Archive of Our Own ^beta

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.

Chapter Text

S.R.

The medbay team room hums with a silence that isn't peace but punishment. It's not the quiet Steve craves when he’s sketching, that meditative stillness punctuated only by the soft scratch of pencil against paper. No, this silence is a living thing, heavy and sharp-edged, pressing against his skin like a too-tight uniform. It makes you itch to move, to speak, to do anything that might break it, yet knowing that any sound would only make the tension worse.

And really, who could he blame but himself? The glares, the clipped sighs—they weigh on him like the shield on his back, and Steve takes them all without flinching. That’s what leaders do, after all. They shoulder the burden so others don’t have to. Or at least, that’s the line he keeps feeding himself, over and over, until it starts to feel true. Lately, though, he’s been telling himself a lot of things, convincing himself with every breath that he knows best. But somewhere along the line, he misstepped. Misjudged. They wouldn’t all be here if he hadn’t.

And that’s the difference between him and Tony, isn’t it? Steve can admit when he’s wrong—at least he tells himself he can. Tony? He buries his faults under bravado and tech and sarcasm. Yet, as much as Steve wants to own up to his part in this mess, it’s not as if Tony’s innocent. If Stark had just been honest from the beginning, none of this would have spiraled the way it did. Steve only acted on the information he had; how could he be at fault for that? The thought settles like a bitter seed in his chest, but it’s enough to help him stand a little straighter. Conviction looks better on him than guilt, or so he’s been told.

Helen Cho’s voice cuts through the silence, brisk and efficient. “Alright, everyone looks good to go. If you’ve got stitches, they’ll dissolve in a few days. Eat something hearty tonight, get some rest. And if you can, hold off on the gym until you’re fully healed.” She sweeps her gaze across the room, pinning them all with a no-nonsense look before heading for the door. Her steps are confident, but Steve doesn’t miss the tension in her shoulders or the way she almost trips over her own urgency to leave.

She’s upset, too. About the spider-kid— Peter —coming in bruised and battered. And like everyone else, she blames them. Blames him . Steve doesn’t need her to say it aloud; he can feel her anger in the space she leaves behind.

Still, he can’t help the flicker of defensiveness curling in his gut. They’re all so quick to assign blame, but no one seems to be holding Tony accountable. Not for the secrets, not for the lies. Steve presses his lips into a thin line, his jaw tight. Maybe they’ve all made mistakes, but Tony Stark’s were the ones that got them here. And for all his supposed genius, the man still hasn’t owned up to a single one of them.

Natasha clears her throat, the sound sharp in the heavy silence, and like iron filings to a magnet, all eyes snap to her. Steve’s included. Of course, it’s Natasha. She’s the only one brave—or reckless—enough to break the tension in moments like this. Steve has always admired that about her, the way she carves through awkward silences and unspoken words like a blade through fog. She speaks when it matters, her words sharp but rarely cruel, always measured. It’s a quality he’s never quite mastered himself, though he sometimes likes to think he has.

“What did Tony mean,” she starts, her tone as flat and unforgiving as a winter’s horizon, “when he said you almost left that kid in there without a father?”

The question lands like a punch to Steve’s gut, driving the air out of him in a rush. His chest tightens as if someone’s strapped him into armor too small to breathe in. It’s not the words themselves—it’s the weight behind them, the implication that’s too big to ignore. It’s not a question he’d been prepared for, though maybe he should have been.

The truth, icy and unrelenting, settles over him. He hasn’t been hiding it, exactly—not from the team. But he hasn’t offered it, either. It hadn’t been a team problem. It had been his problem. His and Tony’s and Bucky’s.

Bucky.

Steve’s chest aches at the thought of him, so far away in Wakanda, where the doctors are working tirelessly to free him from Hydra’s chains. The man who’s more brother than friend, whose safety Steve has fought for more times than he can count. The man who’s at the center of all this.

But Natasha, and the rest of the team whose eyes now bore into him like searchlights, are asking now. Which means it’s time to tell them. All of it.

Steve shifts, just slightly, his discomfort showing in the rigid line of his shoulders. He’s not afraid of the truth—he’s sure that, once they hear it, they’ll understand. They have to understand. He only did what he thought was right. What he knew was right.

“Well,” he starts, his voice steady even as his gut twists. “We got wind of intel about a Hydra base in Siberia. They’d set it up to look like it housed other Winter Soldiers, ones they’d kept in stasis. Bucky and I… we thought shutting it down might be the key to ending Hydra for good. But it was a trap.”

He pauses, the memories flooding back as vividly as the sting of frostbite. “When we got there, Tony followed us. I didn’t know he was coming—I think he wanted answers about the base, or maybe he didn’t trust me to handle it.” He swallows hard. “When we got inside, we found the bodies of the other Winter Soldiers. Dead. Murdered long before we arrived. Hydra had lured us there for a different reason.”

Steve clenches his fists, the leather of his gloves creaking faintly. “Zemo. He was waiting for us. He… showed Tony a recording. Footage from 1991. It was…” His throat tightens, the words sticking there. “It was of Bucky—under Hydra’s control. He killed Tony’s parents. I didn’t know Zemo had that footage. I didn’t think… I didn’t think he’d show it.”

The silence that follows feels razor-thin, every breath a cut. “Tony lost it,” Steve continues, his voice low. “I can’t blame him for that. He attacked Bucky. Said he wasn’t going to let him leave that base alive. And I… I had to stop him.”

He looks around the room, his gaze landing on each of them in turn, as if daring them to judge him before he’s finished. “I didn’t go there to fight Tony. I went there to protect Bucky. But Tony didn’t leave me any choice. He was angry, out of control, and I was sure if I didn’t stop him, he’d kill Bucky.”

His jaw tightens, and his voice drops to a near-whisper. “I fought him. Not to hurt him. Never to kill him. Just to stop him. I made sure he was alive when I left—when Bucky and I left. That was my intention from the start. To get Bucky out of there. To save him.”

Steve straightens, his hands resting on his hips, his face impassive but his heart hammering in his chest. He doesn’t say it out loud, but he knows what they’re thinking. He knows what Tony thinks, too. That keeping the truth about his parents’ deaths from him was a betrayal. Maybe it was. But Steve had only been trying to protect Bucky—his best friend, the man who’d been through hell and back.

And if he had to do it all over again? He’s not sure he’d do it any differently.

At some point in the telling, Steve realizes they’re no longer alone. Maybe he hadn’t noticed at first, too caught up in his version of events, or maybe he just hadn’t cared enough to check. But Colonel James Rhodes is there now, standing stiffly by the door with his arms folded tight across his chest, his expression carved from stone. The man hadn’t fought alongside them today during the attack outside the city, but Steve can’t say he’s surprised to see him. What does surprise him is that Rhodey isn’t at Tony’s side. The two of them are like him and Bucky—inseparable, brothers in everything but blood.

