Chapter Text
He never thought he’d see the day when he’d actually wish for the chaos of life before the Accords were amended. And sure, the era when the Avengers were more family than fractured factions would be ideal—but honestly? Tony would take even the grueling, soul-crushing process of rewriting those damn Accords over this hellscape he’s found himself in now. He’s dubbed it the Reconstruction Era. Not exactly original, he knows, but the name fits, and workshopping it feels low on his list of priorities these days.
As it turns out, working side by side with the man who left you bleeding and broken in a Siberian icebox? Yeah, it sucks. Surprise, surprise.
Not that Tony didn’t see this coming. He warned Captain Stars-and-Stripes when the man all but insisted that Tony rejoin the Avengers as part of the grand "united front" deal. Something about the planet needing heroes to set aside their differences for the greater good. So what did Tony do? He sacrificed his own sanity and agreed—against his better judgment. And now, standing in the middle of this farce of a training exercise, he’s regretting it for the millionth time.
The whole thing is Steve’s idea, of course. A chance to “rebuild trust,” to shake off the “rust” and sharpen their teamwork skills. God, just hearing the man’s voice—calm, authoritative, self-assured—makes Tony want to hurl. He supposes the idea isn’t entirely wrong; they are rusty, and practice is important. But why, for the love of all things holy, must Rogers stop at every godforsaken opportunity to chime in with his thoughts? They could’ve swooped in, taken out the bad guys, and been done hours ago. Instead, Tony is forced to endure yet another impromptu lecture, delivered with that insufferable “dad stance”—hands on hips, head tilted just so, like he’s channeling Howard Stark himself.
“I’m just saying, Tony, logistically speaking, having the Spider-Guy here would be a huge help,” Steve says, his tone even and infuriatingly reasonable.
Tony’s fists clench, his patience wearing thinner than the Arc Reactor’s plating. “And I’m telling you, no. Not a chance. Spider-Man is off-limits,” he snaps, his voice sharp enough to cut through the tension hanging in the air.
And sure, he can hear the hypocrisy in his own voice. Eight months ago, he’d been the one offering Peter a spot on the team. Back then, though, Peter had just been Spider-Man, a hero in the making with the same reckless enthusiasm Tony used to have. But things were different now. A lot had changed.
Peter wasn’t just Spider-Man anymore. He was Peter Parker—or, more accurately, Peter Stark.
Yeah. Turns out they had more in common than genius IQs and a penchant for heroics. They shared DNA. Half of it, anyway. The other half belonged to a woman Tony barely remembers from a World Tech Summit years ago. A night blurred by a handle of tequila and a bad habit of filling voids in all the wrong ways.
Tony never would’ve known if FRIDAY hadn’t decided to drop the bombshell in such a tactless way. “Boss, the blood samples of Mr. Parker’s that you took shows that the kid’s genetic profile matches yours. Fifty percent, to be exact.”
Cue Peter’s jaw hitting the floor and Tony’s brain short-circuiting. It’s safe to say both of them were equally blindsided by the revelation. And yeah, he’s since gone into FRIDAY’s programming and added a sensitivity protocol because, really, that news deserved a softer delivery.
Things had been touch and go for a while after that. Ironic, really, how both of them had responded the same way—shutting the other out, both terrified of rejection. Peter had avoided eye contact, his voice shrinking to a whisper whenever Tony was around. Tony, on the other hand, threw himself deeper into his work, building barriers out of sarcasm and avoidance. Classic Stark coping mechanism: act like it doesn’t matter until it does.
Eventually, though, they pulled their heads out of their respective asses—or, more accurately, Tony pulled his head out of his ass—and started figuring things out.
Parenting still feels foreign to him, even now, eight months later. Some days it’s like trying to fix a machine with parts you’ve never seen before. But if there’s one thing he’s learned that sticks, it’s this: being a parent means putting your pride aside and doing what’s best for your kid. And fighting in the big leagues at the age of fifteen? Yeah, that’s not what’s best for Peter. Not even close.
This is Tony stepping up. Drawing a line in the sand. Being the adult for once. Because no matter how much Peter thinks he’s ready—no matter how much of himself Tony sees reflected in the kid—it’s his job to protect him. And Tony Stark doesn’t fail the people who matter. Not anymore.
“But why, Tony? He’s a strong fighter. The Avengers could use him. Plus, the people love him. Pepper was just telling us we need to fix our images!” Steve argues, his voice carrying that maddening conviction Tony’s grown to hate.
There are so many things Tony wants to say—needs to say. He wants to scream that Peter is his son , that this isn’t just some chess piece Steve can slot into the board to boost morale. He wants to yell that Pepper would be just as firmly against this idea as he is. But he doesn’t. Because he can’t. He can’t trust them with Peter.
The Avengers had chewed him up and spat him out the moment he stopped toeing their line. Steve had left him— a teammate, a friend —for dead, with no second thought, no shred of regret. Why would he trust these people with the one thing in his life that actually matters? Why would he let them near Peter? They don’t deserve to know him.
“Because I said no! I’ve been saying no for weeks! Why can’t you just hear me on this?” Tony’s voice rises, frustration spilling over like a dam cracking under pressure.
“Because, Tony, you’re being selfish!” Steve snaps back, his words cutting through the air like a blade.
Selfish. There it is. The accusation that seems to follows Tony Stark like a shadow. It stings, not because it’s untrue, but because once, a lifetime ago, it was true. Tony doesn’t deny it—can’t, really. There had been a time when selfishness defined him, when he was blind to the trail of wreckage he left in his wake.
But it wasn’t like he hadn’t been aware of his flaws. No, Tony’s been achingly aware of them for as long as he can remember. Howard Stark made sure of that, putting them on display like trophies only to tear them apart. Every slight misstep was pointed out, magnified, and laid bare until the cracks in Tony’s foundation were all he could see. And the worst part? Those cracks weren’t even his own doing. They were forged by Howard’s hands, his words, his cold, calculated disapproval.
For years, Tony tried to fix them. Tried to erase them, polish himself into something worthy of praise. But nothing ever seemed good enough. Eventually, he gave up. Stopped caring. His flaws became inevitable truths, permanent scars he learned to wear like armor. Better to embrace them than live in the endless cycle of trying to prove himself to someone who’d never be satisfied.
That’s the version of Tony the Avengers met: the man who had given up on fixing himself but still clung to the hope that he could fix the world. When he became Iron Man, for the first time, he’d found something close to purpose. A spark of meaning beyond the shadow of his father’s legacy. But he still wasn’t perfect. He still hadn’t dealt with the rot festering beneath the surface, buried under layers of metal and bravado.
