Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It rained the day Peter Benjamin Parker was born.

Not a storm—not thunder crashing or lightning cracking the sky in half. Not the kind of rain that sent people scrambling for cover, cursing under their breath, newspapers turned to soggy shields. No. This was a quieter rain, steady and soft, like a city-sized exhale. A hush had fallen over New York, the kind of quiet that only came when the world was forced to slow down. The clouds hung low, bloated and silvery, their weight tugging gently on the day, as though even the sky itself understood the significance of what had just happened.

The skyline outside blurred behind thin, watery veils sliding down the glass of Queens General Hospital. Cars moved sluggishly below, their headlights glowing like fireflies in the fog. The world looked dreamlike, half-asleep.

Inside Room 508, the light was dim, muted by the rain-smudged windows. A monitor beeped softly, steady and reassuring. The air was thick with the scent of antiseptic, cotton, and something else—something new and raw and electric.

Mary Parker lay propped up against the hospital bed’s pillows, her sweat-damp hair plastered to her forehead. Her arms trembled from the effort of labor, but she didn’t loosen her grip. Her hands cradled a tiny bundle wrapped in pale blue, his skin still red from the world he’d just entered. Her body ached. Her chest burned. Her eyes stung. And still, all she could do was stare at the child in her arms.

Peter.

Her son.

He blinked slowly, the lashes on his still-damp eyelids fluttering like wings. His nose wrinkled, his fists clenched tight, his mouth opened in a tiny, tremulous sound that wasn’t quite a cry. His hair—already thick and stubborn—clung to his scalp in damp tufts, dark as a raven’s wing.

Mary smiled, though it trembled at the edges. “Hey there,” she whispered, her voice hoarse from hours of screaming and weeping and hoping.

But then his eyes opened.

And that’s when her heart cracked.

They weren’t hers. Nor the soft hazel of her husbands. No, these were darker—richer—a shade of brown so deep they almost looked black. They carried weight. Memory. Recognition.

A breath caught in her throat. Her grip on Peter tightened, instinctively protective.

Not mine. The thought was unbidden, cruel. His.

A man whose voice she hadn’t heard in months. Whose shadow still lingered at the edge of every decision she’d made since the second line appeared on that test. The man who had changed everything and yet didn’t even know.

Mary leaned forward, pressing her lips to Peter’s damp forehead. Her tears wet his soft skin, mixing with the last traces of birth.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, barely audible over the soft hum of machines and the patter of rain. “I should’ve told you sooner. I should’ve told him.” Oh

She didn’t know who she was speaking to anymore—her son, too new to understand, or the man whose name she couldn’t bring herself to write down on the birth certificate. Maybe both. Maybe neither.

Maybe just herself.

Peter squirmed slightly, a soft sigh escaping him as if, even now, he could feel the heaviness of her thoughts pressing down.

Mary held him tighter, as though she could shield him from the truth with nothing more than love.

“I just… I wanted to keep him safe,” she said.

Outside, the rain continued to fall—gentle, steady, and silent.

Peter was only two when Mary died. Too young, they said, to really understand. Too young to carry memories for long. But memory is strange. It lingers in odd corners, etched in feelings more than facts.

And Peter remembered joy.

Not in words or clear images—but in the way his chest used to feel impossibly full, like it couldn’t hold all the sunshine. In the way the world used to feel bright and safe and kind. He remembered her—his mother—everything to him. The center of his tiny universe.

One moment, she was there—her laugh bright like a bell, her hand warm in his—and the next, she wasn’t. He remembered the cadence of her voice, soft and playful, like wind through chimes. He remembered the way she smelled: like citrus shampoo and the faintest trace of lavender. He remembered feeling safe. Held. Loved.

That morning, she’d taken him to the park. The sky was a perfect stretch of blue, and the air was still heavy with summer warmth. She spun in circles, holding both his tiny hands, and he squealed with joy, his feet spinning around on the ground as the world blurred around him. Everything was laughter and motion and light. She tossed her head back, laughing, her hair catching the sun like red-gold fire. She looked like magic. She was magic.

And then—nothing.

He didn’t remember her falling.

Didn’t remember the thud her body made when she hit the ground.

Didn’t remember the way people screamed or the sirens that followed.

Didn’t remember the rush of the ambulance doors closing.

Only the quiet afterward.

And then, Richard.

Richard Parker wasn’t cruel—not in the ways people mean when they say that word. He didn’t shout or hit. He didn’t frighten Peter with his hands. But there was a weight in his silence, a shadow in the spaces between them. After Mary died, something closed off inside him, like a door Peter couldn’t reach. He stopped looking at Peter—really looking. His eyes would slide past him like Peter was a reflection in a window, not a child.

Peter didn’t understand what he’d done wrong.

He only knew that the warm world he once knew had vanished. That he was small now. Smaller than ever. Like the corners of the house were too big for him. Like the silence was swallowing him up.

He tried so hard to be good. He sat quietly at the table, small hands folded in his lap. He never asked for seconds, even when his stomach growled. He clutched his stuffed dinosaur at night instead of running to his father’s bed, holding it like a talisman against the dark. And sometimes, when he couldn’t sleep, he whispered into the silence:

“Daddy still loves me. Daddy still loves me.”

Not daring to say it louder, afraid he’d break something delicate, something already cracked.

But the office door started staying locked. The late nights grew later. Richard stopped saying goodnight. Stopped checking if Peter had brushed his teeth or kissed his scraped knees. The house grew quieter, emptier, like something essential had been drained from its walls.

And then one morning, Peter woke up and his things were packed into a small blue suitcase with a frayed handle. His favorite toy—a worn plastic firetruck—was nowhere to be found.

“We’re going on a little trip,” Richard said, kneeling but not meeting Peter’s eyes.

Peter reached for his hand, needing something, anything. But Richard stood too quickly, brushing the hand away. His shadow loomed over Peter, long and cold and distant.

And Peter—just a little boy, just two and small and scared—stood there and realized:

The world wasn’t bright anymore.

It wasn’t warm.

It wasn’t safe.

And he didn’t know how to make it that way again

But then—somehow, impossibly—he found a new home.

Ben and May Parker lived in a red-brick house in Queens, tucked behind a white picket fence and a garden brimming with hydrangeas that bent in the breeze like they were listening. The sidewalk in front was cracked and uneven, perfect for tripping over, and the paint on the porch rail was chipped from years of weather and hands. Their mailbox squeaked when you opened it. The screen door clicked shut with a familiar snap. It wasn’t fancy or big or anything special, not at first glance—but it was a house that felt lived-in. Warm at the edges. Like someone had poured love into its walls over time, and it had soaked it all in.

Everything there felt softer.

May smelled like laundry detergent and sugar cookies, like sunshine and gentle hands. She always seemed to know when Peter needed a hug, even when he didn’t say a word. She never pushed—never reached for him too quickly—but she was always there, humming in the kitchen or folding his pajamas with care, like every small thing about him mattered.

Ben’s laugh rolled through the house like summer thunder—deep and warm and real. It wrapped around Peter like a blanket, something solid in a world that still felt shaky under his feet. He cracked silly jokes during breakfast and told stories that made May roll her eyes but always made Peter smile, even if just a little. He talked to Peter like he was listening for the answers, not just filling silence. Like what Peter had to say was important, even if it was just about dinosaurs or trucks.

They didn’t ask too many questions.

They didn’t try to fill the silences or explain the past.

They didn’t treat him like a guest waiting to be returned.

They just opened the door—and kept it open.

Again. And again. And again. Until Peter started to believe they’d keep doing it forever.

They gave him a bedroom with glow-in-the-dark stars stuck to the ceiling and a quilt that smelled like sunshine and dryer sheets. His name was written in crayon on the door after May caught him drawing it on the wall. They framed it instead of scolding him. They laughed. 

They made grilled cheese sandwiches the way Mary used to—with the crusts cut off and the cheese just melted enough to pull when he bit into it. Tomato soup on the side. A glass of milk with a silly straw. They never forgot. They remembered what he liked, even when he didn’t say it out loud.

They read bedtime stories without rushing, even when the day had been long. Even when Peter picked the longest book on purpose just to keep them in the room a little longer. They stayed. Every night. They stayed.

At first, Peter was quiet.

Careful.

He tiptoed through the house like he was afraid of breaking something—not the dishes, but the peace. He didn’t cry. He didn’t ask for things. He waited for the rules he didn’t understand yet to be broken. For voices to rise. For doors to slam.

But none of that happened.

Slowly, piece by piece, Peter started to believe in the softness. To trust the stillness. To laugh again—not just because he was supposed to, but because something inside him had healed just enough to let the sound out.

He started calling them “Mom” and “Dad” by Thanksgiving.

Not because anyone told him to. Not because someone said he had to forget Mary or ignore what came before. But because something in him needed to say it. Needed to know those words could still belong to someone. That he could still have parents, even if they didn’t share his blood. Even if his heart still held Mary in a quiet, aching corner.

And they didn’t flinch when he said it.

May just cupped his cheek and smiled. Ben blinked hard and hugged him a little tighter than usual. And that was it. That was enough.

Still—some nights, when the wind howled against the windows and the shadows crept longer across the walls, Peter would lie awake under his quilt and wonder.

Why Richard never called.

Why he never wrote.

Why the man who once carried him on his shoulders now lived like Peter had never existed.

For a while, he waited.

He stood at the window when cars pulled up.

He watched May answer the phone, heart thudding at the sound of the ring.

He listened for footsteps, keys turning in the front door, a familiar voice saying his name.

But the calls never came.

The visits never happened.

And Peter stopped asking.

Bit by bit, the hope in his chest faded—not with a bang, but the slow unraveling of a dream he didn’t realize he was still holding onto. It didn’t make him cry. It just made him quiet. Like some part of him had closed its eyes and decided not to look anymore.

He stopped watching the street.

Stopped thinking maybe.

He stopped waiting.

But even then, even when that last sliver of hope curled in on itself and disappeared, Peter was not alone.

Because when he woke from nightmares, May was already at his door.

Because when he scraped his knees, Ben was there with a joke and a bandage.

Because when he said “Mom” or “Dad,” they always, always answered.

And for a while, in that red-brick house in Queens, Peter began to feel something like whole again.

Until the fire.

Chapter Text

~-:*-`^^quick change to first person pov for this^^`-*:-~

I remember the fire. I was five.

Too old to forget everything, too young to make sense of what stayed.

I don’t remember what started it. People talked about it later—mechanical failure, something electrical—but all those words blurred together, like the ringing in my ears that never quite left. Adults talked in circles: insurance, inspectors, causes. But I wasn’t thinking about why it happened. I wasn’t thinking at all. There was only now—only the moment, filled with smoke and heat and movement, and fear so thick it nearly drowned me.

What I do remember, first and foremost, is the smell.

It wasn’t just smoke. It was thick and chemical, sharp and oily, like melting plastic and scorched rubber. It clawed its way into my throat and burned behind my eyes before I even knew where it was coming from. The air didn’t feel like air anymore—it was something you had to push through. Heavy. Dirty. Alive. It tasted wrong, like breathing in coins and ash. Every breath felt like swallowing metal shavings.

I was lying on the floor in the living room. Belly down. Crayons fanned out beside me like the petals of some uneven flower. My drawing pad was open. I was working on something—something I’d been proud of just moments before. A robot. Maybe a spaceship. I don’t remember the details anymore. Just the bright colors I had been so careful with, now smudged across the page where my arm had dragged through them. Green and blue and red all blending together into a muddy mess.

Then came the alarm.

That shrill, stuttering scream that tore through the house like it was trying to rip the walls open. I didn’t move at first. The smoke alarm had gone off before—burnt toast, a forgotten pot left on the stove, maybe Ben messing with something in the garage. But this time, it didn’t stop. It kept going. Louder. More frantic. Like it knew something I didn’t yet.

And the light—it had changed.

It wasn’t afternoon gold anymore. It was orange. Flickering. Alive. Like the world had caught fire behind the walls.

I sat up, confused. The smell hit harder now. Stronger. Unmistakable.

I remember standing. The feel of the rug beneath my bare feet, how it was already too warm. I remember turning toward the hallway and seeing smoke—thick, black smoke—spilling into the room like floodwater. It curled along the ceiling. It moved fast. Too fast. Like it had been waiting, ready.

Then I heard the sound.

Not the alarm.

Not shouting.

Something lower. Deeper. A roar, like wind in a tunnel, like breath—something was breathing, huge and angry and alive.

That’s when I knew.

Not with words. Not with logic. But deep in my body. A cold jolt that started in my stomach and crawled through my limbs like static.

I ran.

I didn’t know where I was going. Just away from the smoke. Toward the light. My heart was beating so loud I could hear it in my ears, making my vision pulse. My mouth tasted like ash. My chest burned. My head spun. Every part of me screamed move.

And then, suddenly, I was outside.

I don’t remember how I got there. Maybe I made it out on my own. Maybe someone pulled me. Maybe some hand reached in and yanked me out of the dark. I don’t know. It all blurs together.

What I do remember is the air.

Cold. Sharp. Real.

The way it rushed past my face and filled my lungs with something that wasn’t poison. I remember the noise—shouting, crying, chaos. The brightness of the sky compared to the black cloud rising behind me.

And I remember turning.

Looking back.

I saw it.

The house was on fire.

Not just burning—consumed.

Flames poured from the windows like water under pressure. The roof glowed red and orange and then collapsed in on itself with a terrible crack. A wall followed, tumbling down in a spray of sparks and smoke. I stood there, frozen, barefoot on the pavement. My hands were shaking. I didn’t cry. I didn’t scream. I just watched.

Like I was waiting for something to wake me up.

But it wasn’t a dream.

It was real.

And I let the sight burn itself into my mind like I had no choice. Because I didn’t.

Because when something like that happens, it brands you.

I can still see it.

Even now.

Etched into the backs of my eyelids. Every time I close my eyes.

I can still feel the heat. Not on my skin—but in my memory. A ghost temperature. A phantom ache.

People came.

Neighbors, firefighters, strangers.

Someone tried to wrap a blanket around my shoulders, but I pushed it off. Not because I was cold. Not because I wanted to be brave. But because I couldn’t feel anything that made sense. Not cold. Not warmth. Just a crushing kind of emptiness, pressing in from all sides. Like the fire had burned a hole straight through me and left nothing behind.