So why Rhodey’s here, lingering in the doorway with a look that could crack steel, Steve can’t quite figure out.

When Rhodey finally speaks, before anyone else in the room has a chance to say a word, Steve finds himself wishing he hadn’t come at all.

“You’re leaving something out, Rogers.”

Rhodey’s voice cuts through the room like the crack of a whip, sharp and deliberate. Steve feels his jaw tighten instinctively, but he doesn’t interrupt. There’s a weight in the colonel’s words, a purpose behind every syllable, and for the first time since he started talking, Steve feels the faintest flicker of absolute dread.

“You can stand there all day,” Rhodey continues, stepping fully into the room now, “and spin your little tale about how you were ‘protecting Bucky.’ About how you didn’t try to kill Tony.” He stops, his dark eyes locking onto Steve’s with the kind of intensity that makes a lesser man flinch. “But I was the one who found him.”

Steve’s chest tightens, but he doesn’t let it show. Not outwardly, at least.

Rhodey presses on, his voice rising just slightly, deliberate and unrelenting. “You know what I saw when Vision and I got to Siberia? When we found Tony?” He takes a step closer, his tone colder now, like a blade coated in frost. “A man bleeding out on the frozen ground. Armor cracked, reactor flickering like it was about to give out any second. Barely breathing. Barely alive.”

Steve’s stomach churns, but he doesn’t move. He keeps his face impassive, his hands clasped behind his back. “I didn’t—”

“You didn’t what ?” Rhodey snaps, cutting him off before he can finish. “You didn’t try to kill him? Sure. Maybe not outright. But don’t stand there and act like you weren’t ready to. Like you didn’t beat him down hard enough to make sure he wouldn’t get up.” He shakes his head, anger flashing in his eyes. “You left him there, Rogers. For hours. Not minutes. Hours. ”

The room is suffocatingly quiet now, every pair of eyes locked on Steve, waiting for his response. But Rhodey isn’t done. He takes another step forward, his presence filling the space like a storm cloud.

“You didn’t even know if he was alive, did you?” he spits. “You just walked away with your ‘brother,’ left Tony to die because it was convenient for you. Because saving Bucky mattered more to you than making sure a man you called a teammate—hell, a friend—didn’t bleed out on the goddamn floor of a Hydra base.”

Steve opens his mouth to respond, but Rhodey isn’t having it.

“You think it ends there?” Rhodey’s voice drops, quieter but no less cutting. “When I found him, he wasn’t alone. He’d been found by someone else first. That kid. in there?  Peter.” The name hangs heavy in the air, and Steve feels something cold settle in his chest. “You know what that kid walked in on? His whole world—hours from death—because of you.”

Rhodey takes a step back, his jaw tightening, his voice sharp as a blade. “And now, because of you, that kid— Tony’s son —was out there today, getting caught in the crossfire of a fight he never should’ve been in.”

Steve stiffens, confusion flickering behind his carefully maintained composure. “What are you talking about? I didn’t—”

“Don’t.” Rhodey’s glare hardens, his voice like thunder crashing through the room. “You didn’t know , right? That’s your excuse? You didn’t know who Spider-Man was. Didn’t know he’s Tony’s kid . But that didn’t stop you from dragging him into this fight, did it? Even after Tony told you— warned you—not to. After he begged you to leave the kid out of it.”

Rhodey takes another step forward, his words a relentless hammer against Steve’s armor of justifications. “Do you have any idea what that did to Tony? To know his son—his fourteen-year-old son—was out there because of you? Because you couldn’t follow a simple request to keep the kid out of your messes?” He shakes his head, his disgust palpable. “Tony asked you, Rogers. More than once. And you ignored him. Like always.”

The room is silent again, the weight of Rhodey’s words settling like lead in the air. Steve feels something twist in his chest—a mixture of guilt and frustration—but he doesn’t respond. He can’t. Because Rhodey’s words cut too deep, scraping against truths Steve isn’t ready to face.

Rhodey doesn’t wait for a reply. “You want to talk about responsibility? About being a leader?” His voice drops, quieter but no less venomous. “Then start owning up to the damage you’ve done. Because today? That was on you, Rogers. And if he’s not okay—” He stops, shaking his head as if the thought is too much to bear. “God help you if something happens to that kid.”

With that, Rhodes turns and leaves, his footsteps echoing in the oppressive silence he leaves behind. Steve doesn’t move, doesn’t say a word. He’s not sure he could even if he wanted to.

But what Steve wants doesn’t matter. Not anymore. What he really wants is to be in Wakanda, by Bucky’s side. To see for himself that his best friend is healing, that the doctors there are stripping away Hydra’s poison piece by painstaking piece. But the amended Accords had made sure that wasn’t an option. He’s serving his time at the Avengers compound, under house arrest unless otherwise needed. And while it’s far from ideal, Steve knows it could’ve been worse. He could’ve been stuck on the Raft, locked away in a cell, his sentence stretching out endlessly like the cold expanse of the ocean.

But he isn’t. And that’s because of Tony.

The thought strikes a discordant note in his chest, one that churns uneasily in his gut. He’s never said thank you. Not once. Not for getting him off the Raft, not for pulling strings to ensure Steve could serve his time somewhere other than a prison cell. It hadn’t even occurred to him to say it. And now, standing here, the weight of the team’s questions pressing down on him, Steve wonders why. Wonders if maybe deep down, some part of him had clung to the idea that he didn’t owe Tony anything. That his actions in Siberia had been justified, necessary. But now, the certainty he’s leaned on so heavily feels more like quicksand.

“Did you go back for him?”

Clint’s voice cuts through his thoughts, sharp and direct. Steve lifts his head, finding Clint’s gaze fixed squarely on him, unwavering. The words hang in the air like a challenge, one Steve doesn’t know how to meet. His mouth opens, then closes. The truth sits heavy on his tongue, too bitter to swallow, too weighty to speak.

Because no. He hadn’t gone back. He hadn’t checked on Tony. He hadn’t looked at the wreckage he’d left behind, hadn’t considered the man he’d left bleeding on the ground. He had Bucky at his side—that had been the only thing that mattered. And that, above all else, was the truth.

His silence speaks volumes. The way Clint shakes his head, his lips pressed into a thin, disapproving line, says even more. Steve feels the sting of it, sharper than he expects, though he keeps his expression neutral.