It would’ve consumed him entirely, if not for Peter Parker.
“I think this is probably a good time to call it a day,” Rhodey cuts in, his voice slicing through the thick tension hanging in the air like a scalpel. The argument between Tony and Steve had long since drowned out the sounds of the training simulation—the one Tony had painstakingly designed, might he add. Everyone else had stopped pretending to participate, busying themselves instead: sharpening knives, fiddling with bows, scrolling through their phones. Anything to avoid getting caught in the crossfire.
This wasn’t new. Tony and Steve, oil and water, had always clashed. They didn’t just disagree—they combusted, like some universal law had declared them predestined to hate each other. And, if Tony’s hunch was right, not everyone even knew the full story of what had happened in Siberia. They didn’t need to, judging by how every argument between him and Steve somehow ended up being chalked up to his fault. Every. Single. Time.
But Rhodey knew. Of course he knew. He’d been there. It was him, Vision, and Peter who found Tony that day, crumpled on the cold floor of that forsaken bunker. They’d pulled him from the brink—literally dragging his broken, nearly lifeless body back to medbay. If it weren’t for them, Tony wouldn’t be standing here, in this hell of a training session, arguing with the man who’d left him for dead.
That’s why Rhodey was interfering now. He knew when to let things slide—he wasn’t the type to meddle unnecessarily. But Tony didn’t miss the flicker of steel in Rhodey’s expression, the way his friend seemed to have run out of patience for Steve Rogers altogether. James Rhodes was pragmatic to a fault, but after Siberia? His tolerance for Captain America’s moral superiority had worn paper-thin.
“Yup, sounds good to me. It’s been—it’s been a time ! See ya next session,” Tony blurts, cutting Steve off before he can interject with some noble attempt to extend this personal hell any further.
Before anyone can respond, Tony’s faceplate snaps into place, cutting him off from the rest of the team. The familiar hum of his repulsors fills the air as he lifts off, leaving the Avengers Compound and the tension of the lawn behind him.
He doesn’t look back. He knows exactly where he’s going, exactly who’s waiting for him.
The Tower feels more like home now than it ever did before. Not because of the building itself, but because of him. Peter. The kid who’s become his north star in a way he’s still trying to wrap his head around.
=
That same argument crops up far too often, and Tony’s genuinely surprised Steve hasn’t gotten tired of sounding like a broken record. Because Tony sure as hell has. But he’ll keep saying no. Over and over, until his throat runs dry and his ears start bleeding, if that’s what it takes. Spider-Man is off limits. Period.
So far, despite the barrage of questions and pointed criticisms, Steve hasn’t gone rogue and called Peter in. Small mercies, Tony supposes. Then again, there haven’t been any major, world-ending missions lately—nothing that required more than a few of them to handle. Thank God. It’s the only reason Tony’s still sitting here, sipping lukewarm coffee in a board meeting, of all places.
Words he never thought he’d say: sitting in a board meeting is the highlight of my day.
Normally, he’d invent any excuse to avoid something this mind-numbingly tedious. But today? It’s the lesser of two evils. Peter’s at school, and Happy’s already scheduled to pick him up after his decathlon club meeting. Pepper’s probably somewhere over the Midwest in a Stark Industries jet, not due back in New York for hours. There’s nothing pressing waiting—not unless he counts the lab. And sure, the lab is always the better option, but heading there now would make him available for the little mission happening just on the outskirts of the city
And Tony really doesn’t feel like working with Captain America and his merry band of bandits today.
FRIDAY had been gracious enough to send over an update, just to confirm that, unsurprisingly, the mission was going fine without him. Steve’s pristine leadership, Sam’s aerial finesse, and Natasha’s uncanny ability to dismantle enemies with an unimpressed glare were more than enough to handle the situation. No need for Tony Stark to swoop in with a shiny suit of armor and deal with them all over again.
Sitting in a room full of corporate suits who love to hear themselves talk is somehow infinitely more appealing than that. At least here, the stakes are limited to the occasional passive-aggressive comment or a slide deck that drones on too long. He can handle this.
He leans back in his chair, half-listening to a man with too much gel in his hair talk about numbers Tony’s already solved in his head. His mind wanders to Peter, probably bored out of his mind in history class right now, doodling some new web shooter design in the margins of his notes. Tony smirks to himself, hiding it behind the rim of his coffee cup.
Yeah, this is fine. Let Cap and company handle the small stuff today. He’s got better things to think about.
And then, FRIDAY chimes in, her smooth, modulated voice cutting through Hair Gel Harry’s monologue mid-sentence. It’s rare for her to interrupt a business meeting. Stark Industries might be a tech company, with Tony pioneering humanity’s future one invention at a time, but FRIDAY’s presence tends to make people… uneasy. The suits like the idea of an AI assistant—just not the reality of her. Too new, too unfamiliar, too intrusive for people not used to her voice overhead, woven into every fiber of Tony’s world. So she stays confined to the labs, the common spaces, and, of course, the penthouse.
“Apologies for the interruption, Boss,” she says, her voice calm and efficient. “There’s a situation requiring your immediate attention. The team is calling you in.”
And of course. Tony’s mouth twists into a tight smile, one that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
“Excuse me,” he says, smoothly rising from his chair, “it appears I have urgent matters to attend to.”
Before anyone can ask questions—or worse, offer suggestions—he’s striding out of the room, calling for the Mark 47 to meet him at the North Fifteenth Level balcony.
The suit arrives in perfect synchronization, every piece snapping into place with precision. Metal wraps around him like it’s alive, like an exoskeleton that recognizes its creator. It’s not just armor; it’s art, every line and detail painstakingly designed to fit him seamlessly. Tony the artist, and Tony the canvas.
When the helmet seals around his head and the HUD screen flickers to life, the world sharpens into clarity. FRIDAY begins detailing the situation in his ear, but the imagery spilling across his display is enough to paint a vivid picture.
A power surge so strong it’s crippling entire blocks. The cause? A creature of energy and rage, its form crackling with wild arcs of blue and white light, glowing like a star on the edge of collapse. FRIDAY’s voice is clinical as she identifies it: Zenerion. A being of pure electrical current, the unfortunate result of a botched SHIELD experiment that should’ve been buried years ago. Somehow, it’s escaped containment, and it isn’t just draining the city’s power grid—it’s weaponizing it, turning every stolen volt into a force of destruction.
From the brief footage FRIDAY feeds through to Tony’s HUD, the ground team is barely holding it together. Steve’s shield is useless, the creature’s energy ricocheting off it in unpredictable bursts. Natasha’s widow bites do little more than agitate the thing, each strike making it glow brighter, angrier. Sam’s doing his best to clear civilians, but the longer Zenerion stays active, the more devastating its attacks become.
