasses back up her nose. "We're okay. Okay. Okay! Okay. O-kay."

Ben pats her knee. "Okay?"

"We're all okay. Okay. Now I need to know…" May looks down at Peter, still at Tony's side, while her lips squirm on her face like a lid on a boiling pot, until finally she spits, "What the S-H-I-T just happened?!"

Peter is so offended he sits up pin-straight. "I know how to spell 'shit'!"

Happy, May, Tony, and Ben chorus one great, booming HEY that seems to shake the whole car. Peter falls back into his seat again but doesn't apologize.

Tony pats him on the head and explains. Or tries his damndest. "I have never met him in my life. No one knows how me managed to sneak by security, but they have him detained now and took away all his toys. Probably going to be sitting in a jail cell until the end of time."

"But why?!" May grasps the air for answers, but her hands stay empty. "Was he with the Ten Rings? Was that it?"

"No, he…" Tony chews on the already tender flesh of his cheek while Vanko's words echo between his ears. You come from a family of thieves and butchers. "I'm just going to say that before I turned things around, Stark Industries was in the business of hurting other people. Not that you need me to say that, but still. Most of them aren't capable of doing what this guy did, but I'm positive that a lot of people out there would like some justice."

Peter looks up at him, frowning. "I thought you made weapons to get rid of bad guys?"

There are so many ways to explain war to a child, but only a few are honest, and honesty can be confusing. Lips pucker as though refusing out of their owners' will to even try to begin. Good guys and bad guys, innocent lives, needless violence…

Tony answers by not answering at all. "I know that you're going to hate hearing this, but you'll get it when you're older. It's something that even adults really don't know how to explain, alright?"

Peter pouts, of course, but doesn't argue. Shaking his head, Ben asks, "So that's it? Someone hurt by all the weapons you made or…?"

Tony taps his finger on the armrest while he thinks. That's not the truth, but Tony doesn't know what the truth is. All he knows is that his father is responsible, but to what degree is a mystery. Did Howard create a weapon that ruined everything Vanko knew? Or was this more personal? Anton Vanko—a man killed by bomb branded with the Stark Industries logo, or Howard's own two hands?

Peter speaks again, and it makes them all squirm. "Maybe he just wanted to hurt Dad? Sometimes bad people are just bad, right?"

"Maybe. That might just be it." Tony nods and hums like this is a legitimate working theory, and Peter nods back. He's been doing this a lot—inserting himself into the adults' conversations to prove himself. Usually it's in the vein of hearing Tony and Ben talking about politicians abusing their power and Peter joining in with a story about his homeroom teacher scolding him when he wasn't doing anything wrong. Not…this. He turns back to Ben and May and goes on, "I am not one-hundred-percent positive. He was pretty gloomily vague about it—"

"Wait." May's eyes squint to slivers behind her glasses. "You talked to him?"

In contrast, Peter's eyes boggle out of his skull. "Why?!"

"To answer this question. There were guards five feet away, he had no weapons, and they stripped him to his tighty-whities, alright? Safe and sound." In spite of his promise, May and Peter's noses remain scrunched on their faces. Or perhaps that's more directed at the 'tighty-whities'. "Like I said, though, not much to say."

"So, nothing? Just an angry nobody who wanted to get some payback?" Ben's hands flop about in a secondhand-embarrassment-inducing mimicry of the electric whips that had spliced the racecars in half. "How did he—the—the things—"

"He is a surprisingly intelligent angry nobody who wanted to get some payback. Either that or he had enough money to get someone else to make it for him."

As he says this, Tony swears he can feel the palladium festering beneath his skin, as it has been for the past few hours. As though finally being acknowledged by someone else has awakened it, and it's taunting Tony that it won't be ignored for any longer.

Ivan Vanko isn't just intelligent. More than that, he knows what palladium poisoning looks like. He knows that the Arc Reactor is doing it, when the Arc technology has been the most vied-after secret in the world of science. More than that, that knowledge is not from sheer luck or research or long coffee-filled nights reading the inaccuracy-filled biographies people wrote of Iron Man's life and his father's. It's personal. Someone had to tell him that, and common sense and a working brain tells Tony it would be Vanko's father.

It is shaking to know that Howard has done something to the Vankos to spur Ivan into doing something that was as much of a risk to his own life as it was to Tony's.

It just isn't surprising.

"What's most important," Tony goes on, "is that he's taken care of. He's not getting out anytime soon."

May pulls her hair back so tightly it seems her scalp is about to peel off. "But that it happened at all, between him and—and—"

She clearly tries her best, but she can't help but look at Peter. His attention has been caught by the washed-out view out of the window—perhaps trying to soak up what little of Monaco he can—but turns back when he hears the silence. He sits there, saying nothing, and it's impossible to tell if he knows. May shifts in her seat, Ben curls and uncurls his fingers, and Tony scratches at his neck.

Usually they'd be trying to figure out how to shoo him away from the conversation without pulling the adults are talking card he hates so much. Why don't you go play a video game, Peter? Let's finish up that homework, okay, Peter? Now the problem is that…Well. They're in a car.

Then Happy clears his throat, and looks at Peter through glances at the rearview. "Hey, Peter, no one's claimed the shotgun. What do you say?"

Instead of rocketing forward, Peter looks at all the adults in turn. He knows. He obviously knows. But he's either tired or he just doesn't want to start this fight right now, because he only says a quiet okay.

It takes help from May and Ben, a great deal of wiggling, and an elbow to Happy's ear ("Agh—I'm good. I'm good.") for Peter to finally make it up there. Once he's buckled it, Happy nonchalantly puts up the privacy screen. The last thing heard is Peter's silence and Happy advising him to maybe sit a little low because he doesn't know if Monaco has a law about children sitting in the front seat.

May pulls out her hair tie and collapses back into her seat. She doesn't even react when the back of her head hits the screen. "I don't know if I can stomach this." Ben and Tony say nothing, because there's nothing more to add. "What happened with Stane and the giant robot suit, I—okay. Crazy as hell, but okay. You having a flying suit and fighting terrorists and stopping robberies with your—those—pew-pew things in your hand, I learned how to deal with that. But I can't deal with this. I can't deal with just a completely random person being able to make those giant lightning-whip-things so they can kill you. That is too much. It's like a neverending fever dream."

"Alright, but…" Ben moves his hands around as though it'll help him gather the right words. "Tony didn't mean for this to happen; he didn't ask this guy to come here and—"

"Yeah, Ben, I know he didn't mean for this to happen. You don't have to tell me because I never said that."

"I'm just saying—"

"Don't just say stuff that doesn't need to be just said. I wasn't blaming Tony, I never said anything like that—"

"Alright, alright. Hey." Tony waves both of them down, feeling probably more uncomfortable than he's ever felt in his life. May huffs and Ben sighs. Tony almost makes a sound himself—having to be Mr. and Mrs. Parker's mediator, what is happening to his life… "May wasn't blaming me, so no need to just say. And she's right. Even if Whip-It had the most eloquent reason on the planet, it's a little difficult to call this an 'isolated incident'."

"I just…" May tugs at her scalp again. "Oh my god…I cannot remember what it was like to have a normal life."

"Tell me about it."

Ben's eyes follow the blurs passing through the windows. People going shopping, meeting with their friends for lunch, families on vacation.

"I guess I am worried if this is 'normal' now. We can't—it's not your fault, Tony, but I don't think we can just keep going on waiting for the next 'big thing' to happen. I know that sounds weird, like we should expect to deal with more maniacs with super gadgets trying to kill you, but…"

"This has happened twice now," May finishes for him. "And it shouldn't have happened once. Ever. Not in this reality. What the hell."

"And this is actually worse," Ben continues. He's never sounded so helpless before; he's given up the fight for optimism. "What happened with Stane, I could spend the next five hours talking about how horrible that was, but at least he was…At least we figured him out in the end, at least we knew that it was a horrible personal vendetta. The only reason he got to make that giant robot-Transformer thing was because he had the resources to do it. But this was just…someone. Just a complete stranger you've never met a day in your life who you maybe hurt in an indirect way."