Sam sighs heavily, his hands scrubbing over his face before he drags them down to rest against his sides. He’s shaking his head now, too, muttering something under his breath before finally looking up to meet Steve’s eyes. “Man…” Sam starts, but his voice falters. He lets out a breath, tries again, but this time no words follow.

Steve doesn’t know what to make of that. Doesn’t know if Sam’s silence is better or worse than Clint’s judgment. He doesn’t think it matters. Not really. The damage has already been done.

When Sam sighs again, it’s deeper this time, heavier. And when he finally speaks, his words are careful but carry a weight Steve can’t ignore. “Look,” he says, “Stark brought Spider-Man into all of this from the start. There’s no denying that. And yeah, I don’t know the whole story—maybe we never will—but he asked us. He asked you not to call the kid in. And you did it anyway.”

Steve’s chest tightens at the words, but Sam doesn’t stop. “We all fell in line beside you,” he continues, his voice quieter now, almost regretful. “But that doesn’t mean we don’t have to own up to it. We all need to make this right.”

Steve doesn’t miss the way Sam’s guilt clings to him, visible in the tight set of his shoulders, the downturn of his lips. It’s written all over his face. He carries the weight of the team’s choices as if they were his own, even the ones Steve had tried to keep separate, tried to shield them from. Choices Steve had made in the hopes of sparing them from the fallout of his decisions.

But clearly, he hadn’t.

Steve doesn’t have to look up to know Natasha’s watching him. He can feel it, the weight of her gaze heavy as the silence stretches between them. When she finally speaks, her voice is calm, but there’s an edge to it—a sharpness that cuts deeper than any raised tone ever could.

“Why didn’t you tell us?” she asks, and there’s no anger in the words, just the kind of clarity that makes Steve’s stomach churn.

The answer is easy. He didn’t want them caught up in the drama between him and Tony. That’s why he’d done everything he did. That’s why he kept quiet. Right?

But now, standing here, with the full weight of their judgment pressing down, he isn’t so sure.

Steve stays silent, his mind spinning with half-formed justifications, but Natasha doesn’t wait. She steps forward, her arms crossed, her expression unreadable. “You’ve been making choices for all of us, Steve. Picking and choosing what we get to know. Deciding what’s best for the team without even giving us the chance to weigh in. Sound familiar?”

The question is rhetorical, and it lands with the force of a shield to the chest. Steve’s mouth tightens, but Natasha presses on.

“That’s what you were so angry about, wasn’t it? Tony signing the Accords and expecting us all to just fall in line because he thought it was right. You called him out for it. Said it wasn’t leadership, it was arrogance. But look where we are now. Look at what you did.”

Her words are steady, deliberate, and they carve through his defenses with surgical precision. “You kept this from us. And you didn’t just make that choice for yourself—you made it for all of us. You dragged us into your fight with Tony without even giving us the chance to know what we were fighting for. You made us complicit, Steve.”

Steve flinches at the word. Complicit. He’s never thought of it that way, but now it’s all he can think about. The way the team stood behind him, not knowing the full truth. The way they fought for what they thought was right, only to learn now that Steve’s reasons were far more personal than they ever realized.

Natasha’s tone softens slightly, but her words lose none of their weight. “You know, we never really understood why Tony iced us out after Germany the way he had. We’d fought before—Civil War wasn’t the first time, and it might’ve been the worst fight we’ve had. But he worked to get the Accords amended. He tried to meet us halfway. So why did he shut us out after that?”

Her gaze hardens again, and Steve doesn’t dare look away. “Now it makes sense. Because it wasn’t just about the fight. It was about what you did to him. You left him broken, Steve. And we stood behind you without even knowing what that meant. The team didn’t know about his parents. Didn’t know what Bucky had done. And we didn’t know that Tony didn’t know either. ”

The last words hit harder than the rest, and Steve feels something twist in his chest. He sees it in Natasha’s eyes now, the guilt she’s carrying, the way it mirrors his own. “I knew Bucky killed Tony’s parents,” she admits quietly. “But I thought you’d tell him. I thought you’d come clean. And now…” She shakes her head, her voice thick with frustration. “Now I realize I was just another part of the mess you made.”

Steve wants to argue, to tell her it wasn’t like that, but he can’t find the words. Because deep down, he knows she’s right. He’s spent so long telling himself he did what he had to do, that his choices were for the good of the team, for the greater good. But looking at Natasha now, hearing the raw honesty in her voice, he wonders if he’s been lying to himself all along.

“When we stood behind you during the Accords,” Natasha continues, her voice steady again, “it wasn’t because of Bucky. It wasn’t about picking sides. It was about fighting for our team. For us.” She takes a step closer, her eyes locked on his. “But you? You weren’t fighting for the team. You were fighting for him. And if you’d cared about the team—if you’d cared about Tony —you’d have gone back. You’d have made sure he was okay. You would’ve told us the truth.”

Her words land like blows, each one striking a nerve Steve didn’t even realize was exposed. He’s silent, because what can he say? What defense does he have when everything she’s saying is true?

Natasha lets the silence hang for a moment longer before stepping back, her expression unreadable once again. “You wanted to keep the team from breaking any more than it already had. I get that. But by keeping this from us, by making these choices on your own, you didn’t save the team, Steve. You fractured it even more.”

Natasha fixes him with a look. It’s not sharp like before, not the blade that cuts through excuses and leaves no room for debate. It’s quieter, heavier, a look that holds sincerity in the same way it holds disappointment. She doesn’t have to say a word for Steve to understand what it means—that she, and by extension the rest of the team, expect him to fix this.

To take accountability. To own up to his part in all of this.

And then, wordlessly, she turns and leaves. Clint follows a moment later, his boots scuffing against the tile as he heads for the door without so much as a glance in Steve’s direction. Sam hesitates, lingering just long enough for his shoulders to sag under the weight of his own frustration, his guilt. But even he doesn’t say anything, just exhales a soft, resigned sigh before trailing after the others.

The medbay door slides shut with a soft hiss , leaving Steve alone in the suffocating quiet.

He doesn’t move. The silence presses against him, oppressive and unrelenting, and for once, he doesn’t know what to do with it. He can’t push it away or bury it under the weight of duty and resolve. He can’t even tell himself it’s temporary, that it’ll pass once the next crisis pulls their focus away from this.

Because this isn’t something he can escape.

The silence is his to bear now, as are the consequences of his choices. He’s told himself for so long that he was fighting for the right reasons, that every decision he made was for the good of the team, the greater good. But now, standing here with nothing but his thoughts for company, he can’t shake the feeling that he’s been fighting for something far smaller, far more selfish, than he ever cared to admit.

And as he stares at the empty room, at the stillness left in the wake of his teammates’ retreat, Steve realizes something he’s never let himself acknowledge before.