I remember the sirens. The hiss of water against flames. The sound of a hose blasting through shattered windows. Steam rising in clouds, mixing with the smoke like water made of ghosts.

And I remember thinking, with that strange, too-old part of my brain:

Nothing will ever be the same again.

And this time I was actually right.

After that, everything was a blur.

Not like sleep—but like someone had tried to scrub the day out of my head.

I don’t remember where I went.

I don’t remember who held my hand, or if anyone did.

All I remember is that something had ended.

And I didn’t know if anything would ever really begin again.

I don’t remember getting into the ambulance.

One minute I was standing outside, the cold air stinging my cheeks, and the next, I was moving. Someone was carrying me—maybe a firefighter, maybe someone in one of those uniforms with the bright colors and shiny badges. I was wrapped in something itchy that smelled like smoke and plastic, and everything around me was loud—sirens, voices, wind—but it all felt far away, like it was underwater.

People were talking. Asking things. Their voices kept dipping low, like they were trying not to scare me.

“Was anyone else inside?”

“Can you breathe okay?”

“Does anything hurt?”

I didn’t say anything. I didn’t even look at them. I just kept staring straight ahead, eyes wide, like maybe if I didn’t blink, everything would go backward. Like maybe I’d open my eyes and find myself at the kitchen table again, my crayons spread out, and Mom humming while she stirred soup on the stove. Maybe Dad would be walking in through the back door with his muddy boots, pretending to be a monster just to make me laugh.

Maybe.

But then the hospital lights hit me, and I knew this wasn’t pretend.

Everything inside was too white, too bright. The walls, the floors, the beds—they all looked like they’d been scrubbed too hard. Machines beeped in strange rhythms, shoes squeaked, voices echoed off the tiles. I couldn’t stop shivering, even though people kept saying I was safe now.

Someone set me down in a plastic chair. My legs swung above the floor. Another person gave me a juice box. I held it with both hands, but I didn’t drink it. The foil on top was warm, like it had been in someone’s pocket.

A lady came and crouched in front of me. She had a kind face and a necklace with a little heart on it. She smiled at me gently, like I was something delicate.

“Hi there,” she said. “Can you tell me your name?”

“Peter,” I whispered.

“Hi, Peter.” Her voice was soft. “Who do you live with, sweetheart?”

“My mom and dad,” I said right away. The words came out before I could think.

She smiled again, but her eyes flickered, just a little. “And what are their names?”

I looked down at the juice box, blinking hard. My voice got even quieter.

“May and Ben.”

She nodded slowly, like she’d been expecting that. “Okay. Thank you.”

Time got weird after that. Sometimes it felt like hours passed without anyone coming in. Other times, people showed up so fast I couldn’t tell them apart—nurses, doctors, someone in a suit who looked too serious. They kept saying things like “we’re doing everything we can” and “just hang in there, Peter.” They patted my shoulder. Gave me blankets. Smiled too much.

I didn’t want them to smile.

I just wanted someone to tell me the truth.

And then a man came in—older, with glasses and a white coat. He knelt in front of me like the nurse had, but he didn’t smile. He looked tired. Like he’d said this before and hated saying it every time.

“Peter,” he said gently, “do you remember what happened?”

I nodded. Kind of. Not all of it. Just the important parts.

He took a slow breath and said, “There was a fire. And… your mom and dad…”

He stopped for a second, like the words were hard.

“They didn’t make it out in time.”

I didn’t cry.

I didn’t ask why.

I didn’t even blink.

Because I already knew. I’d known since I turned around and saw the fire swallowing the house. Since no one came running after me. But hearing it out loud made it different. It made it real. Heavy.

I looked at him and asked, in the smallest voice I had:

“Can I go home now?”

He didn’t answer.

Because there was no home anymore.

Just me.

And the quiet.

Chapter Text

They didn’t let me sleep at the hospital.

Or maybe they did, and I just don’t remember. Time had turned soft and strange, like I was floating inside a bubble and everything outside was too far to reach.

Eventually, a woman came to get me. She had a clipboard and a scarf that smelled like peppermint, and she crouched like everyone else did—smiling too much, talking too quietly, like I might break if she used a normal voice.

“My name’s Allison,” she said, like it was supposed to mean something. “I’m going to take you somewhere safe, okay?”

I didn’t say anything. I just followed.

The building she brought me to wasn’t a home. Not really. It was tall and gray and full of doors. I didn’t know the name of the place, but the hallways smelled like lemon cleaner and old furniture. There were kids everywhere—some laughing, some crying, some staring just like I was. Everyone looked like they were waiting for something.

The room they put me in had a bunk bed and a dresser with a drawer that didn’t close right. There were stickers on the wall that someone had tried to peel off. A stuffed bear sat crooked on the bottom bunk, but it didn’t smell like anything I knew. Not like cookies. Not like Mom’s laundry. Not like home.

A boy maybe a little older than me was already in the room. He didn’t say anything. Just looked at me, then rolled over and pulled the blanket over his head.

That first night, I didn’t sleep.

I laid on my side, clutching the itchy blanket, and stared at the wall until my eyes burned. My body felt too big and too small all at once, like I didn’t fit anywhere. My throat hurt, but I didn’t cry. I wouldn’t let myself.

I tried to pretend I was home. I pictured my room—my real room—with the glow-in-the-dark stars and the soft quilt that Mom always tucked under my chin. I tried to remember the sound of Dad’s laugh, the way it shook the walls when he watched TV too loud. I whispered “Mom” and “Dad” into the dark like a wish, like if I said it enough, they might come find me.

But the dark stayed quiet.

The second night wasn’t better.

A different lady brought me dinner on a plastic tray. Chicken nuggets, mashed potatoes, and green beans that were too mushy. I didn’t eat much. I just picked at the food and pushed the nuggets around like puzzle pieces, wishing I could trade them for grilled cheese and tomato soup.

Someone turned off the lights early. The boy in the other bed snored a little. I curled up and hugged my knees, the blanket pulled over my head like a cave. I thought about my firetruck. The one I couldn’t find when Richard packed my things. I thought about the picture I drew the day of the fire, the one that burned up before I could finish it.

And then I thought about the way the doctor didn’t answer when I asked to go home.

That was when it hit me.

Not like a bang, but like a quiet, sinking feeling that spread from my chest to my stomach and didn’t stop.

Mom and Dad were gone.

Richard didn’t want me.

Mary was never waking up.

And I was alone.

Really alone.

So I didn’t cry.

Not because I wasn’t sad. But because crying wouldn’t fix it. Crying wouldn’t bring them back.

I just lay there, five years old in a bed that wasn’t mine, in a building that didn’t care, trying to hold myself together with nothing but memory.

And I waited.

For morning.

For something to change.

For someone, anyone, to come for me.

The third morning, someone new came.

I’d gotten used to the same routine by then. Wake up. Get dressed in clothes that didn’t quite fit. Sit in a room that wasn’t mine. Wait.

No one told me what I was waiting for.

So when the knock came—three short taps followed by the door creaking open—I didn’t look up right away. I thought it would be another social worker. Maybe someone coming to ask more questions I didn’t want to answer. I focused on the toy truck they’d let me borrow. One of the wheels didn’t turn right.

Then I heard the footsteps. Heavy. Uneven. Slower than the usual clacking heels or squeaky sneakers.

“Hey, uh… hi. You’re Peter, right?”

I looked up.

He stood in the doorway like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to be there. Like he might turn and leave before anyone noticed. His hair stuck up at the back like he’d just gotten out of bed, even though it was almost lunchtime. He wore sunglasses inside—dark ones, too big for his face—and his clothes looked expensive, but crumpled. Like he’d slept in them. Or maybe on a couch somewhere.

There was a coffee stain on his sleeve. A small one. But I saw it.

“I’m Tony,” he said, then added, “Stark. Tony Stark.”

The name still didn’t mean anything to me.

He shifted his weight, ran a hand through his hair, and let out a breath like he was trying not to swear. “Right. Okay. Uh… hi, kid. I’m your—well. I’m the guy who… technically made you.” He winced the second he said it. “Wow. That sounded way worse out loud. Let’s rewind. I’m your—look, I’m here. That’s what matters, right?”

He gave a lopsided grin that didn’t reach his eyes. His sunglasses slipped a little, and he pushed them back up with one finger, trying to look casual. Like he did this sort of thing all the time.

He didn’t.

The social worker—Allison—stepped forward. “Peter, this is your biological father. He’s come to pick you up.”

I stared at him.

My legs dangled off the chair. I clutched the sleeves of my sweater in my fists.

This man—this Tony Stark—he didn’t look like a dad. He didn’t look like my dad.

He wasn’t tall and broad-shouldered with laugh lines around his eyes. He didn’t smell like sawdust and aftershave. He didn’t smile with his whole face.

He wasn’t safe.

He looked… tired. And nervous. Like he wanted to leave and couldn’t. Like he was waiting for someone to say this was all a mistake.

Tony crouched down in front of me, awkward and stiff, like he didn’t know what to do with his knees.

“Okay,” he said, clearing his throat. “So, here’s the deal, Pete. Can I call you Pete? No? That’s cool. We’ll workshop it.”

I blinked at him. My mouth stayed shut.

“I’m not, uh, great at this,” he went on, scratching behind his ear. “The whole parenting thing. I don’t exactly have a handbook. Or, well, I think someone tried to give me one, but I used it as a coaster. Big mistake in hindsight. Very absorbent pages.”

The joke hung in the air like smoke. Nobody laughed.

Tony rubbed a hand down his face. “Right. Look, I’m not gonna pretend this is normal. It’s not. For either of us. But… you’re mine. And I didn’t know. But I do now. So. I’m here. I’m trying.”

I watched his hand shake slightly as he set the coffee down on a nearby shelf.

He looked up at me again, this time without the sunglasses. His eyes were sharp, but not mean. Just… unsure. Like he was trying to see me, but didn’t know how.

Allison crouched beside him and smiled at me, too softly. “Peter, it’s okay. He’s going to take care of you now.”

I didn’t say anything.

I didn’t move.

Tony rocked back slightly, looking more and more like a guy who’d accidentally wandered into the wrong building and didn’t know how to back out.

“Do you wanna come with me?” he asked. “I’ve got a—uh, there’s a car. Not like a kid car, I mean it’s a normal car. A nice car. With seats. That’s a dumb thing to say. All cars have seats. Except maybe race cars? I don’t know. The point is, it’s a safe car. Mostly.”

He winced again. “I’m not great with kids. That part might’ve become obvious.”

Allison laughed, nervously. I didn’t.

Tony looked at me for another long second. Then he stood, rubbing his palms on his jeans.

“Okay, I’m just gonna—stand here awkwardly until you decide whether or not you wanna take a chance on the scruffy-looking guy with way too much caffeine in his bloodstream.”

He held out a hand.

I didn’t take it.

But I slid off the chair and stood.

He nodded like that meant something.

I reached for my suitcase. The little blue one with the frayed handle. No one offered to carry it for me. That was fine. I didn’t want them to.

Tony stepped aside to let me pass. He didn’t try to touch my shoulder or ruffle my hair. He just followed, silent and a little too careful, like he was afraid I might bolt.

Outside, the sun felt too bright. Too loud. I climbed into the back, the leather seats cool under my hands. It smelled like new car and something faintly citrusy—maybe cleaning products.

Tony hesitated by the door, then glanced inside the car like he was deciding whether to sit in the front with the strange looking grumpy guy or the back with me. When his eyes landed on me, he seemed to have made up his mind.

“I’ll sit back here with you,” he said, more to himself than to me. “I, uh, I’m not totally sure how this works. But hey, you know, I can buckle myself in.”

He tried a weak smile as he clambered into the back seat, the seatbelt tugging awkwardly across his chest. He settled in beside me, his knee brushing mine for a second.

The silence was thick. There was so much to say and nothing to say at all.

Tony’s hand tapped the side of the seat nervously. “So. Uh. You like, I don’t know… games? What kind of stuff do kids your age like? I can probably get you whatever. I’m pretty good at, uh, getting stuff.” He waved his hand around, like the question was absurd, but also totally serious.

I didn’t respond. I just stared out the window as we pulled away from the curb.

I couldn’t really picture going anywhere else. Not with him.

But then again, I couldn’t picture anything else, either.

And off to the airport they went, not much of a good bye to the city he lived in for 5 long years.

Chapter Text

~-:*-`^^change back to third person^^`-*:-~

Peter didn’t remember much of the plane ride—just that he’d been tired. Bone-deep, brain-fuzzy tired. The kind of tired that came after too many nights of not crying, even when he needed to. He hadn’t meant to fall asleep, but somewhere after takeoff, with the soft rumble of the jet and the quiet hum of voices around him, his small body gave in.

When he opened his eyes, it was dark outside. Warmer, too. The air felt different. Softer somehow. The plane had landed.

Tony had nudged him gently awake—awkwardly, like he wasn’t used to touching anyone gently. “Hey, kid. Rise and shine. We’re here.”

Peter blinked blearily up at him. His mouth felt dry. His limbs were heavy. The last thing he remembered before sleep was the blinking city skyline far below. Now he was somewhere else entirely.

Malibu wasn’t like Queens. It smelled like salt and wind instead of asphalt. The sky stretched wider. The air buzzed with insects and something distant that sounded like the ocean. The mansion stood at the edge of it all—huge, modern, glass and steel jutting out over a cliff like it had been built by a supervillain with a good architect.

It was everything the foster house hadn’t been—gleaming, cold, enormous. It loomed like a piece of modern art: all angles and shine and silence. The kind of place where even the air felt expensive. Peter didn’t know places like this were real outside of the magazines that he would see peeking over May’s shoulder.

He followed Tony wordlessly inside, backpack swinging from one arm. His sneakers left faint squeaks on the polished floor.

The interior was somehow even more intimidating. There was no color. No clutter. No warmth. Just smooth white walls and brushed metal surfaces, each one spotless, untouched. A massive staircase curved up like a sculpture. A chandelier made of frosted glass caught the light in jagged shards above their heads. The floor was so clean it looked like water.

Peter stood just inside the doorway, small and silent, his blue backpack—frayed and sagging—sitting like a bruise against the pristine decor. He didn’t move. Didn’t know where to.