Tony deliberates if telling them what little truth he knows would be helpful or not. Oh, no, don't worry—this was a personal vendetta, too. Now everything makes sense!

Even if Tony can string things together in a semi-logical way, the Parkers cannot. They do not see it as the continuing consequences of what Howard did, and the legacy Tony had continued. All they know is that if Mary had gotten together with any other man on the planet, this wouldn't be happening to them. Their lives are the way that they are because a waiter spilled champagne on Tony's suit.

Maybe there exists a timeline like that. Maybe he's George Bailey, but the inverse—the world with him in it is not a wonderful life at all.

"I just want to say, first of all, I'm sorry."

Ben and May speak at once. "I'm not trying to say—" "We didn't mean—"

"No, hey, just hold on. Let me finish, alright?" He waves them down again. "I'm sorry that you are having to deal with this, and I'm sorry that you have to keep dealing with this. It doesn't matter if I sent a handwritten invitation to Mr. Vanko asking him to slice-and-dice my racecar in the middle of the Prix. At the end of the day, this came back to me."

May stares a hole into the floor of the car, and Ben's voice struggles to get out of his throat, but ultimately they sit there in undenying silence.

"So what I would like to know now is how I can make this up to you. Whatever you need. I can hire a personal driver for you, I can try to get some security at your apartment—your apartments, I can—"

"That's…That's sweet, Tony." May is shaking her head again as she says it. "But all that's going to do is write THESE PEOPLE AREN'T NORMAL across our forehead. Peter can't come to school in a motorcade. There is no way that I can explain to people that I can't afford to replace my iPhone every time a new model comes out, but I can afford to have a personal bodyguard around." Tony almost says that he would not mind providing quality, non-Apple phones to her, but her withering glare shuts him up. "Unless we want to come up with something like, oh, yeah, that's Gary, my brother. Why did I never mention him before? I don't know, but he lives with us now."

"Also, I don't think we need protection." Ben shrugs, then grimaces because now is not the time to be shrugging. "I mean, the only people who know about Peter are the people we trust the most, right?"

"For now," counters May. "Then what? What happens when someone finally does figure it out? What happens when they come to our home, or Peter's school? It doesn't matter if we have the entire U.S. Army protecting us, that's it. The only way we could even try to have a normal life after that is if we got into some kind of protection program, got shipped to the middle of Nebraska, and changed our names to Maya and Bennett and Percy or something."

Ben nods along until the end, when his brows furrow. "Why would our…Why would our fake names still sound like our real names?"

"Seriously, Ben?"

"I'm just asking, it seems…counterintuitive."

"I was being hypothetical. I was exaggerating. I very obviously was."

"For what it's worth," Tony cuts in, again, "you will have the whole S.H.I.E.L.D. organization protecting you guys. But like you said, it's not just about safety. The issue is that, to be very candid here, I don't know what to do if not protect you guys. I would love nothing more than for you to live a completely normal life of morning newspapers and Taco Tuesdays, but I don't know if I can give you guys that."

Apology oozes from every word—I'm sorry I met Mary, I'm sorry that she died and led you to me, I'm sorry that I'm me. He just doesn't know what else to do but apologize. He can't just turn back time and make it so their paths never crossed.

May and Ben mimic one another by holding their hands over their mouths as they think. Or try to figure out how to say what they're about to say.

"Maybe we should…" May refuses to look at Tony, instead focusing on picking beneath her fingernails. "Maybe we should cut back on the trips for now? Just keep it to phone calls and video chats?"

Ben's frown is so heavy it seems to weigh his jaw down. "He has to stay in Peter's life somehow."

"I know, that's why I said phone calls and video chats!"

"That's not staying in his life, that's just checking in every now and then—"

"Okay, so what happens when he and Peter are going out for ice cream one day and another maniac with a rocket launcher goes after them?"

"How would they know they'd be there? This Vanko guy knew Tony would be at the Prix because it was on the news and everything."

"So what?! Maybe Tony's mask just slips one day, or Peter finally says something without meaning to, and then that's that. I'm just saying maybe go low contact for a while."

"Well, how long is 'a while' going to be? When's the due date?"

May closed her eyes and took a deep breath. "Ben, I know that you think it's really important for a parent to always be there for their child—"

"Why is that—I don't understand how that's a bad thing to think?"

"It's not, I'm just saying that you specifically really think that because of everything that happened with your parents—"

Ben's walls almost physically manifest around him, iron and riveted and three feet thick. He looks away from his wife who now lives in a different apartment in favor of the outside world and its glimpses at the mundane. "Alright."

"That's not what I'm trying to say. I'm not trying to say you're just being emotional, I'm just saying that maybe you're making this a little personal. Ben, look at me. Please?"

Their voices fade into a fog, somewhere faraway and dark. Tony is sitting in the car with the Parkers, his son, and Happy, in a little car winding through Monaco—and he also isn't. It's impressive how he can still disassociate even in such a tiny space.

He was about to say something, though he didn't know what—only that it would be the winner of a battle between his heart and his mind. Before, anyone else that could hurt Peter after Stane was hidden away behind a wall of hypotheticality. Maybe, could-be, not yet. That wall is gone now. They exist. Whether they be two-faced chameleons who worm their way into Tony's life, or strangers all the way across the ocean.

They could hurt Peter. That's still hypothetical, but in a way that sounds like a ticking clock. It seems that Vanko wants to hurt Tony for what Howard did. Now it seemed like a matter of time until someone hurts Peter for whatever Tony did.

Yet still Tony wants to protest, because being with Peter repels a fear that he can't put a name to. Or maybe it's several fears, many fears. The fear of being alone, the fear of losing him, the fear of falling back into his old ways, the fear of being nothing but a bad memory, the fear of becoming Howard.

If Tony's brain lost to his heart, then he was going to plead to stay somehow. Probably come up with a thousand unimaginably complicated ways to invisible at Peter's side. Perhaps suggest that they go to the most remote and desolate places on the Earth if it meant spending time with him, meeting under highway overpasses and eating lunch in dark alleys.

Then Tony remembers he is going to die soon.

Meaning this entire conversation is meaningless.

This is it: the absolute one and only part of is death that Tony can be thankful for.

He could tell Ben and May right now that they don't need to worry about anything; and that they don't need to worry about compromising their lives anymore. In just a short while now, it will all be over.

That's good.

That's great.

Would they like to hear that?

Probably. It would put so many of their worries at ease. No more money, no more travel, no more trauma. Just taking care of a boy they love.

But what else does it mean, for Tony? It means that this could have been Tony's last day with Peter. Their last outing together was not sitting in a dark movie theater or holding up their arms as they rocketed down a rollercoaster. It was Peter watching Tony almost die.

"Almost die." As if the fact that he didn't is some kind of relief.

Peter can't watch someone almost lacerate his father to pieces and then lose him anyway not a month later. He can't take that…but he's going to have to, isn't he?

So is it better to give him a short time of levity before Tony's gone, or let him go now and not bother letting him heal?

He looks through the fog for just a moment to listen to May and Ben argue, without any heat but somehow worse because of it. He can't agree too quickly. That will scream that something is horribly wrong with him; they know by now how hard he'll try to stay with Peter. However relieved they'd be to know the truth, that's not an option, either. He can't tell Peter, so he can't tell the Parkers—he cannot put them in a position where Peter may hate them when he's older, when he finds out that they hid it from him, too.

He hadn't hated Vanko before, not exactly. Even after he tried to kill him, Tony was not consumed with a white-hot rage. He was just baffled, too busy trying to wrap his head around why to hate him.

He does now. Even if it all comes back to Howard or Tony, Vanko just had to pull this shit so close to his deadline.

"I understand," he says. He doesn't even bother trying to quiet them first. Their hot hisses at each other stop, and they give him their full attention. "And I agree. We can't risk Peter's safety like that."