Fixing this won’t come from picking up a shield or leading a mission. It won’t come from strategy or strength or the conviction that’s always guided him.

Fixing this starts with him.

T.S.

 It’s been two full days in the medbay. Two long, frustrating days where Tony’s been stuck at the compound instead of the home he’d painstakingly built in the tower. Two whole days confined to Peter’s medbay room because it’s the only place he can control who bothers him. Sure, Friday has access to the entire compound—she could lock the rogues out of any room in an instant—but that kind of showmanship would draw the exact kind of attention Tony’s trying to avoid.

The goal is simple: keep Peter safe, get him healthy, and leave.

One more day, he tells himself. One more day, and Peter will be well enough to head home. Tony can rejoin Pepper—God, he misses her—and Peter can return to school. And the grounding that’s waiting for him.

Tony exhales sharply at the thought, glancing toward Peter’s bed. The kid is still knocked out, the specialized super-meds keeping him in a deep, healing sleep. It’s almost ironic, really. All the anger Tony had felt when he first found out Peter had snuck out to join the fight has long since faded. It had evaporated the moment he saw Peter crumpled and bleeding, replaced with fear so visceral it’s still clawing at his chest two days later.

He’s not even mad anymore—well, not really. The grounding is more about principle now, a gesture to show that actions have consequences. That’s what the parenting books say, anyway. Tony has read a lot of them, though lately, he’s starting to think they’re all useless.

There’s no guidebook for parenting his kid.

No chapter titled How to Ground Your Teenage Vigilante Son Who Also Happens to Be a Superhero You Didn’t Know About Until Recently. No neatly bulleted list on how to balance fear and frustration with love and guilt when your kid nearly dies on your watch. Parenting isn’t like science. It doesn’t come with solutions or formulas. Every variable is unpredictable, and Peter… Peter is as unpredictable as they come.

Tony sighs, burying his nose in his phone, scrolling through an article on “The Art of Grounding Your Teenager” for what feels like the hundredth time. The words blur together, half of them contradicting the other half, and he’s just about ready to toss the phone aside when Friday’s voice chimes softly overhead.

“Sorry to interrupt, Boss.” Her tone is quiet, likely out of consideration for Peter, who’s still asleep. “But you have visitors who’d like to speak with you.”

Tony rolls his eyes, slouching further into his chair. He doesn’t need to be a genius to guess who’s waiting. “Tell Rogers and Co. that I want nothing to do with them right now.” His voice is sharp, clipped, though he’s careful to keep it low. The last thing he wants is to wake Peter.

“Mr. Rogers is not part of the group requesting to see you,” Friday replies evenly. “Miss Romanoff, Mr. Wilson, and Mr. Barton are the ones asking for you.”

Tony exhales a slow, deliberate sigh, his head tilting back to rest against the wall. He should tell them no. He doesn’t want to see anyone right now, least of all people still tethered to Steve. But the fact that Steve isn’t part of the group—the very person Tony most wants to avoid—gives him pause.

“Fine,” he mutters, closing his eyes for a moment. “Tell them I’ll be out in a few minutes.”

He rubs a hand down his face, letting the silence settle over him again, though it’s far from comforting. Part of him wants to just stay here, pretend the rest of the world doesn’t exist, and wait for tomorrow when he can finally take Peter home. But pretending has never been Tony’s style.

And if Natasha, Sam, and Clint are here without Rogers, maybe it’s worth hearing them out. If Rhodey were here, though, Tony can already hear what he’d say: You don’t owe them a damn thing. And Rhodey wouldn’t be wrong. The rogues, as far as Tony is concerned, aren’t worth the energy it takes to even think about them anymore.

But that hasn’t always been the case.

Once, they’d been his family.

Family isn’t a word Tony tosses around lightly. It isn’t just a term for people he works with or spends time around. To Tony, family is a sacred thing, something you choose. And choosing family? That isn’t something he does often. After Obadiah’s betrayal, after Howard’s coldness and Maria’s absence—after the kind of pain that only comes from being stabbed in the back by people who are supposed to love you—Tony learned that family isn’t something to be given lightly.

Even choosing Peter as family, long before he knew they shared blood, was an uphill battle. It was terrifying, honestly. He wasn’t prepared for it, for him, for the responsibility that came with being someone’s constant. And yet, it happened anyway.

But the Avengers… They’d been his first chosen family.

And then they turned on him.

That betrayal is what made him hesitate with Peter in the first place. How could he let someone that close again, knowing how easily that connection could be shattered? How easily loyalty and trust could be broken? He trusted the Avengers. And in the end, they didn’t even give him the courtesy of hearing him out. No explanation. No opportunity to reason. They just—left.

The memory still stings, like touching an old wound that never fully healed. He’s stripped them of the title of family since then, telling himself it’s better this way. But now, even after everything, here they are. Asking to talk.

And as much as he wants to tell them to take their olive branch and shove it, he can’t. Because like it or not, they still have to work together.

If they can’t even get along as teammates—coworkers, at the very least—then what’s the point of all this? Of everything they’re fighting for? There isn’t one, not as far as Tony’s concerned. Sure, he can avoid Rogers, play nice when the situation calls for it, and stick to surface-level pleasantries. He can keep it professional. But if he has to deal with this tension across the entire team? With Thor and Bruce missing, Vision and Wanda off playing tourist, and Pepper already stretched thin?

He’d lose his mind. And he won’t do it.

Accords and unity be damned.

Still, something about this feels different. Natasha, Sam, and Clint asking to talk—it feels like an olive branch. And if he turns them down now, if he shuts them out completely, then maybe the fracture in the team will never heal. And if that happens, Tony won’t have anyone to blame but himself.

And he’s done taking the blame for everyone else.

So, he stands, letting out a long breath as he smooths his hands down his jeans. His gaze flicks toward Peter, still fast asleep, and he leans down to press a soft kiss to his hairline. “Be good, kid,” he murmurs, straightening his spine as he blows out another breath.

Tony steps out of the room, bracing himself for what’s to come.

In the corridor, Natasha, Sam, and Clint are waiting, their expressions unreadable, a strange mixture of determination and uncertainty. For a moment, Tony just stands there, letting the silence stretch between them before finally crossing his arms and meeting Natasha’s gaze.

Tony leans against the wall just inside the medbay corridor, arms crossed, his stance deceptively casual. He can already feel the tension radiating from Natasha, Sam, and Clint as they stand in a loose semicircle, their postures as stiff as bad actors in a high school play. For a moment, no one speaks, the silence pulling tight like a tripwire. Tony watches them, his mind running a mile a minute. He already knows how this conversation will go—they’ll apologize, try to explain, maybe even make promises they can’t keep. It’s a script he’s seen before, and frankly, he’s not in the mood for a sequel.