Tony breezed in like he belonged there, tossing his keys into a sleek silver bowl on the entry table. His sunglasses were still on, even though it was dark. His shirt was wrinkled, and there was a faint smell of whiskey clinging to him, half-covered by expensive cologne.

“We’re home, J,” Tony said, his voice rough with travel and something else—maybe nerves. “Try not to judge me for bringing in a stray.”

It was supposed to be a joke. But the words hung awkwardly in the air, like Tony didn’t really believe them either.

A calm, British voice responded from nowhere:
 “Welcome back, Sir. And welcome, young Mr. Parker.”

Peter’s eyes widened. He turned in a slow circle, scanning the ceiling, the walls. The voice had come from somewhere, but there was no person attached. Just air and glass.

Tony noticed and offered a faint shrug. “That’s Jarvis. House AI. He talks a lot, but you get used to it.”

Peter didn’t respond. He just nodded and held his bag tighter.

The living room looked like it had never been used. A sprawling white sectional couch faced a massive dark TV screen. The glass coffee table had two identical books placed side by side—perfectly aligned. A floating shelf nearby held abstract sculptures that looked too sharp to touch. Everything was spotless. Fragile. Like it had been staged for a magazine shoot and forgotten.

There was nothing childlike anywhere. No photos. No blankets. No warmth.

Peter didn’t dare sit.

Tony walked a few steps in, hesitated, then gestured vaguely toward the kitchen—or at least, the room that seemed like it might be a kitchen. “You hungry? I can, uh… probably figure out how to get something delivered. Or, Jarvis can heat something up.”

Peter stared at him. Then looked down at the floor.

Tony scratched at his jaw, exhaling slowly. “Right. Okay. No big deal.”

There was a long pause.

This wasn’t a place meant for kids.

The silence felt too loud. The furniture too white. The whole house too cold and shiny and wrong.

Peter didn’t say anything. He just stood there, waiting to be told where he was allowed to go. If he was allowed to go anywhere at all.

Tony wasn’t mean.

He wasn’t scary. He didn’t yell, or throw things, or glare at Peter like some of the grown-ups at the foster center had. In fact, he barely looked at Peter at all, just like Richard, not that he had much memory of him anyways.

He was just... gone. Even when he was right there.

When Peter first arrived at the mansion in Malibu, it felt like stepping into a spaceship. Everything was silver and glass and sharp corners. The air was cool and smelled like ocean wind mixed with something metallic. Every surface gleamed. The floors clicked under Peter’s sneakers. Lights flicked on when he walked past. Doors slid open without touching them. Music drifted out of the ceiling sometimes—soft jazz or weird techno—like the house had moods of its own.

It should’ve felt like magic.

But instead, it felt like a museum.

Cold. Quiet. Untouchable.

No signs of life. No clutter. No warmth. No kid stuff. The kind of place where people wore suits and whispered. Not a place where someone his size was supposed to be.

His room was down a long hallway with paintings he didn’t understand and lights embedded in the floor. The door swished open like it belonged on a spaceship. Inside was a guest room. It had to be. There was no way anyone had looked at that space and thought, A five-year-old will live here.

The bed was big and stiff, with a white comforter folded like it had come from a catalog. The pillows were stacked too neatly. There was one tall dresser he couldn’t reach the top of, and a sleek armchair in the corner no one would ever sit in. The closet was empty. The walls were blank. No toys. No books. No drawings. Not even a clock. The only splash of color came from Peter’s worn blue backpack, slouched against the side of the bed like it didn’t belong there.

There was no stars on the ceiling to give him some sort of light in the darkness.

He didn’t say anything about it. He just got into bed that first night—slowly, quietly—and pulled the covers up to his chin. They smelled like detergent and nothing else. He stared at the ceiling, wide-eyed, waiting for sleep that didn’t come.

Back in Queens, his ceiling was covered in little stars that had been there since he moved in. His mom had sewn the curtains herself—blue with tiny stitched planets. His dad always peeked in at bedtime, stepping over the squeaky stair outside his door. He used to hum when he tucked Peter in, even if he wasn’t a good singer.

Here, there was only silence.

The second night, he dragged the blanket off the bed and curled up on the floor next to the dresser. It felt safer down there. Smaller. Like maybe the walls would wrap around him if he got close enough. But they didn’t.

Tony didn’t notice.

He was always busy. Always talking to someone over the phone, always reading something on one of his many glowing screens. Always moving—sunglasses on, jacket half-buttoned, phone to his ear, coffee in one hand and car keys in the other. Sometimes he wore a different pair of sunglasses than the day before, but they always hid his eyes.

Some nights he didn’t come home at all.

And some mornings, Peter would pad into the living room to find Tony passed out on the couch—one arm slung over his face, one shoe kicked off, an empty glass still clutched in his hand. The TV would be playing something too loud. Sometimes Peter would turn the volume down himself and tiptoe away.

Tony tried. Sometimes. Kind of.

There was one evening—maybe a week in—when he walked into Peter’s room unannounced, muttering to himself and fiddling with something on a tablet. He tapped a few buttons, then nodded like he’d just solved a problem.

The ceiling suddenly shimmered. Blue light filled the room, and then there were fish—dozens of them—swimming overhead like the sky had turned into a giant aquarium. Jellyfish pulsed softly along the corners. Coral structures bloomed from the walls like ghostly sculptures. It was silent but alive.

Tony gave a tired, crooked smile. “Cool, right? Now it’s like you live in a fish tank.”

He ruffled Peter’s hair, then left the room before Peter could say anything.

Peter lay back and stared at the glowing fish for a long time. He liked them. They were pretty. Calming. But they didn’t feel like his stars. Not really. They felt like something from a science exhibit. Something Tony thought a kid might want, even if he didn’t ask what Peter actually liked.

Still, Peter smiled. Because at least Tony had done something

Chapter Text

Most days, Peter ate his meals alone at the long, polished dining table that could seat twenty. A nanny placed his plate in front of him, the nannies never stayed long though, different every day, steam curling from something fancy he didn’t always recognize. He missed mac and cheese from the box. He missed peanut butter sandwiches. He missed people sitting across from him, chewing and talking and asking about his day.

He missed being seen.

And over time, he stopped expecting anything different.

He stopped calling out for Tony when he had a bad dream, even when the nightmares made his chest hurt and his sheets feel like they were suffocating him. Even when he woke up gasping, reaching for someone who wasn’t there, someone who wouldn’t have come even if he had shouted.

He stopped asking to go outside—to see the ocean he could hear from the windows but never touch, or to walk in the garden where actual living humans trimmed hedges no one ever sat beside. The first few times, Tony had mumbled “Maybe later, buddy,” without looking up from his tablet. After a while, Peter stopped trying. He watched the waves from behind glass, cheek pressed against the window, letting the fog of his breath make the world outside a little softer.

He stopped turning on the fish tank ceiling, even though the jellyfish were his favorite. It made the room look too big, too blue, too fake. The fish were always moving, but they didn’t go anywhere. Sometimes he felt like that too—drifting in slow circles, glowing faintly, waiting for something to change.

He learned to be quiet.

Not in the scared way, like at the foster center where loudness meant someone got mad. This was a different kind of quiet—one he built around himself like a bubble. He read the room like it was a puzzle, figured out when Tony was in a bad mood or when he was too tired to pretend. He kept his voice soft. His footsteps lighter. His needs smaller.

He taught himself how to be careful. How to move through the mansion like a whisper. How to eat dinner without asking questions. How to entertain himself for hours without touching anything he wasn’t sure he was allowed to. He’d learned the hard way once, picking up a strange glowing thing from Tony’s workshop and getting snapped at before the man even looked to see who it was.

After that, Peter only touched the things he was sure didn’t matter.

He learned how to be invisible.

In a house full of blinking lights and talking computers, it turned out it was very easy for one little boy to go unnoticed. He became a shadow in the hallways. A presence in the corner of the room. A faint sound of footsteps retreating down the corridor when Tony came in too loud or smelling like something bitter and burnt.

He didn’t cry much anymore.

Not because it didn’t hurt, but because there was no one to wipe the tears away. No one to hold him and say it was okay. No lap to climb into. No hand to rub circles on his back. Crying started to feel pointless, like dropping coins down a well that never echoed back.

So he just… didn’t.

Instead, he watched.

He watched Tony from across the room, cataloging every smile, every sigh, every brief flicker of attention like it might be the last. He memorized the rhythms of the house—the way the coffee machine hummed in the morning, the way the front door clicked at night when Tony stumbled in late. He listened to the way Jarvis’ voice shifted depending on who he was talking to. He noticed everything. Because noticing made the silence feel less empty.

He waited.

For something. Anything. For Tony to look up one day and really see him—not as a responsibility or a name on a custody paper, but as a person. As his kid. As someone worth listening to. Worth talking to. Worth staying home for.

He hoped, quietly, every day, that someone might finally look past the surface.

Not just see him.

But know him.

All the cracks. All the quiet. All the small, careful parts he was too scared to show anyone else.

Because Peter could live without toys, or hugs, or nightlights.

But he didn’t know how long he could live without being seen.

It was Jarvis who made sure Peter brushed his teeth. Jarvis who reminded him to do his homework. Jarvis who turned off the lights and dimmed the room when Peter got too tired to move. Jarvis, always there in the background, quietly stepping in to fill the gaps that Tony left behind. The AI’s voice was comforting, always calm and patient, guiding him through the mundane, but with a kindness that felt... safe. It wasn’t the same as having someone there, but it was a presence—one that didn’t leave after a few hours, or disappear into the night. And that was more than Peter could say for the rest of the world, one that had always abandoned him.

Peter was learning to grow up quickly. In a house that was as big and cold as Tony’s mansion, he had little choice. Tony was a ghost. Even when he was physically there, he was often wrapped up in something else—work, his own problems, his endless parties. Peter learned to move around quietly, to blend into the walls, to make as little noise as possible. He had learned to be small, even invisible, just hoping for a fraction of attention, even though he knew better than to expect it.

He was alone, but he was learning how to be alone. And sometimes, that was enough. Sometimes, he didn’t even want to bother Tony. He’d learned early on that nothing ever really changed. Asking Tony for something—a bedtime story, to play a game, to watch a movie together—felt like a distant memory now. It was so much easier to just do things on his own. If he needed something, Jarvis could get it. If he needed to be entertained, there were books, or the holo-games that Tony had installed for him. They weren’t the same as real companionship, but they kept the silence from feeling too heavy.

Sometimes, when Tony was home, Peter would still try. He’d sit at the kitchen table, a homework assignment in front of him, the homework always something simple, after all he was still only in grade 1 even if mentally he felt like a adult, but his mind would wander, watching as Tony paced around, phone in hand, swiping through screens without even looking up. The silence between them would stretch long, suffocating in its own way. Peter’s voice was barely a whisper when he asked, “Dad, can we play something?”

Tony didn’t even look at him, too caught up in whatever conversation was happening on the other end of his phone. “Later, kid. I’ve got some stuff to take care of.”

Peter’s shoulders slumped. “Okay,” he would say, his voice small, and go back to his homework.

And that was when he realized—he was better off doing it on his own. No one was ever going to show up and sweep him away from all the loneliness. No one was going to tell him that everything would be okay, that he didn’t have to figure out how to be a kid on his own. So, he stopped trying. He stopped waiting for Tony to walk in and make everything right. He stopped asking for attention, stopped longing for a moment where someone would just notice him and tell him he mattered. Because it never came.

Instead, Peter grew quieter. He didn’t make noise unless he had to. He stopped being scared of seeing fire in his nightmares, stopped asking for help when he needed it. It was easier that way. No more disappointment. No more false hope. He learned to occupy himself, to fill the endless space with whatever he could—building towers out of blocks, creating stories in his mind, drawing in his sketchbook. It wasn’t much, but it was something to do.

The days blurred together, one indistinguishable from the next. Sometimes, when Peter was still awake at night, Jarvis’s voice would come to him, soft and steady, saying, “Goodnight, Mr. Parker.” But the words didn’t feel as warm as they used to. They were just... words. Empty words that didn’t fill the spaces inside Peter, the places that had once been waiting for Tony. Waiting for someone.

Still, sometimes, when the quiet got too loud, and the shadows in the mansion seemed to creep closer, Peter would curl up in his bed and stare at the fish tank ceiling. He would watch the glowing blue lights shift and move, his thoughts drifting to something, someone, who might actually look at him.

Not just see him. But know him.

Chapter Text

But that hope, like everything else, faded over time. It became a quiet, insistent ache that Peter shoved deep inside him. He stopped asking to go outside when he felt restless. Those things didn’t matter anymore.

It was easier this way.

Sometimes, when Jarvis reminded him to brush his teeth or read him a bedtime story, Peter would smile politely, but it felt hollow. It wasn’t Jarvis’s fault. It wasn’t even Tony’s fault, not really. It was just how things were. Peter had learned to adjust. He had learned to live in the silence. He had learned that no one was going to come and fix it.

So he just... waited. Quietly.

Waiting for the day when someone might actually look at him and see him for who he really was.

Peter's seventh birthday had come and gone, unnoticed by everyone. It wasn’t surprising anymore. He had learned to expect very little in terms of celebrations or even recognition from Tony, but that didn’t make the silence any easier to bear. The house was always quiet. Empty. Even when there were people around, it was like they didn’t really see him. It was just another day in the mansion full of glass and steel and tech, and yet none of it ever felt like home.

Then, everything changed.

When Pepper told Peter that Tony was missing, it was like the world stopped turning for a moment. At first, he didn’t understand. Missing? How could Tony be missing? His mind raced—images of every parent figure he’d lost flashing before his eyes. First, there were his real parents, who were gone before he even had a chance to understand what that meant. Then, there were Aunt May and Uncle Ben—taken from him in the most brutal way possible. The one constant in his life, the one person he had come to rely on, had disappeared too.

Peter stood in the kitchen, frozen, his stomach twisting. Pepper was trying to be calm, trying to soften the blow with her usual warmth, but her words hit him like a punch to the gut.

“Tony’s missing, Peter. He’s—he’s not coming home right now.”

Peter didn’t want to believe it. He couldn’t. Not again. The idea of losing Tony, too, was too much. A heavy weight settled in his chest, making it hard to breathe. His thoughts flickered back to all the times he had silently begged Tony to notice him, to care. He tried to be good, to be patient, waiting for the day Tony would finally see him, really see him. But now, in the wake of the news that Tony was gone, Peter realized how much he had been taking that hope for granted.