Ben's eyes flutter at him. Uncomprehending. "But you can't—Peter's going to be upset—"

"Better upset than in the hospital, right?" May and Ben both wince like he'd struck them, and Tony wants to strangle himself. He can't be cold just because he feels cold. "I'm not going to completely erase him out of my life. I know that keeping contact over the phone isn't ideal, but Peter's old enough to understand why, even if he isn't happy about it."

May nods but doesn't look happy in the slightest that he agrees with her. Tony wonders if this will be the last time he sees her, too, and it sickens him how much she's changed. When he'd first met her, she was the type of person who radiated life, all warm smiles and wild hair and polka dots. Now she's been sapped dry, whitewashed. That's how she's changed ever since he entered her life.

"I guess, though…Ben's kinda got a point," she says, quiet and creaking. Has Tony ever heard her voice rise with anything other than stress? When did he last hear her crack a joke, or laugh through her mouth instead of her nose? "It's not like we can put a timer on it, but you have to see him sometime."

Ben has no response; he only stares down at his hands. Has there always been that much silver in his hair? It was always there, a little hint at his temples, but it seems to have seeped further. He's always had lines in the corners of his eyes, too, and before anyone would think they were from smiling so wide, but they are only crow's feet now and nothing more.

"We'll figure it out," Tony says to May and Ben, residents of Pottersville. "Maybe it'll take months, or a year. Peter's strong. This won't break him."

Tony doesn't know when the fast-forward button was hit, but suddenly they're in the airport parking lot. The doors open, letting in too much light and color for Tony to take. The privacy screen rolls back down, but Peter's already out and helping with the bags. Tony watches through Peter wrestles with a duffel as big as he is, cheeks puffed out like a chipmunk and arms shaking. He seems okay. Maybe he's not, but he seems okay.

Tony stays in the car as they say goodbye. He hides in the shadows while the Parkers stand in their last bit of European sunlight with their ballcaps and sunglasses. Even if he was out with them, would this be any less awkward? He and May and Ben say their farewells, but there are no shoulder hugs or waves. Ben doesn't do that specifically-male action of joining their hands together and tapping Tony's shoulder against his own. They lift up the corners of their mouths because you do that when you say goodbye.

Peter only drops the colossal duffel bag (which Ben hastily sweeps up, as if he won't notice) to hug Tony one more time. It's tight, but stiff. Tony's come to learn that hugging is an entire language to Peter. Loose but rigid means he doesn't want to hug at all. One quick squeeze and then limpness means he's sleepy and can't do much. Tight but stiff means there's something on his mind.

When he steps back, Peter turns to his aunt and uncle and says, very succinctly, "Can I talk to Dad for a minute?"

Of course, May and Ben nod and okay, take the bags and walk until they're in eyesight but not earshot. It still isn't easy—knowing it won't be a happy conversation, that this will be his last time seeing Tony for a while. And having to realize that he is growing up faster than any of them can keep up with. When did he become old enough to ask, Can I be alone? Can you go away, adults?

Even once the unwanted audience is gone, Peter doesn't speak right away. For a moment Tony thinks he's struggling to meet his eyes, but then he realizes Peter is staring at the light of the Arc Reactor through his T-shirt. He does that often, but usually looks away soon after being caught. People stare, and that's fine. Tony imagines that the sight elicits an invasive sort of empathy—that when people look at it, they feel something cold and metal in their chests, too. He wonders if it's like that for Peter, or if he sees the one thing that is supposed to be keeping his father alive.

"I have to tell you something," he mutters.

Tony fights not to let his face shift. After today, it's difficult to imagine any reason why Peter would have something to say to him, instead of just sitting there and doing nothing but being affected. "What's that?"

"I was with him. Before the race."

Now Tony can't help but squint. "Who?"

"The…the bad guy. With the whips."

Tony squints harder. Peter's spoken so well since the day that they met, why only now is he speaking nonsense gibberish? It's not mumbled or slurred, Tony can make out the syllables crisp and clear—the-bad-guy-with-the-whips. He can accept that he is referring to Vanko. But it's gibberish nonetheless.

It's literally unthinkable. He cannot think it. Peter goes on, quick and rushed and moving his hands, and only then does it begin to seep in, even though it's a statement as cut-and-dry as the sky is blue or the grass is green.

"We were trying to go to our seats and Uncle Richard accidentally knocked over this stand selling these—these cups with flags on them, and we were all trying to help pick them up and I was trying to get one that kept rolling away and it fell down a bunch of stairs." He takes a breath. "So I went down just to go get it real quick and the door got locked so I got stuck so I tried to find someone to help me and I found him."

Alright, Tony, process. But he can't. The words only come out faster as Peter takes his confusion for anger, not helping the cogs that are already spinning out of control. He has two incompatible truths right now: that there was no possible way that Peter crossed paths with Ivan Vanko by himself just a short time before he tried to kill Tony, but that also, Peter was not lying.

"What did you say to him?" Tony asks, but it doesn't feel like he's asking, it feels like he's humoring a made-up story. "What did he say to you?"

"He just…I tried asking for help in French, and he asked me if I spoke English, and I asked for help in English, and then…"

Peter's mouth has formed a distressed M shape. He wishes that the truth was that Vanko said horrible, cruel, threatening things to him, the way Stane had spoken to him when he was leaving the mansion all those months ago—but that isn't the truth, and Tony understands that that is somehow more distressing. Even if he doesn't understand anything else yet.

"Alright, then what?"

The M deepens, and his voice quiets. "He helped me look. He helped me find Uncle Ben and then he left."

If the impossibility was there before, it's concrete now, and Tony is beginning to wonder if Peter suffered from a hallucination or a bad dream that he remembers as reality, because those are the only ways he could be so earnest about something that could never happen.

Tony cannot tell Peter that it's impossible that the man who tried to kill him and could have killed many others without a second thought also…helped a little boy find his family. So he just keeps asking. "He didn't hurt you? Nothing?"

"No. He just picked me up on his shoulders so I could see better."

Tony's guts twists into knots. Maybe the image of Vanko crushing Peter in his massive hands would be easier to swallow. Vanko carrying Peter on his shoulders to find his aunt and uncles, not so much.

He rejects it because of the unlikelihood, the mere chances that they just so happened to cross paths today, at the Grand Prix attended by thousands, when Peter wouldn't have even been here if Tony hadn't invited him and his family not even a week ago.

There's something else, though, but while everything else is piecing together, it does not. Tony does not let it. He lets it stay as a shapeless concept in his mind without any words, because it's just too terrible:

If Vanko really, truly didn't say anything to Peter, and did nothing but help one child out of what could have been hundreds at the Prix alone, then he didn't know that Peter was his son.

But if he did…

If he did…

Even if Vanko refused to give any concrete answers when Tony talked to him, he had made it clear that he held a certain sentiment:

A Stark is a Stark.

Tony spirals so far down the rabbit hole of maybe's and might-have's, of all the states of Peter that could have been, he forgets about the Peter right in front of him. He is alive, and he is unhurt, but he is also upset.

Scared? Is he scared? There are no tears in his eyes, no wobble to his lip, but even so Tony thinks about pulling him in and crushing him close, telling him that Daddy's here and he'll always be safe, never minding that Peter never has called him 'Daddy', only 'Dad', because in times like these Tony's instinct to protect his son from all harm grows so powerful that he makes himself believe that he has always done so, a false reality where he was there when Peter was young enough to call him 'Daddy' and not 'Dad'.

With his determination to be grown, a child but not a baby, Peter has formed so many new boundaries—don't carry him even if he falls asleep in the car, don't peel his apples for him, don't say you'll understand when you're older if you don't want to tell him something. He also does not like to be squeezed at the slightest issue, so even though Peter is so obviously upset, Tony does not hug him because Peter wants to talk, not hug.