He arches an eyebrow, breaking the stalemate with a sharp-edged grin. “Wow, this is cozy. What’s next? A group hug? Campfire songs?”

Natasha doesn’t flinch, but Sam’s jaw tightens, and Clint looks like he’d rather crawl into a vent. Tony notices it all, catalogues it like he’s building a blueprint of the room. Every twitch, every subtle shift—he sees it, but he doesn’t feel much. Not anymore. Not after everything.

“We owe you an apology,” Natasha says simply, her voice steady, and Tony almost laughs. Almost.

“An apology, huh?” He pushes off the wall, pacing now, hands shoved into his pockets as he keeps his eyes fixed on the floor. “What’s this—Rogues Anonymous? Step one: Admit you screwed me over. Step two: Apologize for the war crimes? Or are we skipping straight to step nine—making amends?”

“Tony,” Natasha starts, but he cuts her off, turning on his heel to face them, his grin razor-sharp.

“No, no, this is good. Therapeutic, even. Lay it on me. I’ll sit here, take it like a champ, and then we can all pretend this never happened. Sound good?”

For a moment, none of them respond. Clint shifts uncomfortably, his hands finding his hips, while Sam looks like he’s seconds away from telling Tony to can it. But it’s Natasha who finally steps forward, her gaze steady, her tone deliberate.

“I knew,” she says, and just like that, Tony freezes.

The humor slips from his face like paint running off a wall. His fingers tap absently against his thigh as he narrows his eyes at her. “Oh. So this is the part where you admit you knew and decided not to tell me. Nice twist. Didn’t see that one coming.”

“I didn’t think it was my place,” Natasha says, her voice softer now, though no less direct. “I thought Steve would tell you. I thought he’d—” She hesitates, her expression hardening just slightly before meeting his gaze again. “I was wrong.”

Tony doesn’t respond immediately, doesn’t trust himself to. His mind is already spiraling, unraveling the implications of her words. She knew. For how long? Since Siberia? Before? And yet, she’d said nothing. Watched him fall apart, watched him lose everything, and said nothing.

“Gee, ya think?” His voice is light, too light, and he resumes his pacing, his steps quick and sharp. “So, let me get this straight. You knew, and you decided not to tell me because you thought Steve of all people would handle it? That’s… I mean, that’s comedy gold, Natasha. Truly. A masterpiece.”

“Tony.” Sam’s voice cuts in, firm but not unkind. “She’s trying to apologize.”

“Yeah, I got that, Wilson,” Tony snaps, the grin falling away entirely now. “Doesn’t mean I have to make it easy for her.”

“I didn’t know,” Clint blurts suddenly, his voice rougher than usual, like the words have been stuck in his throat for days. “Neither of us did. Not about your parents. Not about Steve keeping it from you.” His hands drop to his sides, and he finally looks up, his expression open, almost pleading. “If we had—”

“What?” Tony cuts in, his voice sharp. “You’d have stood by me? Pulled the team back together? Give me a break, Barton. You were in it for Steve. All of you were.”

“No, we weren’t.” Sam’s voice is steady now, though tension runs through every syllable. “We weren’t fighting for Bucky. Hell, we weren’t even fighting for Steve. We were fighting for the team. For what was left of it, at least.”

Tony stops mid-step, turning to face him, his arms folded tightly across his chest. “Well, congrats. Great job on that front. Team’s doing fantastic these days.”

“Steve used us, Tony,” Natasha says, her voice cutting through the sarcasm like a scalpel. “We didn’t know his motives. We thought we were fighting for the team, but he… he was fighting for something else entirely. And you paid the price for it.”

Tony snorts, the sound bitter, hollow. His arms drop to his sides, his fingers flexing as if itching for something to do. “Yeah, well. You’ll forgive me if that doesn’t make me feel any better.”

“Look,” Sam says, stepping forward slightly, his hands raised in a placating gesture. “We know we screwed up. Big time. And we’re not here to fix it with a couple of words. But we’re here, Tony. We’re trying. That’s gotta count for something.”

Tony’s eyes flicker to Sam, then back to Natasha. He opens his mouth, then closes it again, his jaw tight. He hates this. Hates the vulnerability of it, the weight of their words pressing against the walls he’s built so carefully.

“You wanna know what counts for something? Trust,” he says finally, his voice quieter now but no less cutting. “And you all burned that bridge when you sided with him without hearing me out.” He points sharply toward the medbay door, as if Steve’s standing just behind it. “And now you want to patch things up because it’s inconvenient to have me pissed off?”

“No,” Natasha says firmly. “We’re here because we know we were wrong. And because you deserve more than what we gave you.”

The words hang in the air, sharp and heavy. For a moment, Tony just stares at her, his expression unreadable. Then, slowly, he exhales, his arms falling to his sides.

“Fine,” he mutters, his voice flat. “You want a shot? You’ve got it. But don’t expect me to hand you forgiveness on a silver platter. You wanna fix this? Prove it.”

Natasha nods, her expression unreadable, and Clint shifts awkwardly behind her. Sam, though, meets Tony’s gaze with quiet resolve. “We will,” he says. “One way or another.”

Friday’s voice chimes softly overhead, unobtrusive but undeniable. “Boss, Peter is awake now.”

Tony freezes for a moment, the words sending a ripple of something electric through him. Relief, maybe. Or the kind of tension that uncoils just enough to let you breathe again, even if you hadn’t realized you were holding your breath in the first place.

He glances back at Natasha, Sam, and Clint, already calculating how to end this interaction as quickly as possible. He’s kept Peter shielded from them for good reason. They only learned about him two days ago, and as far as Tony’s concerned, that’s already two days too many. Letting them meet Peter now feels like crossing a bridge that should’ve burned long ago.

But when Natasha’s gaze flickers toward the medbay door, something in her expression pulls him up short. Even Sam and Clint straighten slightly, their body language shifting in that telltale way that says they’re bracing for something. They’re curious. Eager, even. And that’s the problem, isn’t it?

Tony sighs, dragging a hand down his face. He doesn’t trust them—not with this, not with Peter. But maybe this isn’t about trust. Maybe it’s about Peter, and what he would want. Even after everything, the kid still sees the Avengers as something worth believing in. Well, most of them.

Tony hesitates, the words on the tip of his tongue tasting like something sour, but he says them anyway. “You guys wanna meet him?”

The question lands like a stone dropped into water, ripples spreading outward. Natasha’s eyebrows lift slightly, her composure cracking just enough to reveal her surprise. Clint glances at Sam, who seems to be weighing his response carefully, before Clint answers.