It wasn’t like he had expected Tony to be perfect. Far from it. But he had still wanted something more. Something real.

In the days that followed, the mansion felt colder than ever. The mansion, which had always felt like a strange, hollow place, now felt like a void—an empty shell. Peter retreated further into himself, staying in his room more, staring at the holographic aquarium Tony had installed but barely noticing the shimmering fish. The lights of the house, which once seemed magical, now only felt like reminders of the emptiness around him.

The news of Tony’s disappearance filled the air every time Peter walked past a TV or a news screen. The worry in Pepper’s eyes was unmistakable, but her presence only served as a reminder of how alone Peter really was. She tried, every now and then, to check on him—stopping by with a forced smile, bringing snacks or offering to play a game. But Peter never wanted to engage. He didn’t want to hear about Tony’s progress, or what “they” were doing to try to find him. He just wanted Tony. And the longer it went on, the more Peter began to feel like he was just another ghost in the house, fading into the background.

He spent a lot of time alone. Sometimes Rhodey would stop by—half-hearted attempts to make sure Peter was okay. But even Rhodey, who had been around more when Tony was busy with his work, didn’t seem to have much time to actually engage with Peter. There was always an excuse, always something else that took priority. Rhodey’s visits never lasted long enough to make Peter feel seen, and his friendly attempts at distraction never seemed to stick. Peter would watch him leave, unable to shake the feeling that Rhodey was just as distant as everyone else.

Then, there was Obadiah Stane—who Peter barely recognized when he would show up, all business, his cold, calculating eyes scanning the room, barely acknowledging Peter’s presence. Obadiah’s visits were always tense. He would stand in the doorway, checking in on the situation, but his eyes never softened when they landed on Peter. The air around him felt too heavy. And Peter—who didn’t know what to make of the man who seemed to be everywhere Tony was—would always retreat further into his shell, pretending to not notice him.

And there was Happy—who had always been a fixture in Tony’s life, always around to drive him to meetings or keep things running smoothly. But even Happy’s visits felt like an afterthought. He’d come by to check on Peter, giving him a friendly smile that never quite reached his eyes. “How you doing, kid?” he’d ask, but there was no real expectation that Peter would answer. It wasn’t that Happy didn’t care—it was that there was always someone else to take care of, someone else who needed his attention more. So Happy would leave too, his visits short and impersonal, just like everyone else’s.

Peter got used to the solitude, to the fact that he was on his own again. He stayed in his room, doing homework, watching TV, eating whatever he could find in the fridge. But when he was alone in the silence, the weight of his emotions pressed in on him harder. He missed Tony—more than he cared to admit. But it wasn’t just about Tony’s return, it was about the hole in his life that no one seemed to see. The empty space where a father was supposed to be.

Then, after what felt like an eternity, Tony came back.

The door opened one evening, and there he was—stumbling in, covered in dust, looking like he had just walked out of hell. The sight of him hit Peter like a lightning bolt. Tony was home. But he wasn’t the same. His clothes were disheveled, his face drawn, the unmistakable glow of the arc reactor in his chest casting a strange, blue light over his features. Tony wasn’t just back—he was different. Changed.

Peter didn’t know what to say at first. He wanted to rush over to him, to wrap his arms around him and never let go. But something held him back. Something about Tony’s presence—his weariness, his distant air—made Peter hesitate. The man who had been absent for so long was now physically here, but emotionally, Peter felt like he was miles away.

Tony looked at him, his eyes flicking over Peter’s small form. For a moment, they just stood there, like neither of them knew how to bridge the gap between them. But then Tony did something that felt strange but comforting. He walked over to Peter and placed a hand on his shoulder—clumsy, but there.

“Hey, kid,” Tony said, his voice hoarse. “You okay?”

Peter didn’t say anything at first. The words were stuck in his throat. Instead, he just nodded, feeling the tears he didn’t want to shed threaten to break free. Relief flooded him, but it was tangled with so many other emotions. He wanted to tell Tony that he was glad he was home. That he was happy to see him, but he didn’t know how to express it.

Tony sat down beside him, his body still stiff with exhaustion. "I know it’s been a while,” Tony mumbled, his hand still resting awkwardly on Peter’s shoulder. "But I’m here now. I’m here.”

Peter nodded again, feeling the knot in his chest loosen, just a little. But the truth was, Tony’s return wasn’t the simple solution he had hoped for. He was back, but he wasn’t the same man he had been when Peter had first arrived at the mansion. There was still that emotional distance, still the coldness between them. But Peter held on to the hope that someday, maybe, things could be different. Because Tony had come back, and maybe, just maybe, that meant he could start to see Peter in a way he never had before.

Chapter Text

He was different.

 He wasn’t the Tony Peter had once known—the carefree, sarcastic inventor who barely acknowledged Peter’s existence. The man who had returned wasn’t the same at all. He was quieter, worn down, and his eyes were always filled with a haunted look Peter hadn’t seen before.

Tony started spending a lot of time — which wasn't very unusual — in his workshop, tinkering away at what would become Iron Man. Peter didn’t fully understand what was going on, but the noise, the whirring of machinery, the flashes of light, made it impossible to ignore. Sometimes Tony would emerge from the lab, looking exhausted but determined. He’d walk past Peter without a word, lost in his own thoughts. But sometimes, just sometimes, Tony would glance over at him, as if remembering Peter was there.

Those small moments were all Peter had to cling to.

At first, Tony’s attempts to be present were clumsy. He’d show up at dinner wearing his Iron Man chest piece in place of a proper shirt, looking like he had forgotten how to do anything else. The pieces of the suit were still not fully finished, and Tony’s hands would shake from fatigue as he tried to hold his fork. He would ramble about whatever had happened in his latest adventure, not really waiting for Peter to respond—just talking to fill the silence.

One night, Tony even tried to sit with Peter at the dinner table, which felt like a monumental shift. But it was awkward. Tony didn’t know how to keep a conversation going, and Peter, who had learned to live without conversation for so long, didn’t know how to start one either.

"Hey, kid,” Tony had said one evening, his voice laced with exhaustion, "How’s school going? Any... friends?”

Peter had shrugged, his mind instantly going blank. "It’s okay,” he muttered, pushing the food around on his plate. "Harry sits with me at lunch"

Tony stared at him for a long moment, his face unreadable, and for a second Peter thought he might say something more. But then Tony let out a deep breath and looked away, his attention already elsewhere. The silence between them stretched on, filled with unspoken words.

But there were glimpses of change. Small, fleeting glimpses. Tony began leaving little notes around the house—handwritten reminders, sometimes sarcastic, sometimes warm. "Don’t touch the suits,” one note read in Tony’s messy handwriting, with a smiley face at the end. Another simply said, "You’re doing good, kid." It wasn’t much, but it was something. It was more than Peter had ever received before.

Then, there were the moments when Tony, still shaken from his experience, would suddenly decide to “teach” Peter something. Sometimes it would be about a new piece of tech or how to use one of the gadgets lying around the house. Tony would fumble through explanations, his tone more unsure than usual. But he would always end it with the same line: "You’ll figure it out, kid. Just don’t blow anything up."

Peter would nod and try to follow along, even if he didn’t always understand what Tony was talking about. He wanted to connect with Tony. He wanted to show that he was capable, that he could be someone Tony could rely on. But each time Tony left the room, the distance between them seemed to grow again, leaving Peter with more questions than answers.

Despite the inconsistency, despite the moments of awkwardness, Peter began to admire Tony in a way he hadn’t before. When Tony would put on the Iron Man suit and fly out the door, Peter would watch in awe. It wasn’t just the suit itself, although it was undeniably cool—it was the power, the strength Tony exuded when he became Iron Man. For the first time, Peter saw the man he had been waiting for. The hero. The person who wasn’t just some distant, uncaring figure in a mansion. The person who fought for something bigger than himself.

Tony was a hero, and in those moments, Peter wanted to be just like him. The feeling that Tony was more than just a man—he was something bigger, something important—filled Peter with a deep sense of awe. In his mind, Tony wasn’t just his dad. He was Iron Man.

But even as Tony became a hero in Peter’s eyes, the emotional distance never fully went away. Peter still waited. Still longed for more—longed for Tony to be the father he had always needed. But he couldn’t deny the excitement that bubbled inside him when Tony came home after a mission, talking about the things he had done, the people he had saved. It was like watching a piece of the father he had been hoping for slowly come to life.

Still, Tony’s presence in Peter’s life remained inconsistent. Sometimes he would be there—talking to Peter like they were equals, sharing a laugh, even taking Peter out for lunch once in a while. But other times, he would disappear back into his world of Iron Man and business meetings, leaving Peter to fend for himself again. There was still so much Tony didn’t understand about being a father. So much he didn’t seem to know about Peter.

Peter’s life after Tony’s return felt like a mix of excitement and confusion. He’d never seen his father like this before—worn and broken, but somehow stronger, more determined. Tony was more than just his dad now. He was a symbol now, no longer just the merchant of death, something bigger than Peter had imagined. Iron Man. A hero.

It was one of those days that Peter came home from school, exhausted after a long day of trying to make friends who never seemed to care, or pretending to understand his lessons when he was just trying to get through the day. His stomach growled, and the quiet of the mansion felt a little too much like an echo. He kicked off his shoes by the door, ready to drop his bag and head for the kitchen when he saw it.

A note on the kitchen counter.

At first, it seemed like any other note Tony would leave—sloppy handwriting, full of sarcastic lines, usually something like “Don’t burn the house down” or “Stop touching my things.” But this time, the tone was different. There was no usual quip or joke. It was almost... serious.

Peter took a hesitant step forward and read it:

“Peter,
 I’m out for a while. Don’t leave the house. Obadiah’s still trying to make a move. Stay inside, alright? I’ll be back soon.
 -T”

Peter’s heart skipped a beat. Obadiah. He knew the name, of course. He knew that Obadiah Stane had always been a part of Tony’s world—someone who had been there before Tony’s return. But the way the note sounded... it was different this time. The urgency. The fact that Tony specifically told Peter not to leave the house made something inside him tighten. It wasn’t just another one of Tony’s offhand remarks.

Obadiah was a threat.

Peter stood there, staring at the note for a long time. He couldn’t help it—his mind immediately spiraled back to the many times he had been abandoned before. Every time someone important in his life had left, or vanished, or had to be kept at arm’s length. Tony had just returned to him, only to leave again, and this time it felt different. The mansion was too big, and Peter was too small to handle the weight of it all.

For a moment, the reality of it all hit Peter like a punch in the gut. His dad—the hero he had been watching on TV, the one who was supposed to protect the world—was out there, risking his life. And here Peter was, alone again. Left in a cold mansion with nothing but the sound of his own thoughts.

The feeling of abandonment was all too familiar, and it clawed at him. He thought about all the times his mom and dad had been gone, and how every adult in his life had eventually disappeared, even the ones who promised they’d stay. Even Tony.

Peter wasn’t even sure what Obadiah was up to—he wasn’t old enough to fully understand the dangers, the corporate backstabbing, and the power struggle between Tony and Obadiah. But he understood fear. And he understood the sudden panic that twisted his stomach. Tony had warned him to stay inside. He had to stay safe, right?

But staying inside made Peter feel even more invisible. Alone. The note had been left with no explanation, no warmth. Just a simple directive. And that was how Tony was now—distant, focused on his mission, and unable to bridge the gap between his heroic alter ego and the father his son so desperately needed, not that he was ever much of a father.

Peter sat at the kitchen counter, staring at the note for a while longer, feeling a mix of loneliness and helplessness. He thought about going to his room, trying to distract himself with something—anything—to make the time pass faster, but the house felt colder than ever. It wasn’t just the air-conditioned silence; it was the emptiness of a home built on tech and machines, with no real warmth or connection between the people living inside.

Eventually, he went to his room, but he didn’t turn on the glowing fish tank. He didn’t try to entertain himself with gadgets or pretend everything was fine. Instead, he just sat by the window, his gaze distant, staring out at the vast, unfamiliar world beyond. The world Tony was out there fighting for, while Peter was here, waiting. Hoping.

When Tony came back, maybe things would be different. Maybe he’d sit down with Peter, maybe they’d talk. Maybe he’d show Peter how to be Iron Man, too.

But until then, all Peter had was that note. A note that felt like a reminder that, no matter how much Tony tried, he was still so far away.

And Peter, in his too big room, felt it in every breath he took.

The sun dipped low over the Malibu cliffs, casting a golden-red hue through Peter’s bedroom window. He hadn’t moved much. Just shifted slightly as the light changed, casting new shadows along the floor.

Somewhere in the house, Jarvis murmured a quiet reminder about dinner—Peter ignored it.

He didn’t want food. Didn’t want cartoons. Didn’t want the fish-light ceiling or the quiet hum of the smart-home system or even the little bent wire sculpture he’d made earlier that week.

He just wanted Tony.

It had been hours since the note. Maybe more. He’d stopped checking the clock.

He was tired. Not physically—emotionally. Tired of waiting, tired of trying to mean something in a house that always seemed to move on without him.

Then—

A distant sound.

Not a whisper of doors or Jarvis’s soft announcements—but a bang. Something solid hitting the floor. Then another. Louder this time. And a voice. Familiar.

Peter blinked, heart thudding.

He stood so fast he knocked over the little sculpture, but didn’t stop to pick it up. He was already moving—bare feet silent against the cold floor, racing out of his room and down the hall, the house growing louder with each step.

By the time he reached the top of the stairs, he could see it—Tony, in the foyer, half-collapsed against the wall, one hand gripping the railing like it was the only thing keeping him upright.

His suit—metallic, red and gold and scorched—was in pieces. He wore only the undersuit now, sleeves tied around his waist, tank top soaked with sweat and streaked with soot. His arc reactor pulsed faintly beneath the fabric, casting a weak glow against the dark.

Tony Stark looked like he’d just crawled out of a war zone.

Peter froze.

For a moment, he didn’t know what to do. His mind jumped—between the sight of his dad alive and breathing, to the terrifying realization that he didn’t look okay.

Tony lifted his head and gave a crooked, exhausted smile. “Hey, kid” he rasped, voice hoarse but warm. “Don’t worry. You should see the other guy.”

Peter didn’t laugh. He didn’t speak.