"Okay. Well." Tony clears his throat. Has he even accepted it yet? He doesn't think he has, but he has to at least pretend he has for now. "I know that it's really scary to think about what might have happened, but it didn't happen. So you don't have to worry—"

"I'm not scared. But I feel bad."

"Bad? Bad as in 'guilty'?" Peter nods. "Why?"

They're all miniscule, but Peter starts to twitch all over, his fingers and his shifting feet and his stiff shoulders. He's trying to eliminate all his tics like shrugging and kicking his feet, and Tony thinks he should tell him that even adults do that. He will later.

"He was right there," Peter stresses. He may not be talking to Tony anymore. "If I did something then maybe he wouldn't have been able to—maybe he couldn't hurt anyone later."

Tony can feel no relief that his son is now wracked with terror, not when it's to learn that he's wracked with guilt instead. This isn't a Peter thing, he knows, and that just makes it all the more confusing. How do children find a way to blame themselves for something so out of their control? Tony doesn't like to remember his childhood much, but especially his early childhood, when he hadn't yet accepted that his father didn't love him and still foolishly fought for him. He does remember being quite the momma's boy, though, and he remembers a winter wherein he asked his mother to see a snowman he'd built outside. She had slipped on ice and bruised her leg, and Tony was so certain that it was his fault, because it would never have happened if he hadn't asked her to look at his snowman.

"Alright. Alright, listen." Tony squeezes Peter's arms, and he lets him. "It's normal to think stuff like that. Everyone does, even adults. Everyone regrets stuff, every day. I regret having onions in my quiche this morning because my breath still stinks no matter how many mints I wolf down." Peter smiles, but corrects it quickly. "And it's normal to regret stuff the way you are, but you shouldn't be. Alright? You had no idea who he was or what he was going to do. No one did. What if instead of helping you, he just bumped into Uncle Ben? Would you say it was Uncle Ben's fault for what he did?"

Peter shakes his head, tired. "No."

"No. You didn't do anything wrong. I don't think so, your family doesn't think so, no one thinks so. So you shouldn't, either."

Slowly but surely Peter's chin has risen up until finally he looks his father straight-on. But Tony is unprepared for him to ask, "What if I did?"

"What if you did what?"

"What if I did know?"

He almost laughs, because it reminds him of when Peter was in his phase of unending questions, what if and but why and how come. He means it as seriously as ever. "Then you'd go and tell someone."

"But what if he got away before I could? What if I lost him?"

Now the hint of smile building on Tony's mouth drops. Peter obviously wants him to give one specific answer, and he will not.

"Alright, Pete, you're not going to want to hear this but it's the only answer I can give you. If you tried to fight Vanko yourself, he would have killed you. That's really harsh, but it's true and that's why I have to say it. You never, ever, try to take on someone dangerous by yourself."

"Because I'm a kid?"

"That's part of it, but even if you were a hundred years old I don't want you going Rambo on anyone."

"You fight bad guys all the time."

Tony's eyebrow quirks up. Fair point. "don't fight bad guys, Iron Man fights bad guys. With particle beams and torpedoes and turrets."

"So what if I was older and had stuff like that? What if I had guns or something?"

Probably you don't have to be a parent to know that a child being so blasé about guns and killing is worrisome at best. Then again, the older you get, the more gray seeps into your black and white world. Stane was bad and Tony killed them. The Ten Rings were bad and Tony killed some of them. Now every day he goes out and beats people to pulp because they're bad and that's that.

This is a very complex topic, though, and not one to have when Tony's hiding in a car and Ben and May are waiting for them to finish so they can catch their flight and a maniac just tried to cut Tony to pieces.

"I think it's time for you to go, bud." Tony pulls Peter's cap tighter on his head. His hair has gotten so long; it needs a cut. "That is a long talk and you have a flight to catch."

Peter lowers his eyes again, disappointed but not pouting. He sincerely wanted Tony to give him permission to go full vigilante at seven years old, and even as he pulls at the too-long straps of his backpack, Tony bounces between scolding him and comforting him.

Peter looks over at his aunt and uncle. They do not wave him to come on, don't urge him, but they've turned their bodies sideways—waiting for him to fall in line with them. Taking a step back, Peter looks back to Tony, teeth worrying his lip.

"Am I going to see you before your birthday party?"

He can't frown deeper, so Tony grits his teeth instead. How will Peter feel after he's gone, knowing he didn't have any part in Tony's last birthday?

"I'm going to be candid with you for a second, bud—"

"Candid."

"Honest. After what happened today, I think it might be best for us to put our hangouts on hold for a while. Even for birthdays."

Peter's sneakers shift. "I want to give you your present. I'm not going to the party, so I need to give it to you sometime."

"Yeah, I know. But hey, remember what I said about the party? It's not that I don't want you there, and it's only a little because I'm worried that everyone will see you're way cooler than I am. It's just—"

"It's an adult party. I know." Tony thinks about saying something. What does 'adult' mean for Peter? Drugs and alcohol and bad language? He thinks Tony will be doing all that. Then Peter goes on, "Is it like when our teachers come over and play kickball with us at recess? It's kind of weird when they do that."

"Th—Yeah. It's like that. You got it."

Another step back, and another look to Ben and May. He tugs on his backpack straps harder. "What about the Expo? We still haven't gone together yet."

Ah, shit. Can they still do that? Tony can't break a promise, but now he's wondering how he ever thought they'd be able to do the hat-and-mask routine at a place where his face is slapped on every surface. It was probably a bad idea even before what happened today.

And hell…Tony may be dead before they can go, anyway. Maybe he was always going to break his promise.

"We will figure that out. Last hug?" Tony holds his palms up, inviting, and Peter takes it. He's realized lately that he doesn't initiate hugs nearly as often as Peter does, but only because he can't forget the days when he pressured Peter to do it. He lives in fear of making his own son that uncomfortable ever again. "I want you to take care of yourself. And Aunt May and Uncle Ben, too. I wasn't going to say anything, but Ben has a serious sass problem. Send him to bed without dessert for a few nights and that'll straighten him out."

Peter smiles without showing teeth or making sound, and that's fine. After today, no one can ask him to laugh.

"Bye. Love you."

"Love you too, sport."

Tony stays sitting with the door open, just so he can keep his eyes on them through the tinted glass. Ben and May and Peter shrink and shrink, and like heat shimmer they just disappear. Thus ends their Monaco vacation.

As for Tony, he has about three minutes until his own plane is scheduled for takeoff, and he decides to spend it locked in the confines of the car, where there is no world but that of leather seats and tinted glass. He feels wronged, for the first time since he discovered the poisoning. He's angry at Vanko and angry at Howard, but most of all he's angry at the world. It couldn't have waited just a little while longer. It just had to make things worse when they were already unsalvageable.

Chapter 37: Chapter Thirty-Seven

Summary:

Peter thinks that if he tried, and if he had his own suit, then he could be as good as Iron Man. Or maybe he and Dad could even team up. Dad could be Iron Man and he could be…Metal Man. Nickel Man. Copper Man. If Dad can do everything he does when it's just him, then if Peter helped too then they could do way more. Like if there was a bank robbery and a sinking boat at the same time then Dad could go take care of one thing and Peter could do the other.

Then maybe Peter could help people instead of running or hiding or being carried away. Then maybe one day there'll be another kid just like him with pictures of Peter on the wall, with a Peter balloon tied to his bed. Not a Peter balloon, though, but a balloon of who Peter will be.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Dr. Rittenburg does a lot of the same things over and over. She drinks coffee from the same Mickey Mouse mug every day. She writes notes down on paper with a fuzzy pink pen every day. And every day, after they are done talking, she pats Peter on the back and tells him, "Bye, Pete."

Peter likes talking to Dr. Rittenburg because it's always a secret. Whatever he says, it doesn't leave the room. He thinks maybe Dr. Rittenburg talks to Dad and Aunt May and Uncle Ben, but it's stuff like is Peter okay and not what did Peter tell you? Dr. Rittenburg promises him every single day, like he'll forget, that everything between them is confidential. Peter likes that word. Serious and all-business.