“Fantastic,” Tony mutters, adjusting his course as he calculates possible strategies. “At least this time it’s not anything of mine, ” he adds, attempting to inject some levity into his rapidly darkening mood. Humor, after all, is his oldest, most reliable shield. And while he’s flying headfirst into what’s shaping up to be the team’s biggest disaster yet, he’s going to need every ounce of it to keep himself steady.
He’s about ten minutes out when his comms crackle to life, patching into the team’s network. The first thing he hears is the unmistakable bark of Steve’s voice, shouting orders over the chaos. The signal grows clearer as Tony rockets closer, every word sharpening in his ears. He’s five minutes away when a phrase cuts through the chatter—a phrase that makes him falter mid-flight.
“Spider-Man, we need you over here. Web up that—”
Spider-Man?
No. No, that couldn’t be right. Steve did not just say Spider-Man. Not his Spider-Man. The Spider-Man who’s supposed to be stepping into Happy’s car right about now, on his way home to the Tower?
Absolutely not. Not after Tony had made himself abundantly, painstakingly clear on this— time and time again, on countless occasions. No Spider-Man. Not under any circumstances.
They wouldn’t… right? They wouldn’t dare.
Because calling Peter in would be reckless. Stupid. So unbelievably disrespectful, after everything Tony has done to keep him safe. It would be a betrayal so blatant it makes Tony’s stomach churn.
But even as the anger builds, so does the fear, creeping in around the edges like frost over glass. Because if Peter is there, if Steve’s actually dragged him into this mess, then Tony has no time to waste. ten minutes out feels like an eternity. Too long. Far too long.
“FRIDAY, push the thrusters,” he snaps, his voice sharp as steel. His suit surges forward, faster now, as the fear twists tighter in his chest.
The thing about Tony Stark is that when you mix fear with anger, the result is almost never good. A volatile cocktail, really. But hey, at least he’s self-aware . Not that it helps much. And isn’t it the same for most people? He’s sure there’s a study somewhere that confirms it: fear and anger make people impulsive, irrational, reckless.
The countdown on his HUD ticks downward—ten minutes. ten long, agonizing minutes as he pushes his suit to its absolute limit. The wind howls past him, rattling against the sleek frame of his armor, but it does nothing to quell the storm building in his chest. That pit of dread that’s taken root in his stomach only seems to grow, twisting tighter with every passing second.
He needs answers. Now.
“FRIDAY, can you confirm for me that Peter is fighting right now?” he asks, voice clipped, hoping against hope that he’s wrong. That he misheard. That he’s flying into the middle of a nightmare that hasn’t actually begun.
FRIDAY doesn’t hesitate. “He is, Boss. His suit tracker places him in range of your landing destination.”
Tony swears under his breath. “Fuck! Can’t you make this thing go any faster?”
The thrusters scream as he pushes them harder, though he knows it won’t make a difference. The suit is already at its limit, but Tony needs to do something . He can’t just sit in the air and wait while Peter— his Peter —is down there in the thick of it.
“FRIDAY,” he snaps, cutting through his spiraling thoughts, “keep his vitals on my display. And patch me back into comms. Private channel with Rogers.”
He can’t even bring himself to call the man by one of his usual nicknames— Cap, Stars-and-Stripes, Golden Boy. No, what Tony really wants to call him would require new parameters in FRIDAY’s programming. By the end of today, he’s fairly certain any expletive in her database will default to “Steve Rogers.”
The channel connects, and Steve’s voice barrels into his ear almost immediately, oblivious to the red that’s overtaking Tony’s vision. And it isn’t coming from the suit’s display.
“Tony? We need you over here. This guy’s a much bigger problem than we expected!” Steve’s tone is urgent, but to Tony, it sounds like nails on a chalkboard.
“Did you call in Spider-Man?” Tony cuts straight to the chase, his voice sharper than the edge of a vibranium shield. No pleasantries, no small talk. Just answers.
“What?” Steve sounds incredulous, like Tony’s question is somehow unreasonable. “Tony, did you hear me ? We’re facing a big threat, and since you were busy with your meeting— of course I called him in.”
The words hit Tony like a blow to the chest. For a moment, he considers muting the comm and screaming into the void, letting it all out in one explosive release. But he swallows it down instead, lets the scream sharpen into daggers he hurls directly at Steve through the line.
“I told you,” he growls through gritted teeth, every word deliberate and seething, “Spider-Man is off-limits. ”
“Tony, this is a big threat,” Steve fires back, his voice tinged with exasperation, each word strained like he’s mid-fight. “We don’t have time for this!”
And God, Tony still wants to scream. Wants to rip the comms from his helmet and crush them in his hand. “Has it ever even occurred to you,” Tony snaps, his voice razor-sharp, “that maybe— just maybe —I have my reasons for saying Spider-Man’s off limits?”
Steve grunts, presumably deflecting another attack, but his reply comes back with maddening calm. “Tony, he’s a good fighter. We needed him. I made a judgment call.”
“He’s not ready!” The words fly out of Tony’s mouth, hot and impulsive, a crack in the dam of his barely restrained fury.
“That’s not your call to make, Tony!” Steve fires back, his voice rising to match Tony’s intensity, every syllable grating like steel on steel.
The sheer audacity of the statement sends a surge of red through Tony’s vision. His fingers twitch, his entire body taut, every muscle coiled and ready to snap. He’s on the verge of unleashing something sharp, something that’ll tear through the fragile threads holding their tenuous truce together—when FRIDAY’s voice cuts in, calm and clinical but no less catastrophic.
“Boss, it appears the Zenerion has landed an attack on Peter Parker. His vitals are beginning to tank. Medical assistance is needed.”
The words hit like a hammer to the chest. Tony’s heart drops, his breath catching, but the panic that bubbles up is sharp and focused. “Define tanking, FRIDAY. Right now.”
He doesn’t wait for the response. His fingers move faster than his thoughts, flicking the private channel off his HUD in favor of Peter’s vitals, which now dominate his display. Red lines and numbers flicker across the screen, each one a punch to his gut. The act cuts Steve off mid-sentence, but Tony doesn’t care. Steve Rogers doesn’t exist right now; the only thing that matters is Peter. Getting to him. Saving him.
FRIDAY, always one step ahead, pulls footage from Peter’s suit. Tony doesn’t ask for it, but he can’t look away as the scene unfolds before him.