“Yeah,” he says softly. “We’d like that.”

Tony exhales slowly, the sound deliberate, like air leaking from a tire. “Fine,” he mutters. “Friday, check with the kid. See if he’s up for guests.”

Friday’s response is quick, her tone gentle. “Mini Boss says he’s feeling up to visitors, Boss.”

Tony nods sharply, turning back to the rogues with a pointed look. “All right, ground rules. Don’t say anything stupid, don’t overwhelm him, and if you upset him in any way, I’m kicking you out. Clear?”

Natasha nods, calm as ever. Clint offers a half-shrug, and Sam raises a hand in a loose salute. Tony doesn’t bother waiting for further confirmation before stepping inside.

The medbay feels warmer somehow, despite the sterile light and faint antiseptic smell. Maybe it’s Peter. The kid is sitting up against the pillows, his curls a messy halo around his head. He looks better than he did two days ago, though still pale, his eyes slightly glassy from sleep and meds.

“Hey, kiddo,” Tony says, his voice softer than it’s been all day. He crosses the room in a few quick strides, perching on the edge of the bed. “How you feeling?”

Peter blinks at him slowly, his lips quirking into a small, tired smile. “Like I got hit by a truck.”

Tony snorts, reaching out to ruffle Peter’s curls. “Yeah, well, maybe next time you’ll listen when I tell you not to do something stupid.”

“Doubt it,” Peter says, his voice hoarse but teasing. His gaze shifts past Tony, landing on the figures standing awkwardly near the door. “Uh… we got company?”

Tony glances over his shoulder, then back at Peter. “Yeah,” he says reluctantly. “You remember Natasha, Clint, and Sam, right? You’ve, uh, met before. Kind of.”

Peter blinks again, his expression caught somewhere between surprise and uncertainty. “Yeah,” he says slowly, sitting up a little straighter despite the wince it earns him. “At the airport. In Germany.”

Natasha steps forward first, her movements as fluid and deliberate as always. “It’s good to see you awake, Peter,” she says, her tone warm in a way Tony’s not sure he’s ever heard before. “You gave us a scare.”

Peter frowns, his brow furrowing slightly. “You’re not… mad at me?”

“Mad?” Clint echoes, stepping forward with a faint laugh. “Kid, we fought against you, not the other way around. And that was… what? Forever ago? Water under the bridge.”

“You were impressive,” Sam adds, his voice steady but sincere. “We just didn’t know who you were back then. Didn’t know you were, uh…” He glances at Tony, then back at Peter. “You.”

Peter shifts slightly, glancing at Tony as if seeking permission to respond. Tony nods once, his jaw tightening.

“It’s nice to, uh… meet you. Officially,” Peter says finally, his voice quiet.

“Likewise,” Natasha says, her lips curving into a faint smile.

Tony watches the exchange, his fingers tapping idly against his knee. He still doesn’t trust them, not fully. But the way Peter’s shoulders relax slightly, the way his gaze softens as he looks at Natasha and the others—it’s enough to make Tony pause.

“You’re still grounded, by the way,” Tony says suddenly, breaking the quiet.

Peter’s head snaps back to him, his eyes wide. “What? You can’t—”

“Oh, I can,” Tony says, smirking. “And I will. You’re lucky you’re healing, or I’d be making you wash every window in the tower by hand.”

Natasha chuckles softly, and even Sam looks like he’s fighting a grin. Clint, meanwhile, leans against the wall, arms crossed, his expression almost contemplative.

“You’re good with him,” Clint says suddenly, his voice quiet but sincere.

Tony blinks, taken aback, before recovering with a quick quip. “Yeah, well, don’t spread it around. I’ve got a reputation to maintain.”

Peter snickers, the sound light and genuine, and Tony feels some of the tension in his chest ease for the first time in days. It’s fleeting, a small patch over a gaping wound, but he’ll take it. Across the room, Natasha glances at Sam and Clint before straightening up.

“We should head out anyway,” she says, her tone as smooth as ever. “Training and whatnot. But it was really nice to meet you, Peter. We hope to see you around soon.”

Tony feels the beginnings of a frown tugging at his features, already bristling before she finishes. And then she adds, “You’re more than welcome to join us for training anytime.”

Tony shoots her a sharp glare. “Oh, hell no. My kid is not joining you for training.”

Natasha raises an eyebrow, her smirk both infuriating and far too knowing. “If he’s going to be out there, Stark, he might as well train with the best.”

Peter’s eyes light up as he turns to Tony, his grin growing mischievous. “Yeah, Dad. If I’m going to train, I might as well train with the best.”

Tony sighs, the sound half-exasperated, half-defeated, but he can’t fight the grin threatening to tug at the corners of his lips. He shakes his head, resting a hand lightly on Peter’s arm. “You’re such a little shit, you know that?”

Peter laughs, bright and carefree, and Natasha chuckles softly along with him. Clint and Sam exchange glances before joining in, their laughter quieter but no less genuine.

Finally, Clint motions subtly toward the door with a tilt of his head, and Tony catches the gesture immediately. Natasha turns back to Peter, her smile softening. “Take care, Peter. And listen to your dad. Sometimes he actually knows what he’s talking about.”

Peter grins. “I’ll try.”

Sam raises a hand in a brief wave, his expression kind. “Feel better, kid.”

Clint nods, offering a small smile. “Yeah, take it easy. Don’t let Stark boss you around too much.”

“Oh, don’t encourage him,” Tony mutters, though the words lack any real bite.

The three of them head out, leaving the room quiet once more. Tony watches them go, and for the first time in a long time, he doesn’t feel the familiar sting of anger or bitterness in their absence. The fractures in the team aren’t healed, not by a long shot. There’s still too much to process, too much to feel, too much to untangle. But this? This was better than he expected.

He sinks back into the chair he’d pulled up two days ago, the one that hasn’t moved since. The medbay is silent again, save for the quiet hum of machines monitoring Peter’s recovery.

Peter shifts slightly, picking at the edge of his blanket. Tony hates the way the kid looks at him sometimes—like he’s seeing right through him, peeling back every layer of armor Tony has spent decades perfecting. He’s fifteen. He shouldn’t be able to see through Tony Stark like he’s glass, but here they are.

“You should forgive them,” Peter says softly, his voice breaking the silence like the first crack in an iced-over lake.

Tony blinks, turning his head to look at him fully. “Should’ve known you could hear that whole conversation,” he mutters, shaking his head.

Peter doesn’t respond at first, just keeps his eyes on the blanket. The silence stretches, but this time it’s Peter who breaks it. “I know they hurt you,” he says finally, his voice quiet but steady. “And they weren’t really good friends. But I think you should give them another chance. Really.”