The only thing he doesn't like about going to Dr. Rittenburg's office is how long it takes to get there and come back. It changes a lot. Sometimes they have to swap cars in parking lots, sometimes they have to sit on benches or inside restaurants for a long time until a car comes for them. Peter doesn't think Dr. Rittenburg is a spy, but he does think that she works for spies—the ones that were there when Stane attacked him at Stark Industries. But she doesn't spy on Peter. He doesn't think.

Today Aunt May is picking him up, waiting outside of her car with two popsicles in hand. When she sees Peter coming, she smiles and holds one out. "Hey! Surprise-surprise!"

Peter takes it. It's supposed to look like SpongeBob, but his candy-eyes are halfway down his face and his buck teeth look more like fangs. It's scary. "Thanks, Aunt May."

Usually the only stuff allowed in Aunt May's car are drinks, and only drinks with tops on them, so something good happened or something bad happened or she's trying to make Peter happy. He thinks it's the third one, because she and Uncle Ben have been doing that a lot for the past few days.

Plus today is Dad's birthday, and Peter is still sad not because he can't go to Dad's grown-up party, but because he doesn't get to see him at all. Not today and not for a while.

"So how was it?" May asks once they're driving. She's not even licking her popsicle, just holding it up to her face. (Hers is supposed to look like Dora the Explorer and it is still very scary.) "Everything go alright?"

"Yep," Peter answers.

"Good. So no problems."

"No."

"Good," she says again.

Peter knows she wants him to say more, but he doesn't know how. It's not like school where he can say what they learned in class or what they played at recess; talking to Dr. Rittenburg is all he does at the appointments so the only way to talk about them is to tell her what he told to Dr. Rittenburg, and it's supposed to be confidential.

Sometimes Peter thinks it's unfair, because he does talk about Aunt May and Uncle Ben a lot. Like how he's not really upset that Aunt May and Uncle Ben don't live together anymore, but it's still weird; not bad, just weird. Or like how he knows that maybe Aunt May doesn't really like Dad all that much and she's not really mean to Dad but Peter still wished she liked him. It's easy to tell Dr. Rittenburg that stuff because Dr. Rittenburg won't feel bad if he does.

The drive back home isn't long, but halfway through Aunt May realizes that her popsicle is melting because she's not licking it, so by the time they park her hand and shirt is covered with melted Dora-the-Explorer ice cream. She slops off the rest of it into a garbage can and gives her stick to Peter.

Halfway up the stairs—they live on the third floor, but the elevator is really bumpy and slow so they never take it—Aunt May says, "I've got a surprise for you!"

"Is it a Lego set?"

"No."

"Is it pizza?"

"No. But I wish. Maybe we should order some…"

"Is it a dog?"

"Let's get inside and I'll tell you!"

Now Peter is so excited that he's almost jumping on his feet, because they got a dog! They finally got a dog after he's been asking for so long, and he knows 100% that they got a dog because whenever Aunt May says there's a surprise and he starts guessing, she only tells him to stop when he guesses it right.

Aunt May opens the door, but Peter rushes in first, waiting to see a Dalmatian or a German Shepherd or a Golden Retriever.

There is no dog.

"Aw, man..."

Aunt May shakes her head as she shuts the door with her heel. "I told you it wasn't a dog!"

"I know…" Peter doesn't get too sad. They just didn't get a dog today.

"It's not a thing surprise anyway." Aunt May sets her purse down by the end table that has way too many Home & Garden magazines stacked on top of it, then spread her arm way out and says, "Uncle Richard is flying over!"

"Oh."

Aunt May's face twists in a funny way. Her arms drop back down. "'Oh', he says."

"I'm happy," he says, feeling bad because he does love Uncle Richard, but he's still really confused because he just saw him? And usually that would mean that something bad is happening but Aunt May seems too happy. "But why?"

"He still had all those vacation days to use, so he said he was going to fly over and spend some time with us. It's been a while, hasn't it?"

"Yeah. What are we going to do?"

"Well, that's what we've got to figure out. What do you want to do?"

Aunt May is in the kitchen now, dumping powdery coffee into the paper cup in the coffeemaker. Peter sets his chin on the island—he's tall enough to do that now—and thinks.

"We can go to the Statue of Liberty."

"That'd be fun!"

"We can get pizza. Uncle Richard likes New York pizza."

"Aunt May likes New York pizza, too, and now that Nephew Peter mentioned it she has to order some tonight." Aunt May presses the button and the coffeemaker starts gurgling in that way Peter thinks it isn't supposed to but Aunt May says is fine. "What else?"

Peter thinks harder. He knows there's always the stuff that people do every time they come up to New York, but it'd be nice if they could do something that's special right now.

"Can we go to the Stark Expo? I still got the VIP passes!"

Aunt May doesn't nod right away. She holds a hand over the rumbling coffeemaker and then nods, like she forgot to. "Sure! We can do that."

Peter pretends he doesn't notice, but he does. He knows why Aunt May hesitated—a word that he sees in real life way more often lately—even though they've never really talked about it.

It's another thing that he talks to Dr. Rittenburg about: Uncle Richard doesn't like Dad, probably more than Aunt May doesn't like Dad, and Peter doesn't know what to do about it.

But Dr. Rittenburg said that it would probably help if instead of thinking about stuff that made him sad, he "reframed it" and thought about stuff that he wanted to keep talking about. So for right now, he just says, "I'm going to my room," and Aunt May says "M'kay" while the coffee keeps spitting out.

Sometimes Peter misses his room back in Malibu, especially the rocket ship bed and the spinning shelf. He misses when the stars in his ceiling looked like real stars and not the green star-shaped ones he had now. But he still likes his room a lot because Aunt May lets him decorate it however he wants. So now all the walls are covered in Iron Man drawings and he still has that Iron Man balloon tied to his bed.

On his desk he has Dad's birthday present. Peter isn't happy that he's missing Dad's birthday but he's happy that he gets more time to work on his birthday present, because Peter thought it was finished but it really wasn't. It's an Iron Man made out of popsicle sticks. It's three feet tall and Peter almost made it all by himself. Uncle Ben helped him build the base of it with Styrofoam and cardboard.

Peter did that thing where he got tired of doing something so he rushed through with it so a lot of his coloring got sloppy, and now instead of red and gold some of it is that light brown wood color and even green or blue or whatever color the ice cream on the sticks was. Now Peter is adding more sticks and doing them with paint instead of markers.

He takes the top off of the red paint and pretends that he's in a super lab like Dad's, one full of machines and computers. He pretends that when his brush goes on the popsicle stick that it's making sparks fly everywhere and that he's squinting through the big mask protecting his face.

Peter wants to be an astronaut so he can go to space, and he wants to be an archeologist so he can find dinosaur bones, and he wants to be a photographer so he can just take cool pictures. Now he thinks he wants to be a mechanic, because even though Dad never really let him do any of the "big stuff" in the lab, he always thought he'd be good at it. He'd still be able to make that teleporting machine. He'd be able to make all kinds of stuff, just like Dad.

Just like Dad.

Peter stops brushing and he stops pretending. He's not in his lab anymore, he's just at his desk in his room. The popsicle-stick Iron Man is good. He's proud of it. But it's not really Iron Man. It's not really made of titanium alloy and it can't really fire things and it can't really fly. It can't actually save anyone the way Dad does.

Another thing he talks to Dr. Rittenburg about: Aunt May and Uncle Ben and Uncle Richard are all freaked out by the stuff that Dad does because he's Iron Man and Peter doesn't know how to tell them that he wants to do that, too.

Peter thinks that if he tried, and if he had his own suit, then he could be as good as Iron Man. Or maybe he and Dad could even team up. Dad could be Iron Man and he could be…Metal Man. Nickel Man. Copper Man. If Dad can do everything he does when it's just him, then if Peter helped too then they could do way more. Like if there was a bank robbery and a sinking boat at the same time then Dad could go take care of one thing and Peter could do the other.