The boy is webbing up an exit—routine, simple. Tony’s HUD shows other areas in the background, already sealed with thick, glistening webs. They’re trying to trap the creature, isolate it. Peter’s movements are quick, efficient, and Tony feels a flicker of pride, even now. That’s my kid.
But then the Zenerion turns. Its eyes glow, a piercing, alien light that seems to bore straight through the screen. Its form pulses with raw energy, crackling and unstable, radiating a hostility that makes Tony’s stomach churn.
And then it happens.
A surge of energy erupts from the creature, massive and relentless, tearing through the air toward Peter. The kid barely has time to react—he’s too close. The blast consumes the screen, and Tony watches helplessly as the HUD flickers, crackling with static before plunging into blackness.
He’s three minutes out— an eternity. His chest tightens, every second stretching unbearably as he barks out, “FRIDAY, push the suit faster.”
“Boss, the suit hasn’t exceeded these speeds before. There is a significant risk—”
“I don’t care. Do it. ”
The suit hums, protesting faintly as the thrusters scream against the strain. Tony feels the vibrations rattling through his body, the edge of the suit’s capabilities pressing against him, but it’s not enough. Three minutes. Too long.
His mind races, replaying the footage over and over again like a punishment. Peter— his Peter —had no chance to escape. Tony’s chest tightens further, every breath shallow and burning as fear and guilt tangle together, threatening to drown him. But he doesn’t let them. He can’t. Not now.
“FRIDAY, keep me updated on his vitals,” he orders, his voice a strained rasp. The HUD still shows the red warnings, the flashing alerts that make his pulse quicken, but he forces himself to stay focused. He’s almost there.
Three minutes.
It feels like forever.
He’s already calculating contingencies because one thing Tony Stark knows is that you can never have too many backup plans. “FRIDAY, send another suit to their location. Fully equipped. Now.”
She confirms, and the reassurance soothes him for a fraction of a second. Just a fraction. Because when it comes to Peter, there’s no such thing as taking too many precautions. Not anymore. Clearly, he gave the team too much leeway—gave Steve too much leeway—and now he’s paying the price.
It’s just one more thing on the long list of things he needs to fix. Another problem to solve. Another mess to clean up. And he’ll do it—without complaint, without hesitation. Because if there’s one thing in this world Tony Stark knows for sure, it’s that he loves Peter.
It doesn’t matter that he only found out Peter was his son less than a year ago. Doesn’t matter that he missed the first fourteen years of the kid’s life, years he’ll never get back. None of that changes the fact that he’s here now. And he’s going to make up for it. Somehow, he’s going to make up for all of it.
He loved Peter before he even knew. Before FRIDAY’s revelation, before the DNA results confirmed what a small, quiet part of him had already started to suspect. He loved Peter long before he had the courage to admit it to himself. And now? Now, knowing that Peter is his son—that love feels sharper, deeper, more terrifying and all-consuming than he ever thought possible.
It’s that love—the only thing grounding him—that keeps him from unraveling as he pushes his suit harder than it’s ever gone before. The city blurs beneath him, but his focus doesn’t waver. One thought, one mission, drives him forward: Get to Peter. Save him.
And he will. Because there’s no other option.
FRIDAY’s directions guide him unerringly, the trackers embedded in Peter’s suit leading Tony straight to him. He thanks the foresight—one of the rare moments he’s genuinely grateful for his own paranoia. He’d put a multitude of trackers in the suit, just in case one—or three—ended up damaged. Now, they’re the only thing keeping Tony from losing his mind entirely.
He lands hard, the metal feet of his suit hitting the concrete with a metallic clang that echoes in the stillness. And there, just on the outskirts of the city, is Peter—a red-and-blue heap of skin, bones, flesh, and fragile humanity beneath the super suit Tony designed to protect him. To keep him safe.
But here he is. Lying crumpled and motionless on the cold, unforgiving ground.
Tony doesn’t breathe. His chest tightens as a wave of guilt crashes over him. It doesn’t matter that Steve was the one who called Peter in. It doesn’t matter that the Zenerion was an impossible foe to prepare for. No, Tony’s mind twists the blame inward, digging in deep like shrapnel. It’s his suit that wasn’t strong enough, wasn’t prepared enough. His failure, no matter which way he tries to spin it.
He shuts off his comms without hesitation. He doesn’t need to hear the Avengers’ voices right now, doesn’t want to be dragged into their chaos. He knows they’ll be firing questions at him, demanding answers, explanations—things he has no intention of giving. He’s not here for them. He’s here for Peter.
And right now, Peter is the only thing that matters.
The Zenerion could drain half the world’s power grid for all Tony cares. Hell, let it. He’s already designed failsafes to ensure that he, Pepper, and Peter would never be without electricity. Let the rest of the world sit in darkness if that’s what it takes. How’s that for selfishness, Cap?
“FRIDAY,” Tony says frantically as he lands beside Peter, crouching low as his HUD flickers through diagnostics. “How’s this Mark? Can I fly in it, or do I need to switch to the backup suit?”
“The suit is intact and fine for takeoff, Boss,” she replies calmly. “You must get Peter to the med bay immediately. Dr. Helen Cho and the medical team are prepped and awaiting your arrival.”
Tony nods, his movements jerky and desperate as he mutters, “Okay, great, I can handle this. We can do this. I’ll get you to safety.” His voice cracks on the last word, barely audible over the hammering of his heart.
He scoops Peter into his arms, the boy limp and unnervingly still against the cold metal of Tony’s suit. His grip tightens instinctively as he feels a sob rising in his chest, threatening to break free. But he chokes it down, grateful for the mask that hides the raw vulnerability on his face. He can’t break now. Peter needs him to hold it together.
Without a second thought, Tony rockets into the sky, Peter’s weight a grounding reminder of what’s at stake. The wind howls around him, the city fading into a blur below. He flies faster than he should, the suit straining but holding, his only focus on the med bay and the promise of safety waiting there.
It’s only when he’s a minute out—when the crushing weight of panic lifts slightly—that Tony speaks again, his voice low and resolute. “FRIDAY, whatever Mark is on location, have it take care of the Zenerion. Please.”
FRIDAY acknowledges, and Tony exhales shakily, his mind already mapping out the solution. He knows exactly how to neutralize the Zenerion—has known since he saw it on his HUD. It’s simple, at least to him, and the suit can execute the plan without him. He’s not doing this for the team; he’s doing it because it’s what Peter would expect. Because even now, even when he has no obligation, Tony Stark does what’s right.
But that’s secondary. His priority, his everything, is in his arms. And as he closes in on the med bay, all Tony can think is one thing, over and over, like a prayer: Hold on, kid. Just hold on.