Tony leans back in his chair, rubbing a hand over his face. He humors the kid, because who else does he have to talk to? Who else knows him like this—except Pepper or Rhodey?

“What about Captain Stars and Stripes?” Tony asks, his tone lighter now, tinged with sarcasm. “What do you think I should do there, huh?”

Peter glances up, his gaze meeting Tony’s, and the way his expression shifts—earnest and thoughtful—almost makes Tony regret asking. “Did he apologize?” Peter asks simply.

Tony shakes his head.

Peter nods, his lips pressing into a thin line. “Then I don’t think you should forgive him.”

Tony doesn’t ask the question that lingers at the forefront of his mind: What if Steve Rogers apologized? Should I forgive him then? Because he doesn’t want the answer.

Even if Steve apologized, Tony’s not ready to forgive him. The silence that follows seems to say everything Tony won’t. Peter doesn’t press further, and for that, Tony is grateful.

“How did I end up with such a good kid?” Tony asks, his grin returning as he looks at Peter.

Peter shrugs, his lips curving into a faint smile. “I don’t know. You’d have to go ask May.”

The mention of May Parker pulls at Tony’s heart in a way he isn’t prepared for. He misses her every day. Misses the way she made everything feel a little easier, a little less impossible. They hadn’t been close—not at first—but they were getting there. Their friendship and growing trust cut short far too soon.

“Well,” Tony says, his voice softer now, “I like to think I’m doing her some justice here.” He taps Peter lightly on the arm. “And just because you’re playing pity party doesn’t mean you’re ungrounded, kid.”

Peter groans, his head falling back against the pillows. “You’re the worst.”

Tony smirks, leaning back in his chair. “Yeah, yeah. Get some rest. We’ll argue about it later.”

=

Tony couldn’t get out of the compound fast enough. The moment Helen cleared Peter, he was ready to bolt. If he had it his way, they’d have taken the Quinjet and blasted out of there at full speed, leaving the rogues and their unresolved tensions in the rearview. But no, because apparently life—or the universe—had other plans.

First, Natasha cornered him, asking if he could take a look at her Widow Bites. Something was off, she’d said. And sure, Tony could have told her no, could have pawned it off on someone else, but the thought of having to return in a few days when they inevitably malfunctioned didn’t sit well with him. So, he’d grudgingly agreed. It turned out to be nothing more than a quick fix, but it ate up time he didn’t have.

Then Friday flagged an issue in one of the compound’s security sectors—a code upgrade she insisted was critical. And of course, Tony couldn’t just leave it, not when the nagging voice in his head reminded him he’d only have to come back and do it later.

By the time they’re finally heading out to the car, Peter walking beside him with a slight limp, Tony feels like he’s been wrung out, hung up, and left to dry. Happy’s been waiting for over an hour, which means he’s likely gearing up for a patented Hogan Grumble™ about how long he’s been kept waiting.

But when Tony steps outside, it’s not Happy who catches his eye first.

It’s Steve.

Leaning against the car like he has every right to be there, dressed down in civilian clothes—thank God for small mercies. If the guy were standing there in full Captain America getup, Tony’s stomach would probably stage a rebellion. As it is, seeing him in jeans and a button-down is almost worse. It feels calculated, like Steve’s trying to look less intimidating, more approachable. It’s the kind of image Tony doesn’t trust.

Happy is glaring at Steve, standing beside the car like a guard dog ready to bite at the first wrong move. Tony’s not surprised. Pretty much everyone in his inner circle shares his less-than-rosy opinion of the guy, despite Tony’s best efforts not to drag others into their mess.

Tony shifts his weight, his gaze dropping to Peter, who’s already looking up at him. Their eyes meet, and Peter gives the faintest nod, almost imperceptible. But Tony knows what it means.

It’s Peter’s way of saying, You should hear him out.

Tony exhales sharply through his nose, his shoulders tense. There are very few people in the world who can get him to do something he absolutely doesn’t want to do with just a look. Two people, to be exact. One is Peter, standing right next to him, and the other is Pepper, who’s scarier than the entire Avengers lineup combined when she wants to be.

As they draw closer to the car, Tony can’t help the audible sigh that escapes him. He doesn’t even bother hiding it. If Steve’s going to ambush him like this, he might as well know exactly how much Tony doesn’t want to have this conversation.

“All right, Cap,” Tony says, his voice dry and biting as he stops a few feet away from him. “Let’s get this over with.”

Steve grimaces, glancing at Peter as they draw closer, offering a small wave. Peter raises his hand in acknowledgment, but his face remains neutral, the kind of polite gesture Peter always reserves for strangers or people he doesn’t quite trust. Tony catches the flicker of disappointment in Steve’s expression, and damn if it doesn’t feel good to see his kid standing his ground. Peter, who is usually the picture of politeness with adults—friendly to everyone, deferential even—isn't giving Steve an inch.

Tony’s chest tightens, a surge of pride mingling with the ever-present frustration bubbling just below the surface. He’s worked so hard to keep his issues with Steve contained, not letting them seep into Peter’s view of the Avengers. But here they are, and for once, Tony’s glad his kid can see through the cracks.

Steve glances toward the building, clearly uncomfortable under Tony’s gaze. Tony sighs heavily. “Let’s go, let’s go. I get it—you don’t want an audience,” he says, gesturing toward the door.

Steve nods but doesn’t respond, leading the way back into the compound. The silence between them is taut, stretching thin as they make their way to the empty lobby. Steve stops in the center of the room, turning to face Tony with his hands shoved into his pockets, his posture stiff.

Tony crosses his arms, one eyebrow arching. “All right, Cap. What’s this about? Another rousing speech about duty, honor, and the American way? Or is this one of those ‘closure’ things? Because if so, I’ve gotta tell you, I’m fresh out.”

Steve’s jaw tightens, his lips pressing into a thin line. “I wanted to talk to you,” he says, glancing briefly toward the door as if Peter might still be listening.

Tony rolls his eyes, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Well, congratulations. You’ve got me. What’s next? Apologizing for dragging my kid into Avenger's mess, or are we skipping straight to the part where you tell me I’m wrong to be mad about it?”

“I didn’t drag him into this,” Steve says sharply, his voice cutting through the air like a whip. His hands fall from his pockets, his shoulders squaring as he steps closer. “Peter chose to help, Tony. He’s smart, capable, and more than willing to step up when he’s needed. You should be proud of him.”