Then maybe Peter could help people instead of running or hiding or being carried away. Then maybe one day there'll be another kid just like him with pictures of Peter on the wall, with a Peter balloon tied to his bed. Not a Peter balloon, though, but a balloon of who Peter will be.

Gold Man. Platinum Man. Zinc Man? There has to be a cool name to go with Dad's.

Aunt May always knocks before she comes into his room now, but this time she says "knock-knock" so Peter will open the door for her. She has two coffee cups, one just white and the other patterned with Tweety Birds. The Tweety Bird cup is Aunt May's and no one else's.

"Here you go; it's hot. Be careful."

"Thanks." Peter takes a sip and tries not to wince. Before he was only allowed to drink coffee if it was one-third coffee and two-thirds milk and sugar but now Aunt May and Uncle Ben let him have half coffee and half milk and sugar, and he was very excited about that because coffee is very much an adult drink. But now that there's less sugar he…doesn't really like it that much…

Aunt May nods at Popsicle Stick Man. "That's looking really good!"

"I still gotta redo a lot of them."

"Still. How are you going to do the, uh…" Aunt May moves her free hand in a pew-pew way. "The light-shooters."

"They don't shoot light; they shoot neutrons in ionized air made by kilowatt lasers. And I think I'm going to use shiny stickers."

"Oh. Cool." Aunt May sits down on the bed (unmade because Aunt May doesn't care about that) and picks up the sheets of paper on his nightstand. Uncle Ben got him a drawing board because leaning over the desk so much hurt Peter's neck. Some nights he falls asleep drawing and just puts the papers on the nightstand when he wakes up. "So tell me what this is."

"A while ago Mrs. Middleton made us come up with our own animal for a project and we had to say stuff like…what it eats and where it lives and stuff. That's a jellyfish with this big tentacle shaped like a shovel so it can bury itself in the sand and make its stingers look like coral. Then the fish get trapped inside and it eats them."

"Well. That's horrifying."

"Sea animals are scary. They have teeth. Remember that time we saw the spider crabs and—"

"No, I absolutely do not remember that time. So let's not talk about it."

Peter giggles, but stops. He, Uncle Ben, and Aunt May had been at the New York Aquarium and made it to the spider crab exhibit—Peter thought they were cool because they looked like robots to him, but Aunt May kept squirming the whole time and asking to move on. Peter had noticed that there was a crawling area for kids to go under the tank and come up in a bubble inside and had gone in without telling anyone. So when Aunt May saw Peter suddenly pop up in the middle of the spider crabs, she'd screamed so loudly an employee rushed over to see what was wrong.

Peter and Uncle Ben loved that story probably just as much as Aunt May hated it.

Aunt May flips to another drawing. "And this?"

"Combo animals. Like two animals mashed up into one animal. That's a rabbit and a cat mixed into a cabbit. And that's a fox and a flamingo mixed into a foxingo."

"And this?" Aunt May points at the one in the corner, a monkey poking its head out of a green shell while it swings from a vine. "Looks like a monkey and a turtle. So a…monkle?"

"No. A turkey."

Aunt May makes that face she always makes when Peter or Uncle Ben makes a pun: kind of angry. Mission accomplished.

She isn't angry for long, though, and flips to the next paper smiling again, until she looks at it and stops. "Um…What's this?"

Peter turns around and feels his stomach twist up. He forgot to put that one away under his bed where the other ones are; he didn't want anyone else to see it before Dad did.

It's not really a drawing; kind of like the blueprints Dad has in his lab. It's supposed to be one of Iron Man's repulsors, but it kind of just looks like a glove with a circle in it. Tube under the wrist, and Peter has drawn arrows pointing it out—probably the arrows don't need to be there, but blueprints have arrows on them, so. Peter's idea for this invention is that, when you want to use it, you can light a flame like a lighter over the hole at the end of the tube and pump gasoline through the tube until fire shoots out, like a flamethrower without all the bulky stuff. On the paper, the fire is shown by crazy scribbles of red and yellow and orange, and the bad guys being hit are black figures covered in red.

"It's an idea I had for Iron Man. Like if his repulsors stopped working and he needed to use fire instead. Or water, in case there was a fire."

Aunt May nods but she doesn't look interested in it like she was in the other pictures. She's looking at the paper like she looked at the spider crabs in the aquarium. "Do you…come up with stuff like this a lot? Weapons for Iron Man?"

The truth is 'yes'. A whole bunch of them. Tasers that can shoot hundreds of feet. Pods that will create puddles of acid once they hit the ground. A bulb that flashes so bright that the bad guy looking at it goes blind forever.

Some of them are for Dad, and some of them he wants to save if he ever gets to be like Dad. Peter thinks that there are so many things that Iron Man could do, he wonders why he's come up with them first. Iron Man has to hurt the bad guys and fire hurts a lot. It seems really obvious.

But Peter knows that Aunt May wants him to say no. Or she wants him to tell the truth but she wants the truth to be "no". And he knows that if he doesn't say no then he's probably going to have to talk to her the way he talks to Dr. Rittenburg.

"Not really. Just that one."

Aunt May nods but even though she looks through the other papers she doesn't smile again. Maybe Peter shouldn't bring up fire for a while. There was a lot of it at the race and maybe Aunt May doesn't want to think about it. Peter doesn't want to think about it, either, and not because of the fire and the wreck and the lightning. That stuff was scary, but he hates remembering how he cried until snot was running down his nose and he could only make that hyuh-hyuh-hyuh sound. And he hates remembering that nothing would've happened if Peter wasn't a dumb kid and saw that the bad guy was a bad guy.

Another thing he talks to Dr. Rittenburg about: he still hasn't told anyone but Dad that he was with the bad guy (Vanko? Venko?) and he isn't going to. The only thing that will happen is everyone will be upset.

Wanting to change the subject because he's pretty sure Aunt May is about to keep going, Peter steps back from the desk and asks, "Do you think the colors are right?"

"Hm? Oh, sure." Aunt May stands back up from the bed and looks around at all the other papers and the balloon. "I think you know the suit better than Tony does."

Peter stands by her and tries to imagine Popsicle Stick Man back at the mansion. Probably not in Dad's lab because it could catch on fire, but maybe it could go in the living room or the office that Peter was technically allowed to go into but never did because it was the least-cool room in the mansion. It's not shiny and it's not really expensive, but Peter is proud of it, and sad that Dad doesn't have it yet and probably won't for a while now that they have to spend time apart again.

"What's wrong?" Aunt May ruffles his hair. He finally got it cut two days ago, and even though it was because Aunt May wanted him to, he can tell she's annoyed that his hair doesn't flop around when she touches it anymore. "It looks really good, Pete. Seriously."

"I know. I just wish I could give it to Dad already."

"Maybe you can send him a picture?"

"Mmm. I want it to be a surprise."

"I'm sure he won't mind waiting a while, hon."

Peter looks around his small room for ideas. Maybe he can't send Popsicle Stick Man over, but he could send something for at least a little bit of a birthday gift. He thinks about his drawings, but he's already sent a bunch of those. Can you send balloons in the mail? Probably they'd have to not be inflated yet, and that's not fun.

Then Peter spots the cardboard peeking out from behind his drawers, and he puts his coffee down on the desk and pulls it out.

"Maybe I can send him a picture of this? I haven't shown it to him yet."

"I think he'd like that!"

Aunt May watches him as he takes the picture. She has a look on her face but he doesn't know what it is, only that it's the same look on her face every time she looks at it.

Maybe it's because Howard Stark is a really big person in history that Aunt May knew about way before they even met Dad. Like maybe he was like George Washington and Peter just didn't know about him before because he was little. It would be weird if Peter found out George Washington was Aunt May's granddad, so it's not like he's mad at her or anything.