He ran.

He sprinted down the stairs, through the open entry, and straight into Tony’s arms—what was left of them. His arms wrapped tightly around Tony’s torso, nearly knocking the man back a step. He buried his face into the soot-streaked fabric and held on with everything he had.

Tony winced, but didn’t move away. His arms slowly came around Peter, wrapping tight. One hand rested against the back of Peter’s head, the other curling protectively around his small shoulders.

Peter didn’t say anything. Didn’t cry loudly or speak. He just clung.

He hadn’t realized until that moment just how scared he’d been. How deeply the silence of the last few days had cut into him. How much he’d feared that Tony would end up like Ben. Like May. Like Mary.

Another parent who didn’t come back.

But this time, he had.

And Peter’s entire body shook with the force of that relief.

Tony didn’t say much either. Just held on. His grip was tight, a little shaky. He smelled like smoke and oil and something metallic, but Peter didn’t care. He stayed there, fists balled into the fabric of Tony’s shirt like he never wanted to let go.

Eventually, Tony crouched down, still holding him, and sat heavily on the floor with Peter in his lap. They stayed like that a long time.

Jarvis didn’t interrupt.

The lights dimmed naturally, the way they always did around bedtime, but neither of them moved.

When Peter finally pulled back, his face was damp, his eyes red. But there was something clearer in them now. Not joy. Not even full relief.

But something close to safety.

Tony brushed a thumb across Peter’s cheek, looking down at him like he was seeing him properly for the first time.

They stayed like that for a while—Tony kneeling on the floor, Peter wrapped tightly around him like he might disappear if he let go. The house, so often filled with mechanical hums and cold automation, felt still. For once, it breathed with them.

Tony’s hand moved in small, uncertain motions—patting Peter’s back, then settling into a light, steady pressure between his shoulder blades. It wasn’t polished affection. It wasn’t practiced.

But it was real.

Eventually, Peter’s breathing evened out, the tremble in his small body slowly easing. He didn’t speak. Didn’t ask where Tony had been or what he’d seen. He just stayed pressed against his father’s chest, face hidden, like maybe the world couldn’t touch him here.

Tony let out a quiet breath. It sounded like it hurt.

“I’m here,” he murmured, just above a whisper. “I’m here, kid.”

And this time, he was.

Peter didn’t need anything else right then. Not explanations. Not answers. Just this.

Just the feeling of two arms around him, holding back the cold. Of a presence that, for once, didn’t vanish into smoke and metal and noise.

He wasn’t alone.

Not tonight.

And in the quiet that followed, with the sun finally gone and the last of the day’s light sinking into the sea, something fragile and important began to take root.

Not forgiveness.

Not yet.

But maybe—for the first time—something like trust.

Chapter Text

The years that followed moved faster than Peter could hold onto.

By the time he turned eight, the Stark mansion felt a little less like a showroom and a little more like a place someone lived in—just barely. His room had changed, too. Not much, but enough. A bookshelf appeared one day, filled with things Pepper thought he’d like, lego, star wars, those little starter robot kits. A second blanket arrived one winter, after Peter caught a cold. There was a little more color in the house. Not a lot. But it was something.

By 2010, Peter had started growing into himself—quieter than most kids his age, sharper too. He still didn’t talk much at school, didn’t bring anyone home from Trinity High. But he was doing better. The once-foreign halls of the Stark mansion didn’t feel so alien anymore, just... big. Big, and mostly quiet.

Tony had started giving him more space in the lab—not always intentionally. Sometimes he was too busy tinkering or arguing with the holograms floating around his head. But Peter soaked up everything. He learned the difference between a soldering iron and a heat gun, how to reroute simple circuits, how to manipulate Stark tech like it was second nature.

He made things. Not real Iron Man things, not yet. But gadgets. Toys. An overengineered pencil sharpener that doubled as a mini grappling hook. A paper airplane that followed voice commands (when it felt like it) but it was his. And for the first time in his life, Peter felt like he could do something all by himself.

Tony would occasionally pause mid-project to smirk and say something like, “Well, well. Look who’s catching up to the old man.” But he never stayed long enough to see the prototypes finished. Still, the moments mattered. Peter cherished every word.

Then came the pallor in Tony’s face.

The fatigue. The coughing. The bruises that didn’t have an explanation.

Peter didn’t understand what was wrong—no one would tell him. Not Pepper, not Rhodey, not Happy. He just knew that something wasn’t right, that his dad was suddenly acting even more erratic, reckless, like he was sprinting toward a finish line no one else could see.

They fought. For the first time.

It was over something stupid—Tony blowing off dinner again, Peter waiting at the table with two American cheeseburgers—but the shouting came fast. Tony said something sarcastic about “not having a calendar in his arc reactor.” Peter shouted back that he wasn’t just tech to ignore.

Tony froze, like Peter had hit a nerve. But then he turned, muttering, “I’ve got bigger things to deal with, kid,” and walked away.

Peter didn’t cry that night, he never cried. He just sat in the hallway, knees hugged to his chest, staring at the empty couch.

It got better. Sort of.

Tony fixed himself. Literally. A new element, a new arc reactor. He came back lighter, livelier, his humor sharp again. Peter forgave him silently. Kids always did.

But Peter never fully forgot the fear. The sense that if he blinked, Tony might disappear again.

And then, in 2012, everything changed once again. Peter came home from school one afternoon and the news was on every screen—smoke rising over New York, aliens tearing through streets, Iron Man flying like a comet across the skyline.

He’d never seen anything like it.

Peter sat cross-legged on the floor in front of the TV, eyes wide. The Battle of New York played out like a horror movie—except his dad was in the middle of it. Fighting. Bleeding. Nearly dying.

But saving the world.

When it was over, Peter felt everything at once—fear, pride, awe. His father was a hero. A real one. Not just a face on a magazine or a voice behind a machine.

Tony came home different. A little more careful. A little more present. He started asking Peter if he was okay. Showed up at school sometimes. Built security into Peter’s backpack and started screening his teachers.

Peter didn’t know how to react to it. The same man who used to miss birthdays was now checking his homework.

He wanted to believe in this new Tony. But the past was still there. Sitting quietly in the corners of his mind. Watching. 

And Peter, still learning how to trust, carried it all with him—hope in one hand, hurt in the other.

But Peter could feel it.

His dad was trying.

It wasn’t perfect. Tony still worked late into the night, still buried himself in projects, still left breakfast meetings half-finished because of a call from S.H.I.E.L.D. or some new threat blinking on the global radar. But now, he came back. He texted Peter just to check in. He sat beside him on the couch during movies, even if he was tinkering with a wrist gauntlet the entire time.

And when Peter had a nightmare—when the memory of smoky skies and collapsing buildings refused to fade—Tony showed up. Not with answers. Not with some flashy tech. Just with presence.

He’d sit on the edge of Peter’s bed, hair a mess, arc reactor dim in the dark. “You good, buddy?” he’d ask. And Peter would nod, even when he wasn’t, because the asking was enough.

It was more than he’d had before.

There were still cracks. Days when Tony slipped back into old patterns. But the difference now was, he noticed. And when he messed up, he tried to make it right—an apology muttered over pizza, an afternoon off to show Peter how to weld without burning his sleeves, a game of chess played with serious faces and bad snacks.

For a boy who had spent most of his life being left behind, trying was a start.

It meant Peter wasn’t invisible.

It meant someone chose to stay.

And though he couldn’t say it—not yet, not without the fear that it might break if he said it too loud—Peter was starting to believe that maybe, just maybe, this could be home after all.

The next big event happened when his dad doxed himself.

It started like thunder.

Peter had been in his room — sprawled across the bed, sketching something for school — when the first missile tore through the cliffs outside. The mansion shuddered like it had been hit by a train. Alarms blared. The lights flickered. Then JARVIS’s voice, sharp and urgent, filled the space.

“Missiles inbound. Multiple targets. Evacuate immediately.”

Everything after that blurred into fire and chaos.

He scrambled to his feet as the windows shattered inward, the glass slicing through the air. Peter barely had time to throw on a hoodie before the floor pitched under him and part of the ceiling caved in. He ran — heart pounding, mouth dry — dodging falling beams and sparks as the house came down around him, just like it did all those years ago in May’s and Ben’s house

Downstairs, he saw the Iron Man suit zip past — Tony, trying to protect Pepper, trying to hold everything together with too few pieces and too much fire. Peter yelled for him, but it was lost in the roar of explosions and metal being ripped apart.

Then the hallway buckled. A second missile hit. The world flipped sideways.

A woman — Maya Hansen, Peter vaguely remembered from the lab — pulled him from a pile of debris and shoved him toward the exit. “Go, go!” she barked, half-carrying him through the wreckage as another blast rocked the house.

They stumbled out onto the cliffside platform just as the final missile struck. The mansion groaned like it was dying — and then it collapsed in on itself, a fireball erupting into the sky.

Peter screamed. Not a word. Just raw sound.

Pepper caught him — easily stopping him as she was in his dads suit — as he tried to run back toward the flames. “Tony’s still in there!” he cried, but she pulled him against her, arms wrapped around his trembling body.

“I know,” she whispered, though her own voice cracked with fear. “I know.”

They stood there in the ash, watching everything fall.

Hours later, it still didn’t feel real.

Peter sat wrapped in a blanket beside Pepper in the emergency tent set up by Stark Industries. Maya Hansen hovered nearby, talking to the rescue crews. Happy was in the hospital — badly injured in the explosion in L.A. that had started this whole mess. And Tony?

Tony was gone.

At first, they thought maybe he had died in the rubble. But then a call came through — one lone, glitchy message traced from Tennessee. Tony was alive. Barely. Lost, stranded, and clearly not thinking straight. But alive.

Peter didn’t cry. He couldn’t. His body felt like it had shut down — all energy redirected to just breathing, just sitting there while the world fell apart again.

Pepper pressed a kiss to his head, her hand in his hair. “I need to go,” she said gently. “I need to fix this.”

Peter looked up at her, silent.

“I’m sending you to Rhodey’s. Just for a few days,” she added quickly, like it would soften the blow. “It’s not safe here, and... Tony would want you somewhere you’re okay.”

Peter didn’t argue.

He didn’t ask to stay.

Because the last time he’d asked to stay close to someone, they’d gone missing, too.

Rhodey tried. He really did. He let Peter sleep on the couch, made sure he had food, even brought back American cheese burgers and pretended everything was normal.

But Peter wasn’t stupid. He saw the news, the burning wreckage, the reporters swarming Stark Tower. He saw the way Rhodey kept his phone in his hand, always waiting for the next call.

Every night, Peter curled up on the couch and stared at the ceiling, wondering if his dad would ever come home again.

Wondering if there was even a home to come back to.

And for the third time in his life, he felt like the world had ripped someone away from him.

First Mary.

Then Ben and May.

Now Tony.

The difference was, this time, Peter was old enough to know it never stopped hurting.

Chapter Text

When Tony finally returned, it was quiet. No press. No grand reveal. Just Rhodey getting a call, then telling Peter to pack a bag.

Pepper picked him up. She looked exhausted — hair pulled back, bruises under her eyes, a tension in her jaw that hadn’t been there before. But she smiled when she saw him. Not a fake smile. A real one.

“Tony’s back,” she said softly.

Peter didn’t ask if he was okay or for the details on what transpired. He didn’t want the answer.

They took the elevator up to the suite at Stark Tower after a quick flight to nyc. The building loomed like a polished monument above New York’s chaos, too glossy to feel like home. Peter kept close to Pepper, his hands buried in the sleeves of his hoodie.

And then there he was.

Tony Stark, slumped on the couch — american cheeseburger in hand — arc reactor glowing faintly through a black t-shirt, bruises fading around his jaw. He looked smaller than Peter remembered. Tired. Not just physically, like someone who’d walked too far in the dark and hadn’t quite found the light yet.

He stood up when he saw Peter.

For a moment, they just looked at each other.

Then Peter dropped his backpack and crossed the room in three long steps. He threw his arms around Tony, hugging him tight, like he was afraid he might vanish again if he let go.

Their second hug ever.

Tony froze.

Just for a second.

Then he wrapped his arms around Peter in return — careful, unsure, but real. His voice cracked when he whispered, “Hey, kiddo.”

Peter’s eyes stung. He didn’t say anything. He just pressed his face into his dad’s chest and held on like the world might end again tomorrow.

They moved into the tower full-time after that.

And for a while it was quiet.

Not the kind of quiet Peter used to hate — the sterile, echoing silence of a house filled with machines instead of people — but a gentler quiet. The kind that came with shared exhaustion, like the world had finally exhaled after holding its breath for too long.

Tony didn’t vanish into the lab like he used to. He still spent time down there, of course — he was Tony Stark — but now he left the door open. Peter would sometimes sit nearby, tinkering with scraps or doing homework while Tony adjusted schematics. They didn’t always talk, but the silence between them had changed. It wasn’t empty anymore.

And this time, they weren’t alone.

Pepper moved in after the Tower repairs were finished — a quiet decision with no big announcement, just her favorite mug appearing in the kitchen cabinet and a soft “Good morning, sweetheart,” as she walked into the room in one of Tony’s shirts. Peter didn’t say anything, but the sight always tugged something warm in his chest. It felt... steady. Like the cracks in their lives were slowly being filled in.

There were routines now. Dinners together — sometimes takeout, sometimes something Pepper made, always with at least one fire alarm if Tony tried to help. Movie nights where Peter fell asleep on the couch, only to wake up under a blanket with both of them nearby. Grocery runs where Tony somehow always ended up with three more bags of snacks than they needed.

The Tower wasn’t just a place to live anymore.

It was a home.

Not perfect — they still fought. Tony still had bad days. Peter still woke up from nightmares where one of his houses was burning, or the ocean swallowed an empty Iron Man helmet. Pepper worked too much. Tony buried his feelings in tech. Peter sometimes pretended to be okay when he wasn’t.

But there was warmth now. Laughter. Apologies. People who stayed.

Rebuilding didn’t mean erasing what had happened. It meant learning to live with it. To grow around it. And they were trying — all three of them — in their own messy, stubborn, human ways.

And slowly, day by day, the Tower became less of a fortress.

And more of a family.

Finally, after all the mess, Peter started school.

Midtown School of Science and Technology wasn’t anything like Peter had expected. After Malibu, after private tutors and Trinity’s sterile hallways, Midtown was chaos. The good kind. Mostly.