The med bay is prepped and ready, just as FRIDAY said it would be, and Tony expects nothing less. The moment his boots touch the rooftop landing pad, a team of medical staff rushes forward, their movements efficient and practiced. Against every instinct screaming at him to keep Peter close, Tony forces himself to lower the boy onto the waiting stretcher. His arms feel emptier than they should as he lets go.
The team springs into action, wheeling Peter’s motionless body toward the open doors. Helen Cho is already shouting commands, her voice cutting through the chaos like a blade. Tony doesn’t move to follow, though every fiber of his being is begging him to. If there’s anyone he trusts with Peter’s life—besides himself, Pepper, or Happy—it’s Helen Cho.
He’d made sure of that long before he even knew Peter was his son. Back when Peter was just a teenager in a red-and-blue hoodie trying to save the world one web at a time, Tony had added him to Helen’s patient list. Specialists in enhanced physiology weren’t exactly plentiful—two on the planet, to be exact, and only one on the East Coast. Tony would’ve flown her out at a moment’s notice if needed, but thankfully, she was just a call away.
And now, here she is, the one person he can trust to handle this. To save his kid.
Tony stays rooted to the spot on the roof, his helmet retracting but the rest of the suit still encasing him, as if the armor can shield him from the storm raging in his chest. His thoughts are spiraling when FRIDAY’s calm voice cuts through the haze.
“Boss, you have an incoming call from Pepper.”
Tony connects it through his suit’s speakers, barely registering the motion before Pepper’s voice bursts into the air, frantic and laced with panic.
“Tony?! Oh God, is he okay?” she all but shrieks, her fear spilling through the line.
He swallows hard, his voice cracking when he answers. “I got him to the med bay. Helen’s got him. We—we just got here.”
It’s not like Tony to stumble over his words, to sound anything less than completely in control. But this is Pepper. She doesn’t count. She never has. She’s his everything, right alongside Peter. His world begins and ends with the two of them. After May’s passing six months ago—just two months after he and Peter discovered the truth about their biological connection—Pepper has become his anchor. He leans on her more than ever now, though he knows she’s carrying her own grief too. May had become just as much her friend as she had his.
They’d never really talked about kids, about having a family. Not yet, at least. Tony’s always known the risks of who he is, what he does. Bringing a child into this world willingly? That would’ve been selfish. Reckless. The exact labels the world has always pinned on him. And yet…
Peter was already here. Already in the world. And selfish or not, Tony is going to protect him now, no matter the cost.
“Tony, honey… breathe,” Pepper’s voice cuts through his spiraling thoughts, her calmness anchoring him like a lifeline. “I had the pilot redirect the jet to land at the compound instead of the Tower. I’ll be there in an hour tops, okay? He’s strong, Tony. He can pull through this.”
He nods even though she can’t see it, his voice a quiet rasp as he whispers, “Okay. Okay. An hour.”
=
And boy, does an hour drag on. Tony’s pretty sure he’s spent fifteen straight hours in the lab that passed quicker than this measly sixty minutes. Time stretches unbearably thin, each second feeling like an eternity as he paces the length of the med bay waiting area. He counts tiles as he goes, each step landing perfectly within the square, a futile attempt to impose some order on the chaos churning inside him. But the precision doesn’t help. It’s too quiet, too empty.
When pacing no longer serves his anxiety, he drops into one of the uncomfortable chairs lining the hallway. His foot starts bouncing, rapid and relentless, until he swears it’s vibrating the entire floor. He scrolls through emails next, his fingers moving without purpose. The words blur together, transforming into a language Tony’s pretty sure he’s never learned in his life. Not that he’s really trying to read them—it’s more about the action, the distraction, than the content.
FRIDAY says something to him at one point. He knows she’s speaking—there’s no one else around she could possibly be addressing—but her words don’t register. He doesn’t care. The only voice he wants to hear is Helen Cho’s, giving him the good news he’s so desperately waiting for. Or Pepper’s, stepping off the elevator and grounding him in the way only she can.
What he doesn’t expect is Steve Rogers and the rest of the team. Though, really, he should have. They live at the compound now—it’s part of the Accords deal. Protocol dictates they get checked over in the med bay after every mission, and from the brief glimpses Tony caught during the fight, they could definitely use the once-over.
“Tony,” Steve acknowledges him with a nod, his voice even, neutral.
Tony doesn’t even glance up. He can’t. Looking at Steve right now would only make the blood boiling in his veins bubble over, spilling into something he doesn’t have the bandwidth to deal with. Instead, he stares straight ahead, jaw clenched tight, pretending the man doesn’t exist.
He hears them filing in, their footsteps heavy and hesitant. There’s an unspoken tension in the air, thick and suffocating, as if they’re all waiting for the right moment to speak but too afraid to break the silence. Smart move. One wrong word, and Tony knows he won’t be able to hold back. His control is already paper-thin, stretched taut as he balances on the edge of his own fraying nerves.
“Is the Spider-guy going to be okay?” Sam asks, his voice cautious but steady, the first brave soul to step into the minefield.
Tony doesn’t respond. Doesn’t even look at him. He can’t. He doesn’t trust his emotions right now, knows that if he opens his mouth, he’ll make everything worse by a factor of ten. His voice might crack. His eyes might glisten, just enough to betray more than he’s comfortable giving away in front of the rogues.
He stays silent, locking everything down inside himself as tightly as he can, because all he can do right now—all he wants to do—is wait. Wait for news. For answers. For anything .
“Tony, c’mon, we’re all adults here. Let’s act like it,” Steve says, taking a step closer, his voice laced with that frustrating blend of patience and authority that grates on Tony’s last nerve.
Plink. One of the tightly wound strings barely holding Tony together snaps, and the others tighten in response, straining against the pressure. Because no, they are not all adults here. The kid behind operating room door number one is exactly that —a kid. Fifteen. Barely sixteen. A child. A child who’s in surgery because Steve couldn’t listen. Because Tony didn’t do a good enough job protecting him.
Tony can feel Steve’s frustration mounting as he continues to be ignored, but a frustrated Steve is infinitely easier to deal with than Tony Stark when he flies off the handle. And he’s right there. One more push, and he’ll break.
“Tony!” Steve insists, his tone sharper now. “We needed you, and you left us.”
Tony almost laughs—he would laugh, if his heart weren’t sitting in that operating room, fighting for its life. Instead, he feels another thread snap, tension splintering under the weight of Steve’s words.
Because where the hell were they when Tony needed them? Why is it always on him to be there for the team, no questions asked, no matter how they treat him? Why does he have to be the one to drop everything when they wouldn’t so much as drop a line if he were drowning?