Even Peter thinks it's kind of weird, because he found out so much about his granddad without even meeting him. There are tons of books on him. He's in museums. When he asked Mrs. Matilda if he could do his granddad for the project—but said Howard Stark, not my granddad—he'd also asked if they were ever going to talk about him, and she said he would probably be in high school before he was taught about him.

He's a big deal, but…It's weird. Peter calls him my grandad in his head, but not Grandad. He's never met him and never will, and sometimes it's hard to even call him Dad's dad because Dad doesn't talk about him so it's like they aren't even related. Still, he's done a lot of cool things and without him there wouldn't even be a Stark Expo. Mostly, though, without Howard Stark then Peter wouldn't have Dad, which he pointed out a lot when he was presenting it. (This got him two points taken off of his one-hundred because Mrs. Matilda said he "kinda still did a poster on Iron Man when she told him not to".)

He remembers that Dad didn't really say that he liked Howard, but he also didn't say that he hated Howard, so Peter hopes that he'll at least like that he looked up all this stuff by himself. Dad spends a lot of time with Mom's family and Peter thinks it's fair if he learned more about Dad's family too.

Another thing he talks to Dr. Rittenburg about: his family is…kind of weird.

"Alright." Aunt May chugs the rest of her coffee, pats him on the head, and turns to go. "I'm going to go order those pizzas. Any requests?"

"Meat lover's."

"Aye, aye, captain."

After she leaves Peter shuts the door again and thinks about hiding his stash of drawings somewhere safer. Like maybe he should tape them underneath his bed. He doesn't want Aunt May finding them and finding out that he lied.

He kneels down to look under his bed, thinking that maybe he can do it, but while he's down there he sees something else and pulls it out to look at it.

He hasn't used the mask and repulsor Dad gave him for a while. After that kid at the Expo talked to him about it, Peter's gotten worried about someone wanting to really know where he got it from, or even someone stealing it. It's stayed here in his room.

Peter slides the mask on and wonders if this is what Dad really sees. He slides the repulsor on and wonders if this is how it feels on Dad's hand.

He's thought about asking Dad for stuff before, especially after the race, but never does because he's pretty sure Dad will say 'no' no matter what. But maybe if he just asked for a couple of upgrades to this, something he already has, then Dad would do it. Like a taser or a flashing bulb or something. He's already made so many other things to keep Peter safe.

Peter thinks that, and a lightbulb lights up over his head.

Dad has made a lot of things to keep Peter safe, and even though he probably won't make Peter anything that he can just use whatever he wants, maybe…maybe Dad gave him something just in case. Maybe Peter doesn't have to ask for anything because he already has it.

The idea is exciting, so much that he would tell Aunt May if he thought she wouldn't freak out about it, but it's kind of annoying, too. If it'll only work when something bad happens, then Peter's not going to know how to use it and it might not do any good.

So Peter raises up the repulsor to the lamp on the desk. Then the lightbulb in the ceiling, then the doorknob. Each time he imagines the bang, the rumbling in his arm, the flashing light. He practices for so long that the pizzas come and Aunt May calls him to eat. He hides the mask and the repulsor back under the bed and joins her on the couch. They watch House Hunters, and it's fun, and the pizza is good, and Peter guesses the house right, but all the while he wishes things were different so that he could tell Aunt May he thinks his aim is really good.

Notes:

Hello friends! So, firstly, I want to apologize to everyone for not responding to all the comments. I will be more committed to it from here on out.

Secondly, I just want to give all my readers a heads-up. Soon I'll be heading to college for my final two years, and it will without of doubt be very intensive and demanding - not only because I have a thesis to write! Though I had hoped to keep this story going steadily, I realized that trying to do so would likely lead to two things happening: neglecting my studies to write this story, or focusing on my studies but getting crazy stressed-out about keeping this story going.

So although this probably isn't fun to hear, YAMS is going to be going on an extensive hiatus soon. The rest of the "Iron Man 2" part of YAMS will likely be finished in September, but after that I'm going to have to put this on the backburner for a while.

Which is probably for the best anyway, because let me be completely frank with you guys and say that I did the exact same thing with this fic that I've done with so many others: I committed to a very long story without a solid plan for it. I *do* have set plans for YAMS, but it's like I've just collected all the puzzle pieces without putting the actual puzzle together. Time off from the fic will let me make solid plans for its future. Also...burnout. I'm *already* busy with countless other things in my life, and as much as I like writing this fic, making yourself sit down and work on something when you're not up to it can *very easily* lead to no longer enjoying it.

I don't know exactly when the fic will be back. My studies may require that I put off actual writing of the story for extensive school breaks, like Christmas or even next summer, and be posted later. But if I get lucky then I may be able write in my free time, in which case Christmas/summer could be when the chapters are *posted*, not just *written*. Basically chapters are not going to be posted *regularly* for some time. I'll try to remember to put a post on my tumblr (iamconstantine) announcing the next chapters.

Like I said, I get if this is frustrating, but I've got to look out for my studies - and even my mental health, as I don't want to be overwhelmed with stress over not regularly updating this story. Hope that's understandable.

The actual *next* chapter, though, is very short and will thus be posted *very soon :)

Chapter 38: Chapter Thirty-Eight

Summary:

Something has happened to Dad. Or Dad did something. And Aunt May and Uncle Ben are upset about it. Again.

He thinks first that maybe that Vanko guy got out of jail and came back, but no, that wouldn’t be Dad’s fault. “Rhodey started it.” What did that mean? Rhodey and Dad are best friends.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

One second, Peter is flying over the Queens skyline. The next, he’s in his bed with the Saturn-patterned sheets. Disappointment hits him like a truck, but he’s too tired to be upset. He’s still so sleepy he can’t even figure out why he woke up in the first place.

Then he hears voices, hissed and urgent. It isn’t even morning yet, or at least it’s so early in the morning that his room is still pitch black—the stars on the ceiling don’t glow green anymore, and that makes the sounds coming through his door even more eerie (another word he’d learned while reading).

It’s Aunt May and Uncle Ben, but he can’t hear what they’re saying. He tiptoes out of bed until he can press his ear to the door. They’re trying to be quiet, despite how upset they sound.

“We’re going to have to tell him pretty early, May, it’s going to be all over the news tomorrow.”

“We don’t let him watch the news anyway!”

“It’s going to be all over the Internet, everyone’s going to be talking about it…I’m just saying, one foot out the door and he’s going to know.”

“I know that! I just—don’t want to tell him while he’s eating breakfast. It’ll ruin his whole day.”

“I know. But it’s not our fault. It’s…it’s, um…”

“You can just say it’s Tony’s fault. It is.”

“We don’t know the details—”

“What details do we need to know? You think Rhodey started it?”

“No, we don’t know that, either.”

“Well, it was one or the other, and I’m just saying, if I had to take a guess…”

“That’s not fair.”

“Ben, please just stop. I know you like to see the good in people, but that doesn’t mean you can just ignore when they screw up!”

Their voices dip again, like a car outside the window—quiet, louder, loud, quieter, quiet.

Peter thinks he’s going to be sick. He thinks he’s going to have to blow his own cover so he can run to the bathroom and puke.

Something has happened to Dad. Or Dad did something. And Aunt May and Uncle Ben are upset about it. Again.

He thinks first that maybe that Vanko guy got out of jail and came back, but no, that wouldn’t be Dad’s fault. “Rhodey started it.” What did that mean? Rhodey and Dad are best friends.

Peter thinks about going back to bed. Like maybe this is just a bad dream, or maybe once it’s morning it’ll be like it didn’t happen. But he can’t go to sleep before finding out what’s going on.

A lightbulb pops on over his head.

Peter reaches down under his bed, still being quiet, and pulls out the tablet Dad had given him. It’s still pretty new; it’s hard to take it anywhere without drawing everyone’s attention, but he’s used it to look at the mansion sometimes. Usually Dad’s in the lab, but J.A.R.V.I.S. announces when he’s looking, so Dad comes up the stairs, pops his head out, and waves.