Kids buzzed through the halls, laughter and debate echoing off lockers plastered with nerdy stickers. The school smelled like whiteboard markers and cafeteria pizza, and every bulletin board seemed to be advertising a robotics club, a science fair, or an essay contest on quantum mechanics. This wasn’t just a school for smart kids — it was a school for kids like Peter.

Still, the transition wasn’t easy.

He was the new kid in eighth grade, with a quiet voice, a city-issued backpack, and a haunted look he didn’t know he wore. People were kind enough, mostly — too busy chasing GPAs and deadlines to be mean — but Peter didn’t exactly walk in with confidence. He kept his head down, tried not to flinch when someone slammed a locker too hard, and didn’t tell anyone his full name unless they were a teacher. He didn’t want to be “Stark’s kid.” He just wanted to be Peter. Peter Parker.

And somehow… that started to work.

Ned Leeds was the first to really see him.

It happened in the tech lab — Peter crouched beside a fried circuit board, muttering to himself and trying to rewire a microcontroller, when Ned plopped down beside him, shoved a sleeve of Oreos into his hand, and said, “You think the capacitor’s toast or did it just short out on the solder?”

Peter blinked. And then grinned.

From that moment on, they were inseparable — geeking out over LEGO sets and Star Wars trivia, building little drones during lunch, and theorizing about the Avengers like they were mythological figures (while Peter quietly pretended he didn’t know more than he let on). Ned didn’t care that Peter sometimes spaced out or got quiet when people mentioned family. He didn’t care when Peter finally told him his full last name either, excluding a couple questions— not really. He just liked Peter. That was enough.

Through Ned, Peter joined the Academic Decathlon team. At first, he resisted — he didn’t like the spotlight, and competition made his hands sweat — but Ned practically dragged him to practice. That’s where he met Liz Allan.

Liz was the captain. Confident, kind, and endlessly patient, especially with the newer kids. She had this calm presence, like she could handle any equation or team drama thrown her way without breaking a sweat. Peter was smitten almost instantly — not in the cheesy, rom-com way, but in the quiet way that made his stomach flutter and his words trip over themselves every time she asked him a question.

She made Midtown feel a little brighter.

And then there was MJ.

Michelle Jones. Sharp-eyed, sharp-tongued, and always watching. She sat in the back of every room like a cat in a sunbeam — entirely unbothered and somehow always listening. She doodled existential cartoons in her notebook and made pointed, deadpan observations about everything from the school’s administration to the state of the world. She didn’t say much, but when she did, it was never forgettable.

“You’re always looking like you’re about to flinch,” she said to Peter once. “No one here’s gonna explode, you know. Not unless Flash tries to take his chemistry final again.”

Peter hadn’t known what to say. But he’d smiled. And she’d nodded, like that was all she needed to see.

Flash, of course, was just Flash.

Loud, cocky, and never missing an opportunity to call Peter “Penis Parker” in the hallway. Peter learned to tune him out — he’d been through real trauma, real losses. Flash’s petty insults couldn’t touch him. And even when they stung, Peter would come home, deconstruct a repulsor in the lab, and remind himself who he really was.

Midtown wasn’t easy. But it was his.

It was late-night study sessions with Ned and whispered jokes behind textbooks. It was MJ’s quiet nods across the room and Liz’s encouraging smiles at team practice. It was the first time Peter felt like he belonged somewhere — not because of his last name, but because of who he was, all on his own.

And even though he still carried that ache — that old fear of being left behind, of not being enough — he started to become loud, and talkative, always spewing out references — almost like a normal teenager — things like that never last long though thanks to Parker luck.

By now, Peter had learned that “normal” didn’t last.

The couple months following their move to New York had been steadier—Tony was trying, truly trying, to be the kind of father Peter could count on. He still fumbled. Still buried himself in the lab some days or forgot what day of the week it was. But he showed up. He came to school events when he could. He made waffles on Saturdays, even if he burnt half of them. He asked questions. He listened. That counted for a lot.

But the world didn’t stop just because Peter’s life had finally found a rhythm.

There was Ultron.

Peter had watched it unfold from their apartment, the news blaring with footage of Sokovia rising into the sky like something out of a nightmare. Iron Man was on the screen again—saving the world, again—and Peter sat frozen on the couch, staring. He was proud, yes. Proud and awed and terrified.

Because every time the world ended, his dad seemed to go with it. And Peter was left behind.

But Ultron passed. The world kept turning. Midtown started buzzing again about an upcoming field trip—to Oscorp.

Peter hadn’t thought much of it at first. He was excited, sure—Oscorp was one of the most advanced tech companies in the city, and their research division was practically legendary in Midtown’s nerd circles. But he figured it’d be another lab tour. A long lecture. Maybe some cool equipment behind glass.

He didn’t expect the spider.

It happened so quickly, Peter almost didn’t register it at first.

He was walking a few steps behind Liz and Ned, his eyes flicking between the towering displays of Oscorp’s genetics wing and the blinking security cameras that tracked their every move. Their tour guide—a tall man in a stiff lab coat with a practiced smile—was droning on about neural rewriting and gene therapy applications in regenerative medicine. Peter was only half-listening. He already knew most of this stuff from Tony’s lab, and the rest he could probably Google later.

He was more interested in the sleek, glass enclosures that lined the far wall—mini ecosystems, each with a different experimental specimen inside. Liz leaned closer to one and pointed at a silvery web spun delicately across a corner. “Creepy,” she whispered.

That’s when Peter felt it.

A sudden, electric prick on the back of his hand—sharp and fast, like a needle dipped in fire.

“Ah—!” He flinched, instinct taking over as he smacked his hand hard against his thigh. His skin stung where it had struck, and for a moment, all he could do was blink down at the thing twitching on the floor.

A spider.

Small, but not ordinary. Its body shimmered slightly under the fluorescent lights, a deep, inky black streaked with angry veins of red. There were strange ridges along its back, a tiny glint of blue near its legs. It spasmed once, legs curling inward, and then it went still.

Peter’s stomach flipped. He looked around—none of the other students had noticed.

He quickly stepped forward and nudged the spider under the edge of a display with his sneaker, his pulse thudding in his ears. A dozen thoughts tried to form at once—Should I tell someone? Am I allergic? What even was that?—but they dissolved into a muddled haze when Ned called his name and motioned for him to catch up.

Peter didn’t say anything.

He didn’t want to make a scene.

And really, it was just a spider bite… right?

But by the time the tour ended and they boarded the bus back to Midtown, Peter felt… off.

His skin itched under his sleeves. His heart was racing for no reason. The lights on the ceiling felt too bright, and every creak of the bus seats sounded too loud. He closed his eyes and leaned his head against the window, but even the city outside seemed like it was moving too fast.

By the time he stumbled through the front door of the penthouse that evening, his vision was swimming. He barely managed to mumble a response to Friday before collapsing into bed fully clothed. The sheets felt wrong. His skin felt wrong. Everything was buzzing, like he was plugged into a circuit he didn’t understand.

He dreamt that night in flashes—webs stretching across the skyline, lights flickering in time with his heartbeat, the phantom sting in his hand pulsing like a second pulse.

He woke in a cold sweat, the world too sharp, too close.

He thought he was sick.

He didn’t know yet that something inside him had shifted… had become radioactive.

Peter didn’t go to school the next day.

He barely made it out of bed.

His head pounded like someone had wedged a subwoofer behind his eyes. Every muscle in his body ached, twitching with bursts of restless energy that didn’t make sense. One second he was freezing—curled up under a mountain of blankets, teeth chattering—and the next, he was sweating through the sheets, gasping for air like he’d run a marathon in his sleep.

He didn’t have the strength to call out.

Didn’t really think anyone would come if he did.

The world around him felt wrong. Off. He could hear things he shouldn’t—Pepper’s voice on a call in the kitchen three rooms away, the faint buzz of traffic stories below the apartment. Every sound was too sharp, every flicker of light too bright. Even the smell of the leftover takeout in the trash made his stomach lurch.

Hours passed. Maybe days. It was hard to keep track.

Once or twice, the soft Irish lilt of FRIDAY’s voice echoed gently through the ceiling speakers. “Mr. Parker, your body temperature is elevated. Would you like me to notify Mr. Stark?”

Peter rolled over and mumbled, “No,” into his pillow, hoping she’d leave it alone.

She did.

Late afternoon bled into evening, and the door creaked open without warning. It wasn’t Tony.

It was Pepper.

She didn’t step inside—just stood in the doorway with a tray in her hands. Soup. Crackers. A glass of water that trembled just a little when she realized how pale Peter looked in the glow of the city lights.

“Hey, sweetheart,” she said softly. “FRIDAY said you were feeling under the weather.”

Peter tried to sit up. Failed. “Just tired,” he croaked.

Pepper’s smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. She crossed the room and placed the tray gently on his desk, glancing briefly around the space as if looking for something she could fix. She didn’t find anything.

“Try to eat a little, okay?” she said. “Let me know if you need anything.”

Peter didn’t answer. He couldn’t.

The door clicked shut behind her.

He didn’t touch the food.

Tony never came.

Peter didn’t even know if he was in the tower. Probably holed up in the lab again, running simulations, drowning in blueprints and guilt. Always busy. Always trying.

Peter understood.

But it didn’t stop the ache in his chest.

He curled in tighter under the covers, trying to quiet the whirring in his brain. Trying to ignore the fact that something inside him had changed. His limbs felt wrong. Heavy and weightless at the same time. His skin was buzzing, his fingertips tingling, and when he touched the wall beside his bed, he felt it cling to him.

He jerked his hand back like it burned.

No one noticed.

No one saw.

And for the first time since the move to New York, Peter truly wondered if there was anyone in the world who really knew him—what he was going through, what he was becoming.

Peter woke before sunrise.

He wasn’t sure if he’d actually slept or just passed out. Either way, the air felt different. Charged. His body hummed with tension, like every muscle was pulled tight under his skin.

He sat up slowly, the blanket sliding off his chest—and stuck.

Confused, he tugged it again.

It didn’t budge.

Peter blinked at it, then looked down at his hand. His fingertips were clinging to the fabric like static, only it wasn’t static. It was him.

His breath hitched.

Carefully, he peeled his fingers away. The blanket came loose with a soft rip of separating fibers. He stared at his palm, heart pounding. No cuts. No glue. Just… skin.

He stood on shaky legs, stumbled to the wall, and—on impulse—pressed his hand flat to the surface.

It stuck.

His eyes widened. Slowly, he pressed his other hand up beside it.

It stuck too.

Then his foot.

Inches off the floor now.

He froze.

Peter Parker was clinging to the side of his bedroom wall like a human gecko, suspended a full two feet above the carpet—and completely losing his mind.

He let go with a startled yelp, crashing back to the floor. His knees buckled. He crawled backward until his spine hit the dresser, chest heaving.

“What the hell,” he whispered. “What the actual hell.”

FRIDAY’s voice floated in gently from above. “Would you like me to contact Mr. Stark?”

Peter looked up at the ceiling.

Then at the wall again.

Then at his own hands.

“No,” he said hoarsely. “Not yet.”

He wasn’t ready.

He didn’t even know what this was yet.

What if it went away? What if it didn’t? What if it was something dangerous, something broken inside him?

Peter curled his knees to his chest and wrapped his arms around them, staring at the wall in stunned silence. He wasn’t just sick.

It started with the trash can.

Not on purpose.

He went to throw a juice box away later that morning, still jittery and overheated, and his hand crushed the can instead. Not just dented—folded it like paper.

Peter stared at the crumpled metal in his palm. He dropped it, startled, and it hit the kitchen floor with a metallic clatter.

He took a step back. His heart pounded. “Okay,” he muttered. “That’s… definitely not normal.”

The next test was the hallway.

He ran.

Not fast—just to the end of the corridor and back.

Only it was fast. Blindingly fast. So fast that when he turned to stop, he skidded sideways and slammed into the wall hard enough to shake a picture frame loose.

He stood there, dazed, breathing hard, blinking at the crooked photograph of Tony and Pepper at some gala.

“Okay,” Peter whispered. “Okay. I have super strength. Super speed. Sticky hands. I’m either a mutant… or a bug.”

His head swam. His heart raced. There was a tightness in his chest that wasn’t pain, but it was too much.

He sat down on the floor and put his head between his knees, trying to slow his breathing.

It didn’t work.

Later that night, after tossing and turning in bed for hours—his body still humming with leftover static and energy he didn’t understand—Peter gave up. He padded into the bathroom connected to his room, clutching a roll of duct tape, a pair of broken sunglasses, and three half-empty canisters he'd salvaged from Tony’s lab trash. His mind buzzed faster than his hands as he assembled pieces together, mumbling formulas under his breath.

He knew enough to be dangerous—enough to try.

The first version of the web-shooter was crude. It exploded. Twice.

The second jammed before he could even test it.

The third… worked.

Sort of.

It fired straight into the bathroom mirror, cracking it with a sharp thwip! and nearly giving him a heart attack. He slipped on the tile floor trying to scramble away from it, blinking in disbelief at the web still quivering on the glass.

It wasn’t perfect. But it was real.

He didn’t know what to call it yet. Didn’t know what he was yet. He didn’t tell anyone. Not Tony. Not Pepper. Not even FRIDAY.

And for a few days after that, it was enough to simply test things. He shot webs at the walls in his closet. Practiced climbing the concrete stairwell behind their building. Caught himself mid-fall more than once and laughed breathlessly afterward, half in awe, half in disbelief.

Eventually, though, rooftops called to him.

At first, he kept it small—just rooftop to rooftop, sneaking out at night with his hood pulled low, sneakers tied tight, heart pounding with the thrill of the unknown. He told himself it was just practice. That he was still just experimenting.

But each time he swung out over a streetlight or landed on a chimney without breaking it, he felt something deeper settle in his chest: the feeling that maybe—maybe—he was meant to do this.

Still, he didn’t think he was a hero.

Not yet.

Not like his dad.

But all that changed one night in a dark alley—when he made a choice that would set everything in motion.

It was supposed to be just another test run. Another late-night excuse.

He’d told FRIDAY he was at the library. Told Pepper he had a group project. She’d nodded, distracted, still half-focused on the StarkPad in her hands. Tony didn’t even ask.