He doesn’t say any of this. Instead, he pulls his phone from his pocket, desperate for a distraction, for anything to ground him before the weight of it all crushes him. He doesn’t care what Steve has to say. He needs to check Pepper’s location, needs to remind himself that someone— anyone —is on their way to help carry this load.
But Steve isn’t finished. “Hey, we’re talking to you!” he snaps, taking another step forward. “You fly in, grab the Spider-guy, and leave without so much as a word to any of us. We deserve answers.”
Tony doesn’t even get the chance to glance at his phone. Steve’s presence looms in front of him, larger than life, and for a moment—just a moment—Tony’s back in Siberia. Back with Steve hovering over him, shield raised, moments away from slamming it into his chest.
Plink. Another thread snaps. This one heavier. This one taking with it the last of Tony’s composure. The cracks in his armor—metaphorical, this time—split wide open, and his frustration spirals, boiling over like a kettle left too long on the flame.
Tony pushes up from his chair, fire igniting in his eyes. It doesn’t matter that Steve’s taller, broader, that he takes up more space. Tony’s rage fills the room, swelling to match him as he jabs a pointed finger into Steve’s chest.
“You deserve nothing, ” Tony spits, each word sharp as broken glass, designed to cut and leave scars. “I told you he was off-limits. Told you repeatedly, over and over again, not to call in Spider-Man. And yet you did. And now he’s on an operating table, and I don’t—”
The words catch in his throat, tangled in the storm of anger and fear swelling in his chest. A sob claws at the edge of his resolve, desperate to escape, but he forces it down, swallows it whole. He can’t. He won’t let Steve see him break.
His glare holds steady, but his breathing betrays him—ragged, uneven, heavy with the weight of everything he’s trying to contain. The silence that follows feels alive, pressing in on him from all sides. Their eyes are on him; he can feel them watching, their attention unbearable, like a spotlight trained on the cracks forming in his armor.
Natasha shifts, her weight adjusting almost imperceptibly, but Tony notices. Always on the defensive, she now teeters just on the edge of curiosity. Clint, usually fidgeting or cracking some joke to fill the void, is frozen, the arrow in his hand forgotten. Sam stares, his expression a flicker of uncertainty, his gaze lingering too long on the operating room doors.
And Steve. Steve takes a small step back, the slightest retreat, but his chest is still puffed up with righteous indignation, his glare unrelenting. Tony knows he’s biting his tongue, words poised and ready to fire at the first opening.
The elevator chimes.
Pepper.
Her arrival feels like a rupture, a break in the unbearable tension. The click of her heels in her hand is drowned out by the frantic energy she brings with her. Her hair has come loose from its usual perfection, half ponytail, half bun, wild and frazzled in a way that matches the panic in her eyes. Happy follows close behind, his worry carved into the lines of his face, but Pepper—Pepper is singular in her focus.
“Tony! Where is he?” she demands, breathless, her voice trembling with urgency.
The rogues part instinctively, clearing her path without a word. She reaches Tony in seconds, almost crashing into him, and for a moment, her presence consumes everything else.
“Cho’s still… still working on him,” Tony says, his voice barely above a whisper, the weight of the words nearly buckling him. His hands come up to steady her, resting on her shoulders as if to ground himself more than her. The rawness of his emotions, so tightly leashed moments ago, is momentarily forgotten in the comfort of her unwavering presence.
He doesn’t care that the others are watching. Doesn’t care about the curiosity and judgment simmering in the room. Let them stare. Let them question. They don’t matter. Not now. Not ever, not when it comes to this.
Pepper doesn’t falter. Her panic is real, but her resolve is stronger. She stands steady before him, her eyes locking onto his, and for the first time since this nightmare began, Tony feels the edges of his panic soften, just a little.
He’s aware of the rogues lingering in the background, their unspoken questions filling the room like static electricity. But Tony doesn’t care. He shuts them out, keeps them in the dark, where they belong. All that matters is Peter. And Pepper, who understands what Peter means to him without needing an explanation.
“Miss Potts, sorry for the interruption, but we really need to talk to—” Steve starts, his voice carrying that same infuriating authority as always.
He doesn’t get far.
“Are you the one that called him?” Pepper cuts him off sharply, swiveling on her bare heel to face him. Tony’s simultaneously impressed and terrified. It’s not every day someone squares up to Steve Rogers, let alone with Pepper’s trademark blend of elegance and ferocity. But Tony also doesn’t trust Steve—not even a little. Not anymore.
“I don’t see how that’s—” Steve starts again, but Pepper doesn’t give him the chance to finish.
“ Did you call him, Mr. Rogers? ” Her voice is pointed now, each word precise, designed to land exactly where she wants them.
“Yes,” Steve admits, his tone firm, unrepentant.
“And you did this despite Tony telling you, on multiple occasions, not to?” Her words crackle with disdain, her incredulity plain.
“It’s not his call to make!” Steve fires back, his frustration starting to show. “Spider-Man— Spider-Guy, whatever—he’s capable of making his own choices.”
Tony sees it coming before Steve even finishes, the inevitable pivot. The man doesn’t even glance at Pepper now, his focus fully on Tony, his next words striking harder than Tony wants to admit.
“So what? You helped the kid out a few times, gave him some support. He’s not your responsibility!”
Tony’s chest tightens, something primal roaring to the surface as the words hit home. He tries to hold it back, tries to keep the part of him that’s still fraying at the edges in check, but Steve’s ignorance pushes him past the breaking point.
“Yes, he is!” Tony growls, his voice sharp and raw, a storm brewing behind it.
Steve opens his mouth to reply, but Tony doesn’t let him. He steps forward, his voice rising as he shouts, “ He’s my son! ”
The words hang in the air, a shockwave that ripples through the room. Silence follows, instant and absolute. The rogues freeze where they stand, their reactions varying—Clint’s eyes widen, Natasha’s lips press into a thin line, and Sam shifts uncomfortably. Steve’s gaze locks on Tony, his mouth slightly open, as if the revelation has stolen whatever argument he was about to make.
Tony doesn’t move, his fists clenched tight at his sides. His breath comes in uneven bursts, his chest rising and falling as he fights to keep control. For a moment, the room feels frozen, suspended in a silence so thick it could suffocate. No one dares to speak, to move, to disrupt the fragile tension holding everything in place.
Pepper steps closer, breaking the silence with the softest of movements. Her hand finds Tony’s arm, grounding him with a gentle squeeze. “You’ve said what needed to be said,” she murmurs, her voice steady and calm, pulling him back to the present.