“J.A.R.V.I.S.?” he whispers. Quickly, he gets back into bed and pulls the blanket up over his head.

The white circle appears on the screen. It’s so bright that it hurts Peter’s eyes. “Yes, Master Peter?”

“Did something happen with Dad? You’re there at the mansion, right?”

“Unfortunately, Master Tony has instructed me to withhold details of this evening’s party.”

“What? Why?”

“It is to my understanding that the party was expected to have some rather adult events that Master Tony would rather you not know about.”

“Can you be quieter, please?”

J.A.R.V.I.S.’s volume drops low. The white circle even goes dimmer. “Yes, Master Peter.”

“Can I see the mansion?”

“Your access to viewing the mansion’s interior has also been restricted for the party’s duration. I can only show you your room at the moment.”

Not a second later, it appears—same as always. Rocket ship bed, star shelf, control panel. It makes Peter sad all of a sudden that he isn’t there, but he’s also relieved that it’s just the same. And he’s also really frustrated.

“Aunt May and Uncle Ben said that something happened between Dad and Rhodey.”

“As that occurred during the party, I cannot give any details on the matter.”

“Nothing?”

“My apologies, Master Peter. Until Master Tony gives express permission to me, I can not tell or show you anything further.”

He peeks out from under the blanket, clenching his teeth together until they hurt. He’s so angry right now, even though no one’s done anything to him. He just wishes all the adults would just tell him stuff instead of planning it out. He hates that every time they need to tell him something, they come up with a whole gameplan to do it.

Another lightbulb pops up over his head.

“Is the party still going on?”

“Not any longer. The premises have been vacated.”

“So that means I can see the mansion now, right? Did Dad say I could only see after the party, or after he told you I could?”

J.A.R.V.I.S. pauses for so long that Peter wonders if the connection has gone bad, like the computer Aunt May uses for work, but he doesn’t want to hit J.A.R.V.I.S. to get him working again.

“I must warn you, Master Peter, that you may find the state of the mansion distressing.”

He wonders if he ever warns Dad like that. Or if it’s just for Peter because Peter is a kid. “Show me the mansion.”

The pictures come up, and Peter remembers that this is why he doesn’t tell Aunt May or Uncle Ben about what he talks to Dr. Rittenburg about—because they’ll be happy to get the truth, but they won’t like what the truth is.

Some parts of the mansion are fine, just like Peter remembers, but other parts are just…

They’re destroyed. Smashed. Broken. The windows that used to show Peter the Pacific ocean bright and blue every morning are just gone. There aren’t even many shards left. The counters where he and Dad used to eat their pancakes, drowning in syrup and whipped cream, have crumbled to pieces. There’s a giant hole in the living room ceiling, the floor beneath it cratered like a meteorite crashed in it. The whole place is filled with that weird kind of smoke, like the building where the Arc Reactor was in before it got destroyed when Dad and Stane were fighting—not cloudy or whispy, but like a fog, staying in the air and making everything look like a haunted house.

Dad isn’t there; no one is. Peter thinks maybe he sees police lights flashing red and blue, but he doesn’t know.

Someone would have told him if Dad was hurt, right? J.A.R.V.I.S. would tell him, even if Dad wanted the party to be a secret. So maybe Dad is okay. And he had the suit with him. The racetrack looked way worse than this, so if Dad could come out of that just fine, then he had to be just fine now. Right?

But that doesn’t really matter, because the mansion is wrecked. One of Peter’s homes has been smashed and crushed and for some reason he never thought that could happen. Like even though that was where Stane took him, and hurt Dad, that nothing bad could happen to the mansion—in it, but not to it. At least when Dad was gone, taken away when he was in Afghanistan, the mansion hadn’t changed.

Peter takes so long being scared, confused, and angry that he almost forgets that someone did this and that the mansion didn’t just wreck itself.

“What d—” He coughs. His voice cracked like a little baby. “What did Rhodey do?”

“I cannot tell or show you that, Master Peter.”

“No, J.A.R.V.I.S., you have to!”

“I cannot. I’m sorry.”

He is angry, angry, angry, and he wants to throw something or hit something. He thinks about throwing the tablet but he doesn’t want to hurt J.A.R.V.I.S. even if he’s just a computer that doesn’t feel pain.

Why can’t he just be TOLD things?

“Why not? Why won’t you help me?”

Peter is still whispering, but he’s burning hot, and he spits out the words the way Aunt May does when she’s mad. He wants J.A.R.V.I.S. to feel bad; he wants him to feel that sting-y, guilty feeling, knowing that Peter’s mad at him.

J.A.R.V.I.S. just says, “I cannot, Master Peter. My apologies.” In the most simple, calm voice ever.

“Go away, J.A.R.V.I.S.”

The circle blinks away, turning the room dark again, and Peter tosses the tablet across the bed—making sure it hits the mattress but still throwing something.

He grabs his pillow to throw it, next, but just when his fingers grab it, he hears slow footsteps in the hallway. He ducks back down, quick as he can, and pulls his blanket back up just when the door opens.

All he sees is the square yellow light on his bedroom walls, then the blurry shadow of either Aunt May or Uncle Ben or both of them. Whoever it is, they stand there for a minute, but don’t say anything.

The door closes. Peter is alone again, and he tries to remember the last time he saw Rhodey. He doesn’t think he can; it’s been that long.

He’d always liked Rhodey, right when he first met him. He’d always been cool, and not just because he was a Colonel. He treated Peter like a kid but not a baby. Happy and Pepper were kind of weird with him at first, but not Rhodey. He wasn’t around much but he didn’t feel distant.

Peter can’t remember when he saw him last because he hasn’t seen him since everything that happened with Stane, which seems like way longer ago than it actually was. It must have been when he visited his hospital room. He was nice, and made sure Peter was okay, but what Peter remembers the most is how angry he was, even when he tried to hide it. The other adults were scared or confused or both, but Rhodey was mad. Peter wishes he could have been mad with him. He was mad at Stane the way Peter was mad at Vanko.

And now—

He—

He did the same thing Stane did? He hurt Dad?

He made Dad think he was his friend and then he hurt him?

Peter doesn’t want it to be true. It can’t be. Not Rhodey. He’s too nice. He cares about Dad too much. He isn’t like Stane, Peter always knew there was something wrong about Stane, but not Rhodey…

And why? Peter overheard when the people in the black suits talked about why Stane did it—so he could get rich from Dad’s stuff and take over S.I.—but why would Rhodey ever do something like this?!

But it has to be true, because the mansion is wrecked and Rhodey was there and Dad wouldn’t just attack Rhodey.

Which means Rhodey is a bad guy, and that means he’s another friend who hurt Dad, and he’s another person who could have been stopped if someone just did something.

Peter doesn’t think Rhodey ever did anything to make Peter think he was a bad guy, but maybe he did. Maybe Peter’s just stupid.

He isn’t crying, but his eyes are hot like they’re going to, so Peter grabs the banket and stuffs them against his eyeballs until it stops. He isn’t supposed to be sad.

He just doesn’t get why things can’t be normal for them. Like he remembers when Mom was still alive and they did things like Central Park picnics and movie nights and bagels from a little place called Betty’s Bagels on Saturday mornings. Back when guns and bombs and bad guys were just things he saw in movies.

Things just keep happening and Peter just has to keep dealing with them because he can’t do anything. He can’t help and he can’t stop it—all he can do is be okay but it’s hard to be okay when no one tells you what’s going on.

Peter reaches under the bed until he can touch the glove and the helmet. He still thinks that he could be right, and Dad gave him something useful without telling him.

He knows it was probably to protect himself…but he wonders if maybe he can do more than that.

Notes:

Hey guys!! We're almost at the end of the IM2 phase. This week was filled day-to-day with welcoming events at my college, but once classes start I will be on a set schedule. The last part of this phase will wrap up and then I will be going on the hiatus I mentioned before.

Thank you all for the comments and views!! :)