So, Peter slipped out with his backpack slung over one shoulder, heart pounding with something between nerves and exhilaration. Inside was a hoodie two sizes too big, a pair of prototype web-shooters wrapped in old T-shirts, and a ski mask he’d grabbed from a corner store in Queens for five bucks.

The air outside was sharp with the bite of a cool breeze, and the lights of New York shimmered like a living constellation below the rooftops. He climbed up onto the ledge of an old brownstone in Brooklyn, legs shaking, breath caught in his chest.

He launched.

The first swing snapped taut mid-arc, jerking him forward with a rush that sent his stomach into free fall. He landed hard, skidding across a rooftop on his side—but he laughed. Out loud. Wind in his face, stars above, streetlights streaking past below. It was freedom. For once, he wasn’t Peter Stark, the kid who couldn’t keep up with his genius dad or get his locker to open right. He was just... moving.

He was getting the hang of it. His webbing stuck more often than not now. His landings didn’t always end in faceplants. He even managed a flip. A flip.

That’s when he heard it.

A scream. Raw and real and close.

It pierced through the city noise like glass splintering in his chest. Peter turned mid-swing, angling down toward the source—an alley sandwiched between two overflowing dumpsters behind a grocery store. Orange light from a flickering bulb above the back door barely reached the pavement.

He landed rough, knees jarred, but stayed upright.

A man had a woman cornered, his fist twisted in her purse strap, the other holding something small and silver and glinting in the light. A knife. Maybe a boxcutter. It didn’t matter.

Peter froze.

For a second, everything stopped. His heartbeat thundered in his ears. His limbs locked.

He was just a kid.

No armor. No plan. No backup.

But then he saw her eyes. Wide and terrified and filled with the kind of helplessness he knew far too well. The kind he’d seen in the mirror after Ben died. After May. After Malibu.

His fear turned into something else. Fire. Cold and clear.

“Hey!” Peter’s voice cracked as it bounced off the alley walls.

The mugger flinched, startled—just enough for Peter to react. His web-shooter clicked. A string of webbing snapped out, hitting the knife and yanking it free. It clattered to the concrete.

The guy swore and lunged.

Peter ducked. Then launched himself forward.

They both hit the pavement. Hard. Peter scrambled upright first, hands trembling, but adrenaline gave him the edge. He kicked the knife away. The guy got one good look at Peter’s half-covered face, snarled, then bolted into the shadows.

Peter didn’t chase.

He turned to the woman, who was now huddled on the ground, clutching her bag with white-knuckled fingers. Her mascara had streaked. Her breaths came out in broken sobs.

“You okay?” he asked, voice shaking.

She looked up at him—really looked—and her face crumpled with relief.

“I think so,” she whispered. “Thank you. Thank you—who are you?”

Peter blinked. He didn’t know what to say.

“…Just a guy,” he muttered, and turned away.

He fired a web upward, catching a ledge, and yanked himself out of the alley before she could ask more. His heart was still pounding by the time he landed on a rooftop six blocks away. He sat down, knees pulled to his chest, breathing in short, shallow bursts.

His hands were shaking.

Not from fear—but from the after.

The adrenaline, the realization, the clarity.

He’d helped someone.

He had done something.

No cameras. No suits. No guidance. Just him and his gut.

That night, he lay in bed, the ski mask still balled up in his hand under the sheets. His fingers itched with leftover tension. His body buzzed. He couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t stop replaying the woman’s voice, the raw gratitude in her eyes.

He stared up at the ceiling and whispered, “I get it now.”

Not about power. Not about proving something. Not even about being special.

It was about being there when no one else could be.

Because someone had to.

Chapter Text

Peter kept going.

He wore the mask at night, slipping out after homework and before Tony got home from late-night board meetings or Avengers debriefs. He told Pepper he was studying at Ned’s. Told Happy he was just running an errand. He covered his bruises with long sleeves and his exhaustion with caffeine and sarcasm.

And no one noticed.

Not really.

Not when he was thirteen and missing for nearly two days—stuck on a rooftop nursing a busted ankle and a cracked rib after a botched rescue from a carjacking.

It had been stupid. Reckless. He knew that now. But at the time, there’d been screaming—glass shattering—someone yelling for help—and he’d thought I can do something. He’d wanted to do something. That was the whole point of having powers, wasn’t it?

But he’d been sloppy. Inexperienced. The guy had a gun, and Peter hadn’t expected the second one, hidden under the driver’s seat. One wrong dodge, one tumble off the fire escape, and he’d hit the pavement hard. The carjackers fled. The victim was okay. Peter… wasn’t.

It rained that night.

The rooftops were slick. The city was colder than usual—wind cutting through his soaked hoodie like a knife. He’d crawled behind a billboard just to get out of sight, curling up on the cold metal frame, shivering, teeth chattering, his busted ankle screaming every time he moved.

No one knew where he was.

He didn’t have his phone. It had fallen from his pocket during the scuffle and shattered on the concrete below. He didn’t have his name stitched into the makeshift suit, and even if someone found him, he wasn’t sure they’d even believe he was a kid.

By morning, he’d tried to stand. His head spun. He nearly blacked out halfway across a rooftop trying to jump a gap he’d cleared a dozen times before. He waited. Tried again.

It took until the second morning to make it home.

Peter stood across the street from Stark Tower, hunched in the shadow of a construction scaffold, hoodie pulled up, hands trembling and scraped. His ankle was the size of a grapefruit. His ribs ached with every shallow breath. His hoodie stuck to his skin—soaked in rain, in sweat, in blood that had dried and crusted in patches along his side.

He stared up at the tower, all 93 floors of shining glass and arc reactor blue. A place that looked like it belonged in the future. A place that had never quite felt like home.

He didn’t know how he was going to make it inside. Couldn’t limp past the front desk. Couldn’t risk FRIDAY catching his face on a camera. Couldn’t explain why he looked like he’d been hit by a truck.

So he did what he always did.

He found a fire escape.

And climbed.

He found the emergency fire exit tucked behind the alley, its security panel long since disabled after one of Tony’s drones short-circuited it and no one bothered to fix it. Probably because no one expected someone to actually use it.

He slipped inside.

The stairwell was silent and stale, lit by flickering yellow lights that buzzed overhead. Peter hesitated for only a second before he started climbing.

Every flight burned. He gritted his teeth, tears pricking the corners of his eyes as he dragged himself up the stairs, hoodie sleeves pressed to his ribs, ankle swelling with every step.

One floor. Two.

By floor ten, his legs burned.

By floor twenty-five, his sweatshirt clung to his back with sweat, and he had to stop, gripping the railing with white knuckles, heart pounding far too loud in his ears. He could hear everything—the buzz of a vending machine three floors up, the click of someone's keyboard across the tower, the low hum of electricity running through the walls.

It was too much. It was all too much.

He kept going.

By floor forty, his vision swam. His breath came in sharp gasps, and every light seemed too bright, too loud, like it was screaming at him.

By floor sixty, he was biting the inside of his cheek to stay focused. One foot in front of the other. One more step. And another.

Eventually, he got up.

His legs shook as he limped the last flight of stairs to the top—floor 93. The final door wasn’t just any exit. It was the secured maintenance access to the penthouse level, marked with a sleek steel panel and a biometric scanner that glowed faintly in the dark.

Peter stared at it, swaying on his feet.

He wasn’t authorized. Of course he wasn’t.

FRIDAY would flag him the second the door opened. If she was active, she probably already knew he was there. But no alarms blared. No warning lights. No iron sentries crashing through the ceiling to detain him.

Maybe she was off for the night. Maybe she was just… being kind.

Still, the lock wouldn’t open without clearance.

So Peter crouched—wincing, one hand gripping the wall for balance—and pried off the panel’s edge. Just a few screws. Just enough room to see the wires underneath.

Tony had taught him some things. Not on purpose. Peter had just watched. Listened. Remembered. It wasn’t a full override—he didn’t even try to hack FRIDAY. He just triggered the manual emergency failsafe, the one Tony insisted be built into every door in case the power grid went out again. A short pulse. Two crossed wires.

Click.

The bolt disengaged with a soft hiss.

Peter shoved the door open and slipped through before the lights could fully flicker on. He leaned on the wall for a second, catching his breath, then limped down the hall—silent as a shadow.

No one saw him.

No one stopped him.

The penthouse was dark. Quiet. Empty.

The lights were dim. No one was around. Tony must’ve been in the lab or asleep—or gone entirely. Pepper’s heels weren’t echoing on the tile. No one called his name.

He slipped into his room, careful to ease the door shut without a sound. The soft click of the lock sliding into place was the first thing that made him feel remotely safe.

His breath caught.

The room was still exactly as he left it—neat, half-lived-in, a carefully crafted illusion of a normal teenage life. Homework stacked on the desk. Stark-designed tablet charging in the corner. A pile of laundry he hadn’t gotten to.

But his eyes went straight to the bed.

Not yet.

First, the evidence.

His fingers were numb as he peeled the soaked hoodie off his shoulders, trying not to wince at the pull of half-dried blood beneath. He tugged the web-shooters off next—scratched, slightly warped from the fall—and shoved them under his bed along with the hoodie and goggles. The duct-taped knapsack he kept them in barely fit anymore.

One day, he'd have to build a better hiding spot.

But not tonight.

He climbed into bed without bothering to change, pulling the blanket over his head like a shield. The mattress dipped beneath his weight. His ribs flared in protest. His ankle throbbed.

And still, underneath the exhaustion and pain and cold, something inside him buzzed .

His skin itched—not from the grime or the bruises, but from something deeper. Something inside his blood. His bones. Like his body still hadn’t finished changing.

He didn’t understand it.

Didn’t know what he was turning into.

All he knew was that he had to hide it. From Midtown. From Pepper.

From his dad.

He curled tighter under the blanket, hoodie damp against his cheek, and tried not to cry.

Later, when the quiet settled and the adrenaline wore off, he lay on his back, eyes open, staring at the dark stretch of ceiling above him.

It was just plaster.

Plain, silent.

He missed the Malibu ceiling—the soft hum of the tank overhead, fish drifting like tiny constellations in a blue-lit world that felt far away from everything else.

He missed the way it made the night feel less lonely.

Now, all he had was the dark.

And a secret that was getting harder to carry.

The next morning, Peter woke up to the sound of FRIDAY softly reminding him that school started in twenty-seven minutes. He groaned into his pillow, his limbs heavy and aching in that too-familiar, not-quite-human way.

He rolled out of bed with a grunt and stumbled to the bathroom. The mirror greeted him with dark circles under his eyes and a faint bruise along his jaw from a botched landing the night before. He splashed cold water on his face, then used the concealer Pepper had once gently slipped him “just in case.” She never asked what he needed it for.

A few minutes later, he pulled on his hoodie—the same red one, sleeves tugged down low to cover the makeshift web-shooter cuffs—and zipped up his backpack. He checked twice that his suit was still hidden under the floorboard beneath his bed, web-shooters recharged and extra cartridges tucked into an old pencil case. Just in case.

Breakfast was a blur: a granola bar grabbed from the counter— even though his stomach wanted more— a nod to Pepper who was already on a conference call, and a quick duck into the elevator before Tony’s lab door even opened. He couldn’t risk bumping into him. Not yet.

He slipped out through the lobby, waved to the doorman with a sheepish smile, and took the subway three stops to Midtown.

Midtown was loud and bright and too full of people. No one noticed how Peter flinched at the sound of slamming lockers, or how he kept his hands stuffed in his sleeves like he was freezing, even though it was May.

Ned noticed, of course.

“You look like you got hit by a truck,” Ned whispered as they slid into their seats in AP Bio. “Or, like... twelve trucks.”

Peter offered a lopsided smile. “Just… didn’t sleep much.”

“Again?” Ned squinted at him, concern behind his glasses. “Dude, what is going on with you lately? You’re always tired, you keep zoning out, you flinch when people touch you—are you on something?”

Peter snorted. “Yeah. Oxygen.”

Ned didn’t laugh.

Peter turned his head and focused on the whiteboard, ignoring the way his heart was thudding too fast. He hated lying. But he couldn’t tell the truth either. Not even to Ned. Especially not to Tony.

At lunch, Liz sat with them. MJ hovered nearby, nose buried in a book, occasionally muttering a sharp remark under her breath that made Peter snort behind his apple juice. Flash made a jab about Peter’s ratty hoodie, and Peter rolled his eyes, firing back something sarcastic just to keep up the illusion that everything was normal.

It wasn’t.

Every day felt like balancing on a thread. Midtown was full of smart kids, but none of them were hiding radioactive mutations. None of them were stitching up their own shirts in the bathroom or scraping web fluid off their shoes before class.

And back at the Tower… things were complicated.

Tony wasn’t absent like before—not completely. He was trying, in his own way. Dinner happened more often now, sometimes in the same room. Sometimes there was even talking. Occasionally they sat in the lab together, Peter pretending to do homework while Tony worked on a new project, Ac/dc low in the background.

But Tony didn’t know.

He didn’t notice the web residue on the bottom of Peter’s sneakers, or how the “school hoodie” never made it into the laundry. He didn’t ask why Peter’s appetite had tripled, or why he’d started doing more pull-ups than homework.

Peter didn’t tell him. Couldn’t.

Because deep down, he wasn’t sure if Tony would understand. Or worse—if Tony would try to stop him.

So Peter kept it quiet. Slipped out through the stairwell late at night. Patrolled the streets in a stitched-up hoodie and repurposed goggles, avoiding the cameras and ducking behind fire escapes when he felt eyes.

It was exhausting. And lonely.

But it was worth it when he stopped a mugging. When he helped a kid find their lost backpack. When someone looked at him—not like Peter Parker, the quiet kid in the back of the class—but like Spider-Man. Someone who could make a difference.

And for now, that had to be enough.

Chapter Text

Six months.

That’s how long Peter had been sneaking out. Six months of muttered excuses about late-night studying, of missed breakfasts, of limping down hallways like no fourteen-year-old should. Six months of Tony telling himself he was just being paranoid.

And all the while, a masked figure had been lighting up internet forums and shaky YouTube channels. Swinging through Queens, stopping muggings, pulling people out of burning cars. “Spider-Man,” they called him. Tony had even watched one clip once—some kid in red and blue stopping a car with his bare hands—and muttered to himself about reckless vigilantes. Then he’d moved on.