Tony doesn’t take his eyes off Steve, his gaze sharp and unyielding. “You’ve got no right,” he says, his voice dropping into a dangerous growl. “No right to put him in danger. To put his life on the line when I told you not to.”
Steve opens his mouth, then closes it again, sputtering as if searching for the right words, the right excuse. But nothing comes. He’s still searching, still grasping, when the door to Operating Room 1 swings open, and Helen Cho steps out.
Once again, Steve is silenced, and this time Tony is grateful. Grateful that—for once—the man has the sense to stay quiet, to not interrupt what matters most.
Cho steps forward, her expression composed but tinged with exhaustion. She wastes no time. “He sustained a significant head injury, likely from some the blast,” she begins, her tone direct but not unkind. “The good news is we’ve stopped the bleeding, and the swelling is already beginning to subside. With his enhanced healing factor, I don’t anticipate any permanent damage to his brain, but we’ll need to monitor him closely to confirm once he wakes up.”
Tony nods, but his body remains tense, bracing for the worst. Cho continues, her voice steady, professional. “He’s also got a few broken ribs. I’ve set them, and they should heal quickly on their own. He sustained second-degree burns on his arms, most likely from the heat of what struck him. I’ve treated those as well, and they should heal without issue.”
She pauses, her gaze softening as it meets Tony’s. “He’s stable, Tony. He’ll need rest and monitoring, but he’s going to pull through.”
The breath Tony’s been holding escapes in a rush, and for the first time since this ordeal began, some of the tension coiled in his chest eases. His eyes flick briefly to the operating room door, then back to Cho. “Can I see him?”
Cho nods. “Give the team a few minutes to transfer him to recovery. Then yes, you can see him.”
She turns, as if only now aware of the rogues hovering like shadows in the periphery. “I take it no life-threatening injuries?” she asks, her question pointed at Steve.
“No, ma’am.” Steve shakes his head, his posture straightening like a soldier under inspection. His shoulders relax, his face shedding some of its earlier tension.
Tony doesn’t look at him. He doesn’t have to. He already knows Steve will have that look —the self-assured ease of a man who thinks the battle is over. But for Tony, it’s not. The battle’s still raging, and his focus remains on the door where Cho had emerged. Peter’s okay. He’s fine. He’s stable. Nothing permanent. The words loop in his mind, a mantra he’s holding onto like a fraying rope.
Once he can see Peter, once he can know for himself, maybe then he’ll feel the relief settle properly.
“You have a son?” Steve’s voice cuts through his thoughts, pulling him back. Of course it’s Steve—who else would speak now, who else would push? The words aren’t just a question, they’re an accusation dressed as curiosity. Like Steve can’t fathom the idea that Tony Stark, of all people, could care about someone other than himself.
“He does,” Pepper answers before Tony can, her voice firm, clipped. She steps forward slightly, her bare feet planted as though daring Steve to keep going.
Tony doesn’t plan to answer either way. His mind is running too fast, everything in him still bristling with the anger Steve’s mere presence ignites. All he wants is to see Peter, and instead, he’s stuck answering questions for the man who put him here.
“You never told us…” Steve continues, his tone softer now, almost baffled. “How old is he?”
Tony turns his head slowly, finally looking at Steve, his gaze sharp enough to pin him in place. Pepper starts to answer, but Tony cuts her off, his voice low and unwavering.
“That is none of your business.” The words land like iron, immovable. “I didn’t tell you for a reason.”
For a moment, Steve falters, and Tony catches the briefest flicker of hurt flash across his face. Good. He lets it land.
“Tony, if we—if I —had known, we wouldn’t have called him in,” Steve says, his tone almost pleading, as though offering an excuse wrapped in an apology.
Tony exhales sharply through his nose and pulls his hand from Pepper’s. He turns fully, his shoulders squaring as he steps toward Steve. His movements are deliberate, precise, each one a quiet warning.
“Or here’s an idea,” Tony says, his voice measured, every word brimming with quiet venom. “You could have just listened to me the first fifty times I told you not to call him in.”
Steve’s jaw tightens, his lips parting as if to respond, but Tony barrels forward, cutting off whatever excuse the man was about to muster.
“You’ve done nothing —and I mean nothing —to earn the right to know anything about my life. You don’t get answers, or explanations, or information. You get nothing. ” His voice is rising now, but he doesn’t care. The fire that’s been simmering beneath the surface all day is breaking through, spilling into the room like molten steel.
Tony steps closer, and Steve, for all his stoic resolve, doesn’t move. “You left me for dead in that bunker, Rogers. You made your choice. You don’t get to walk back in, after I’ve spent months cleaning up your mess, and pretend like things are fine. They’re not. They never will be.”
His voice cracks then, just barely, but it doesn’t weaken. “That kid in there?” he says, jerking his head toward the operating room door. “That child would’ve lost his father that day. He’s already lost too much—more than anyone his age ever should—and you almost took me away from him. And now? You almost took him away from me. ”
The room is still again, but it’s not the silence of before. This silence feels raw, unsettled, like the air after a storm when everything is charged but eerily still.
Tony doesn’t wait for a reply. He turns back to Pepper, every emotion swirling inside him—anger, grief, relief—coiling tighter with each step he takes away from Steve. All that matters now is Peter. Until he’s by his side, nothing else even registers.
If God and angels were real, they’d chosen this moment to intervene. A nurse approaches them, hesitant and wide-eyed, like she’s braving a lion’s den. Tony doesn’t blame her. He’s seen seasoned Avengers step out of the way when things get tense between him and Steve. For someone new to this kind of chaos, stepping forward takes guts.
Tony forces himself to ease the tension in his shoulders. He meets her gaze and manages a small, reassuring smile. “Thank you,” he says, quiet but steady.
The nurse nods and gestures for them to follow. Steve isn’t spared another glance. Neither are the others. Tony’s focus sharpens as he and Pepper trail after her down the corridor, sterile and quiet except for the soft whirring of machinery somewhere in the distance.
And then they’re there.
Peter lies in the bed, a patchwork of bruises and bandages, wires curling from his body to the machines keeping watch over him. His arms are wrapped from where the burns were treated, his head encased in gauze. The marks on his skin seem too much for someone his age, but despite it all, he’s still breathing. The slow, steady rise and fall of his chest feels like a silent answer to every unspoken plea Tony didn’t realize he was making.
Tony stops just inside the doorway, staring. For a moment, he doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, his gaze locked on the kid who somehow manages to look smaller in the oversized hospital bed.