“Oh, I am proud of him,” Tony snaps back, his voice rising. “I’m proud of him every damn day. But he’s a kid , Rogers. A kid who shouldn’t have been out there in the first place. You knew that, and you still called him in. I told you not to— begged you not to—and you went ahead and did it anyway. So don’t you dare stand there and tell me it wasn’t your fault.”

Steve takes a step back, his expression hardening. “I made a judgment call, Tony. It wasn’t about ignoring you. It was about doing what needed to be done.”

Tony laughs, sharp and humorless. “Oh, of course. The great Captain America, making judgment calls for everyone else. How could I forget? You’ve got such a stellar track record with those.”

Steve flinches slightly, but his gaze remains steady. “I’m not perfect, Tony. I’ve made mistakes. Siberia… I—” He falters, taking a breath before continuing. “I thought I was protecting my friend. I thought I was doing what was right. But I should’ve listened to you. I should’ve trusted you.”

Tony tilts his head, studying Steve like a problem he’s been asked to solve. “You should have,” he agrees, his voice cold. “But you didn’t. And now, here we are, having this little heart-to-heart because you feel bad about it. Because your ‘judgment call’ got my kid hurt, and you don’t know how to fix it.”

Steve’s jaw works, his frustration evident. “I’m trying to apologize,” he says finally, his tone tight. “I know I messed up, Tony. I’m not here to make excuses or defend myself. I’m here because I owe you an apology. For Siberia. For Peter. For everything.”

Tony narrows his eyes, the weight of the words hanging between them. He wants to lash out, to throw Steve’s failures back in his face, but the memory of Peter’s look outside—the silent plea for Tony to hear Steve out—lingers in his mind.

“You’re right,” Tony says after a long pause. “You do owe me an apology. But do you even know what you’re apologizing for? Or are you just saying it because it feels like the right thing to do?”

Steve hesitates, and Tony steps closer, his voice dropping. “Do you have any idea what it felt like, lying there in Siberia, bleeding out because you decided I wasn’t worth saving? Watching the kid who saved me get hurt because you couldn’t be bothered to listen?”

“I know,” Steve says softly, his voice strained. “I know I failed you. And I know I can’t undo what’s been done. But I want to try. To make things right.”

Tony scoffs, shaking his head. “Right. Because that’s what you do, isn’t it? You swoop in, say the magic words, and expect everything to fall into place. Newsflash, Cap: that’s not how the real world works.”

Steve looks down, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. “I know,” he says quietly. “But I’m still going to try. For the team. For you.”

Tony exhales sharply, dragging a hand through his hair. “Yeah, well, good luck with that. I’ve got bigger priorities these days.” He pauses, his gaze flicking to the door. “The Avengers? They’re not my family anymore. Peter is. Pepper is. The rest of you? You’re co-workers. Nothing more.”

Steve’s shoulders sag slightly, the weight of Tony’s words sinking in. “I understand,” he says, though his voice is tinged with sadness.

“Do you?” Tony challenges, his gaze sharp. “Because if you did, we wouldn’t be standing here having this conversation.”

Steve doesn’t respond immediately, instead shifting his gaze to Peter and Happy standing outside and the silence stretches. Finally, he nods. “I get it, Tony. I do. But I hope we can at least… work on this. As co-leaders. As teammates.”

Tony studies him for a long moment before finally sighing. “We’ll see, Rogers. But if you ever put my kid in danger again, this conversation’s over. For good.”

“Understood,” Steve says quietly.

Tony turns, heading for the door without another word. He doesn’t look back, but the sound of Steve’s voice—low and regretful—echoes in his mind.

The car hums gently beneath them as Happy navigates the road back to the tower. Tony sits with his head tilted back against the seat, one arm draped over the edge of the seatback. His other hand fidgets with the hem of his jacket, his mind buzzing louder than the tires on the asphalt.

Beside him, Peter is quiet, though Tony can feel the weight of his gaze. The kid’s always been like that—intuitive to the point of annoyance. Tony doesn’t have to say a word for Peter to pick up on what he’s thinking, and right now, that’s both a blessing and a curse.

“So…” Peter starts softly, his voice hesitant, breaking the silence between them.

Tony cracks an eye open, glancing at him. “So?”

Peter fiddles with the hem of his hoodie, biting his bottom lip before looking up. “I, uh… I might’ve heard some of that.”

Tony huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “Might’ve?”

“Okay, I did,” Peter admits, his cheeks flushing faintly. “But I wasn’t trying to listen! I just… I couldn’t help it.”

Tony rolls his eyes, though there’s no real heat behind it. “Kid, you’ve got enhanced everything. I’d be more surprised if you didn’t hear it.”

Peter hesitates again, his gaze dropping to his lap. “You’re not mad?”

“Nah,” Tony says, his voice softer now. He shifts in his seat to face Peter more fully. “Not at you, anyway. If I didn’t want you hearing it, I wouldn’t have had the conversation.”

Peter nods, his fingers still fidgeting. “I think… I think it’s good that he apologized. Even if it wasn’t, you know, perfect.”

Tony raises an eyebrow, leaning back slightly. “You think so, huh?”

“Yeah,” Peter says, glancing up at him. “I mean, he’s trying. And you—you’re trying too. That’s gotta mean something, right?”

Tony lets the words hang in the air for a moment, his gaze fixed on Peter. The kid is so earnest, so hopeful, even after everything. Tony doesn’t know how he does it—how he manages to find the good in people who’ve let him down, in situations that should’ve left him jaded.

“Maybe,” Tony says finally, his voice quiet. “But don’t think this means I’m ready to forgive and forget. It’s gonna take time. A lot of it.”

Peter nods, his lips twitching into a small smile. “I know. But… I think you’ll get there. Eventually.”

Tony snorts, shaking his head. “And what makes you so sure, huh? You’ve got a crystal ball hidden in that hoodie?”

Peter shrugs, his grin widening slightly. “Nah. I just know you.”

Tony huffs, leaning over to sling an arm around Peter’s shoulders and pulling him in close. Peter doesn’t resist, leaning into his dad’s side with the kind of trust that Tony knows he doesn’t deserve, but will do everything in his power to live up to.

“You’re a pain in my ass, you know that?” Tony says, his voice soft but warm.

“Yeah,” Peter replies, his laugh muffled against Tony’s shoulder. “But you love me anyway.”

Tony presses a quick kiss to the top of Peter’s messy curls, his grip tightening slightly. “Yeah, I do, kid. Don’t ever forget it.”

Peter grins up at him, his eyes sparkling even in the dim light of the car. “I won’t.”

Tony settles back into the seat, keeping his arm draped over Peter as they ride the rest of the way in comfortable silence. Whatever tomorrow brings—Avengers, apologies, and everything in between—he’ll deal with it. But for now, he’s exactly where he wants to be.