“He’s going to be okay,” Pepper says softly, stepping close and resting a hand on his arm. Her touch is grounding in a way that feels as natural as breathing.
Tony nods mutely, the knot in his chest loosening just enough for him to take a full breath. He moves toward the bed slowly, his hands trembling just slightly as he reaches for the chair beside it. Lowering himself into it, he leans forward, his elbows on his knees, studying Peter’s face like it holds the answers to every question running through his mind.
“Hey, kid,” he murmurs, his voice barely audible over the soft hum of the machines. His hand finds Peter’s, careful of the IV taped to his skin. His fingers close around it gently, as if afraid he might break something.
Pepper steps beside him, her eyes lingering on Peter’s bandaged arms. Her hand brushes lightly against his uninjured shoulder, her own worry palpable in the silence. But she doesn’t speak again, doesn’t need to. Her presence is enough, steady and certain where Tony feels unmoored.
Peter’s stillness unnerves him, even though he knows it’s temporary. The bruises along his jawline look too harsh against his pale skin, the gauze too thick for someone who should be worrying about homework and whether May is going to ground him for sneaking out—not this.
Tony exhales sharply and tilts his head back, his free hand scrubbing over his face. “You scared the hell out of me, you know that?” he says softly, even though Peter can’t hear him. “I don’t care how many ribs you heal in a day—you’re grounded until you’re thirty.”
Pepper’s lips twitch in the faintest hint of a smile, though her gaze remains fixed on Peter. “He’s going to be okay,” she says again, this time like she’s reminding herself.
Tony nods, his fingers tightening slightly around Peter’s hand. He doesn’t look away. Not yet. Not until he’s absolutely sure that Peter is still here, still fighting.
And in this quiet moment, with Pepper beside him and Peter breathing steadily in front of him, Tony feels a glimmer of peace—a reminder that, somehow, they’ll make it through this. Together.
Tony tries not to count the minutes, the hours, that seem to drag on endlessly while he sits at Peter’s bedside. Happy has come and gone, bringing food that now sits untouched in its familiar yellow and red wrappers. It’s Tony’s favorite—his guilty pleasure—and the salty aroma wafts from the brown bag with the golden arches. But he can’t touch it. He can’t stomach the thought of eating until he has something concrete, something real, to prove that Peter is okay. Proof that only Peter himself can give.
His eyes are glazed over, unfocused, fixed on the same point on the wall that they’ve been on for hours. Pepper is in the chair beside him, her breathing soft and steady as she sleeps. She’s exhausted; she’d just come off a long flight from what Tony could only imagine was a grueling meeting with investors in Australia, and the fatigue had caught up to her not long after she arrived.
There’s a shift in the blankets on the bed, a rustle that Tony almost ignores. He’s been tricking himself for hours, imagining every small movement was Peter waking up, and he won’t fall for it again.
But then there’s a low groan—barely audible, almost imperceptible. Tony’s eyes widen, his gaze snapping to Peter’s face. The kid’s eyes are scrunched shut, no longer in the peaceful stillness they had been. Another groan escapes his lips, and Tony’s heart leaps into his throat. Peter’s eyelids flutter, his face scrunching as if he’s trying to shake off a bad dream, and Tony’s on his feet, shrugging Pepper’s head off his shoulder as gently as he can and resting it on the back of the chair before leaning over Peter.
“Buddy?” he whispers, his voice cracking as he hovers over the bed. Peter blinks, his eyes unfocused, disoriented as they meet Tony’s. He opens his mouth to speak, but no sound comes out, his throat too dry.
Tony reaches for the water beside the bed, his hands trembling as he brings it close. “Here, bud,” he says softly, and Peter takes a small sip, his eyes still bleary. Tony’s heart aches at the sight of him—bruised, battered, but awake.
“You okay?” Tony asks, his voice rough with emotion.
Peter swallows, then forces a nod, his lips parting in a confused murmur. “What… what happened, Dad?”
The word hits Tony like a jolt, warmth spreading through his chest, his eyes burning as tears gather, unbidden. He lets them fall. “You took a pretty big hit, bud,” Tony says, his thumb brushing away the tears trailing down his face. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I wasn’t there.”
The apology feels empty, shallow, like a cup without a bottom. But it’s all he has to offer. At least for now. Later, once Peter is resting again, Tony will make his way down to the lab. He’ll code and program a new set of failsafes, an improved mark of the Spider-Man suit, one that’ll make sure something like this never happens again.
Peter shakes his head, even the small motion making him wince. “Not your fault,” he mumbles, his voice thick and slurred with exhaustion. “Shouldn’t’ve… shouldn’t’ve left school.”
Tony laughs then—teary, choked, but a laugh nonetheless. “Yeah, well,” he says, smiling despite himself, “we’re gonna talk about that when you’re feeling better.”
Peter attempts a smile of his own, tired but unmistakably Peter. “Yeah… figured,” he whispers, his voice barely a rasp.
Tony grins, his heart swelling with a rush of warmth, of gratitude, of relief that nearly brings him to his knees. His son is okay. Another day, another crisis averted. Another day Peter gets to be here, and Tony gets to hold onto him.
Pepper stirs in her chair, her eyes fluttering open as she catches the movement beside her. Her gaze finds Peter, her breath hitching when she sees him awake, sees Tony leaning over the bed with that rare, unguarded look in his eyes.
“Hey, sweetheart,” she says softly, her voice full of tenderness as she reaches over to rest her hand against Peter’s arm. “You gave us quite the scare.”
Peter blinks up at her, his eyes softening. “S-sorry,” he mumbles, his lips quirking up just a fraction in a sheepish smile. “Didn’t mean to.”
Pepper smiles, her eyes shining with unshed tears. “It’s okay, Peter. Just focus on getting better, alright?”
Tony nods in agreement, squeezing Peter’s hand gently. “We’re not going anywhere,” he says, his voice low, steady, full of a promise that feels as unbreakable as the arc reactor once embedded in his chest. “We’re right here, kid.”
Peter’s eyes flutter, exhaustion already pulling him back under, but his fingers tighten slightly around Tony’s hand—a silent acknowledgment, a quiet acceptance that he’s safe, that he’s not alone.
Tony watches as Peter drifts back to sleep, the lines of pain easing from his face. He turns to Pepper, their eyes meeting, and she reaches over, her hand covering his. No words pass between them, but they don’t need them. They sit together, hands linked, watching over Peter as he rests.
And finally, Tony lets himself breathe. Not because everything is fixed, not because all is right with the world. Not because he has a mountain of shit to deal with when it comes to the Avengers. But because Peter’s here, and Pepper’s beside him, and right now that’s enough.