He should’ve seen it sooner.

Now the Sokovia Accords were blowing everything apart. Steve was off playing the boy scout fugitive, sides were forming, and Tony was running out of allies fast. He needed someone new. Someone quick. Someone who could match Barnes, catch him without bullets flying.

That’s what brought him here, hunched over his screens at two in the morning.

He’d fed FRIDAY footage, running facial scans, body ratios, movement analysis. Every time the AI whittled down the data, the pool of suspects got smaller, the margin narrower. Until it wasn’t narrow at all. Until the odds stopped feeling like numbers and started feeling like inevitability.

The kid in the grainy footage wasn’t just some stranger from Queens.
It was Peter.

His Peter.

Tony shut his eyes, leaning back hard in his chair, his jaw locking as the weight hit him full force. His son had been out there, swinging between skyscrapers, getting shot at, punched, thrown through walls—all while Tony had been sleeping peacefully above.

Christ. He hadn’t even noticed.

He pressed a hand over his mouth, fighting the gnawing churn in his chest. What kind of father missed something like this? Not just the sneaking out—no, he could forgive himself for missing a lie or two. But missing this ? Missing that his kid had been moonlighting as a goddamn superhero? It wasn’t neglect—it was blindness. Willful blindness, because he’d been too busy patching up the world to see the cracks forming in his own home.

And now here he was, about to make the worst call of his life.

Because Tony didn’t just know Peter’s secret. He needed it. Needed him.

Spider-Man was the piece of the puzzle that made Civil War winnable. A wild card. An equalizer. Peter could help stop Barnes without lethal force, could web down a fight before it escalated. On paper, it was perfect.

In reality?
It was dragging his son into a war between gods and soldiers.

His fingers curled against the desk, knuckles whitening. He could hear the justification already forming in his head, neat and easy: Peter’s already out there, already risking his life. Better to keep him close, train him properly, protect him while he learns. Better to guide him than let him burn out alone.

It sounded good. Almost noble. Almost.

But under it was the truth he didn’t want to admit: Tony was desperate. His team was fractured, his choices were dwindling, and Spider-Man was too good a card not to play.

And if Peter got hurt? If this blew back on him?

Tony swallowed hard. He’d already buried too many people. Yinsen. Coulson. His parents. Almost Pepper. He couldn’t—he wouldn’t —add Peter to the list.

Still, his son was already in this fight. Whether Tony liked it or not. Whether he admitted it or not.

The screen was still paused in front of him, Spider-Man frozen mid-swing. Except Tony couldn’t see Spider-Man anymore. He only saw Peter—his awkward grin, the way he still left socks in the hall, the kid who curled up on the couch with science journals and junk food.

“What the hell am I doing?” Tony whispered, his voice cracking.

For a long moment, he just sat there, jaw tight, chest burning. Then, slowly, he pushed up from his chair.

If this was happening—and it was —then he wasn’t going to half-ass it. No more blinders. No more distance.

He was going to Peter’s room.
And this time, he wasn’t leaving until he had answers.

Peter crept through the Tower’s quiet hallways, hoodie damp from the rain outside, web-shooters carefully stowed beneath his backpack. His legs ached from the hours of climbing and swinging, but he refused to slow down. Every step was measured, careful—not just from exhaustion, but from the need to avoid detection. Tony’s office might be empty, but the Tower had ears everywhere. Cameras. Sensors. Even the doors seemed to listen.

By the time he reached his floor, the faint glow from the penthouse windows made him pause. He pressed himself against the wall, counting breaths, waiting for any sign of movement. Everything seemed normal. Too normal.

He slipped up the fire escape and climbed the last few flights of stairs to his bedroom, careful to keep silent. When he finally turned the handle, the door was already ajar.

And there was Tony.

Sitting on the edge of Peter’s bed, slumped slightly forward, a vial of web fluid spinning between his fingers like a fragile piece of glass. The room smelled faintly of rain and ink, the scattered sketches on the desk catching the dim light. Peter froze in the doorway, hoodie half over his face, heart hammering.

Tony didn’t stand. Didn’t even look up at first. Just held the vial, staring at it as though it explained everything he had been wrestling with for weeks.

The sight made Peter freeze.

​​“Peter.” Tony said, His voice was low at first, controlled, but trembling. “Where… have… you been?”

Peter froze. “Uh… school stuff,” he mumbled. “Homework… projects… group work.”

Tony’s eyebrows drew together, sharp and unforgiving. “School stuff?” His voice carried an edge of disbelief, layered with something tighter underneath. “Don’t insult my intelligence, kid. You expect me to believe you were just… buried in textbooks while you were out there running around rooftops?”

Peter’s mouth opened, but the words tangled in his throat.

Tony pressed on, pacing a short line across the room, each step clipped and restless. “I’m not blind, Peter. You come home bruised, exhausted, and then you brush me off with some flimsy line about homework? You think I don’t recognize the signs? I’ve lived this life long enough to know when someone’s sneaking out in the middle of the night.” His hand rose, then dropped again, as if he wasn’t sure whether to point or grab Peter’s shoulder. “And you—what? Think you’re untouchable? That you can run around playing hero without consequence?”

Peter finally forced something out. “I just—”

“You just what?” Tony’s voice cracked, not with volume but with something rawer, jagged at the edges. “You just decide it’s fine to crawl through windows at two in the morning, hoping no one notices the bruises? You just figure no one cares enough to wonder why you’re limping down the hallway?” He stopped pacing and faced Peter fully, his expression caught between anger and fear. “You don’t tell me. You don’t tell anyone. You think it’s fine to shoulder the weight of this city on your own, like some… like some martyr. And for what? So I can get a phone call one night telling me you didn’t come back?”

Peter shrank under the intensity of the words, but Tony’s voice softened just a fraction, enough to betray the truth beneath his anger.

“I… I didn’t want you to stop me,” Peter said, trembling. “I… I just wanted to help.”

Tony ran a hand through his hair, trying to keep his voice steady. “Help? You call this helping? You think sneaking around, lying, putting yourself in danger is helping? I’ve seen what you’ve done. Every scrape, every bruise, every night you’ve disappeared. And for what? For what, Peter?”

Peter’s throat went dry. He swallowed, trying to speak. “I… I just… I wanted to do something good… be useful… to make a difference…”

Tony stopped mid-step, eyes boring into him. “You’re useful? You’re my kid. You don’t have to prove anything to anyone! And yet… you keep putting yourself in harm’s way and hiding it from me. Hiding it! Do you understand how that feels?” His voice softened, but the heat didn’t leave his gaze. “I could have lost you. And you didn’t even think to tell me. Do you know what that does to me? To my heart?”

Peter flinched. He wanted to explain more, to tell the truth, but the words got stuck in his throat. “I… I didn’t think—”

Tony stepped closer, pinning Peter with his gaze. “You didn’t think? You didn’t think! Peter, I’ve spent years trying to make sure you’re alive. Years trying to protect you. And for six months, you’ve been sneaking out, building… this… this Spider-Man thing. And you didn’t tell me? You didn’t trust me-”

Peter’s jaw tightened, eyes flashing with anger, cutting his father off. “When have you given me a reason to trust you? From the day you got custody of me, we’ve never had a proper conversation! You’re never… really here! You’re always gone, always busy, and when you are here you're too drunk to listen. And now you’re mad at me for… for trying to do something myself?!”

Tony froze, taken aback, but his pride flared immediately. “Whoa, hold on—don’t turn this on me. I’ve been trying to keep you alive! You think any of this is easy? You think I don’t care?”

Peter’s voice rose, trembling with frustration. “Trying? You call this trying? You’re barely here! You don’t see me, you don’t ask, you don’t even notice half the stuff I do! And now—now you’re mad at me for building my own way to help?”

Tony ran a hand through his hair, pacing a few steps. “I notice! Every time I turn around, you’re doing something reckless. I get it, you want to be a hero—great! But there’s a way to do it without…” His voice cracked with exasperation, “without risking your neck every single night!”

“I’m not asking for permission!” Peter snapped. “I don’t need you to notice or to care—I’ve figured it out on my own for six months!”

Tony’s eyes hardened, jaw tight. “You think I’m just going to sit back and do nothing while you play superhero? Do you have any idea how terrifying that is? You’re my kid, Peter! My—” He stopped, struggling for words, his usual sarcasm cutting through his panic. “Look, I don’t have all the answers, okay? But I can’t have you out there like this, sneaking around, thinking you’re invincible!”

Peter’s chest heaved. “I’m not invincible. I’m just… I’m just trying to do something for once. Something that matters!”

Tony’s lips pressed together. He shook his head, muttering, “You don’t get it… you have no idea how scared I’ve been.” Then, louder, almost snapping: “You’re grounded. Capishe?”

Peter looked away, hurt twisting his stomach. “Yeah. Understood,” he muttered, voice small.

Tony grabbed his arm gently but firmly, guiding him toward the elevator. “Come on. Medbay. You’re not going anywhere until I make sure you’re patched up properly.”

As they walked, Tony’s stride was long, his mind clearly racing even as he tried to keep a steady tone. “Listen, Pete… if you’re going to keep doing this Spider-Man thing, we need rules. I don’t care how brave you think you are—you’re still a kid. From now on, patrols happen only on weekends. Schoolwork comes first. Got it?”

Peter nodded silently, biting the inside of his cheek. He hated being lectured, but part of him also felt the odd comfort of Tony acknowledging his double life.

“And don’t think you’re just going to cobble together whatever suit scraps you find. I’m building you something proper. Full functionality, web cartridges, reinforced fibers—the whole nine yards. You’ll be trained properly. I’ll make sure you know how to fight safely, how to avoid the serious stuff. No more improvising.”

“And, Pete…we’ll talk about this more later, but… when the time comes, you’ll join me. Against Cap. You’re not just some kid swinging around the city. You’re part of this now. Part of what I’m doing. Part of the team.”

Peter swallowed hard, unsure if he should be excited or terrified. The thought of being thrown into a real fight made his stomach twist, but something in him also flared with pride.

They reached the medbay. The lights hummed softly, sterile and bright. Tony gestured for him to sit in the chair, gently brushing a damp strand of hair from Peter’s forehead. “All right. Let’s see what kind of damage we’re dealing with this time.”

Peter sat, shoulders tense, as Tony began checking bruises, scrapes, and minor sprains. Tony’s touch was firm but careful, and though Peter said nothing, his chest tightened with a mix of fear, awe, and… hope. Maybe this was the start of something different.

Chapter Text

Tony worked in silence for what felt like forever.
The medbay wasn’t loud, but somehow, it felt like every little sound was being magnified — the faint hum of machinery, the rhythmic pulse of the fluorescent lights overhead, the low electronic chime of the diagnostic scanner running its sequence. Each noise seemed to punctuate the heavy quiet that stretched between them.

Peter sat on the exam cot, his wet clothes sticking to his skin, leaving faint dark marks on the white paper lining beneath him. His hoodie lay crumpled beside him, torn and soaked, like evidence from a scene he didn’t want to think about. His ribs ached, his cheek throbbed where the cut had opened again, and his fingers twisted in his lap as he tried not to meet Tony’s gaze.

Tony moved across the medbay with a kind of restless energy that barely contained the storm behind it. He wasn’t just pacing — he was fighting himself. Every motion was deliberate, precise, but charged with irritation. The clang of the metal tray he set down echoed too loudly in the sterile space.

He finally spoke without looking at Peter. “You know, I should’ve called Helen Cho for this.”

Peter flinched slightly at the sudden sound of Tony’s voice cutting through the silence.

“She’s the professional,” Tony continued, tone clipped and analytical, as if this were a business report instead of an argument disguised as first aid. “Top of her field — tissue reconstruction, regenerative grafts, cellular regeneration. The whole miracle package. She probably would’ve had you patched up in half the time it’s taking me.”

He grabbed a fresh gauze pad and pressed it to Peter’s temple, maybe a little harder than necessary. “But then I thought — nah. I’d rather not sit there for thirty minutes listening to her tell me what an idiot I am for letting my ‘miracle of a child’ get banged up playing dress-up in a rainstorm.”

Peter blinked. “Uh… miracle of a child?”

Tony’s eyes flicked up for half a second. “That’s what she calls you. Don’t look so smug.”

Peter gave a nervous, tiny laugh. “Didn’t know I was famous.”

“Not famous,” Tony muttered, reaching for antiseptic. “Infamous, maybe.”

He dabbed at the cut on Peter’s cheek, frowning as he worked. “You know how many times I’ve built armor just to stop myself from bleeding out?” he said suddenly, the words quiet but heavy. “Hundreds. Every iteration, every improvement… all to keep myself alive.” His eyes darted briefly to Peter’s ribs, where a nasty bruise was forming. His tone dropped lower. “But this—this isn’t supposed to be you. You’re not supposed to be the one sitting here with blood on your face.”

Peter swallowed hard. “I can handle it,” he said softly, trying to sound sure.

Tony froze for a second, the med tool hovering just above Peter’s shoulder. “You shouldn’t have to handle it,” he muttered. “You’re fourteen, not a damn soldier.”

“I’m turning fifteen soon,” Peter said quietly, trying to sound matter-of-fact.

Tony gave a quiet snort. “Yeah… that doesn’t make it better,” he muttered, shaking his head.

For a few seconds, the only sound was the soft hiss of the dermal sealer activating as Tony passed it over Peter’s cuts. He worked with mechanical precision, but his mind was clearly elsewhere. When he spoke again, his tone had changed — softer now, quieter, but no less intense.

“You know,” Tony said, eyes still focused on the scanner’s holographic display, “I thought I’d have more time before this kind of crap started happening again. Before I had to start worrying every time someone didn’t come home on time.”

Peter looked up at him. “You mean… like the Avengers?”

Tony gave a humorless laugh. “No. I mean people I actually care about.”

Peter froze, unsure what to say. His heart thudded in his chest, a confusing mixture of guilt, hope, and something that felt suspiciously like warmth.

Tony sighed and finally set the scanner aside, rubbing at the bridge of his nose. “Earlier when i said youre grounded i meant grounded grounded,” he said flatly.

Peter blinked. “What—? But I—”

“Until further notice,” Tony continued over him, tone firm. “You don’t leave this tower without telling me where you’re going, who you’re with, and how long you’ll be gone. If you so much as look at that hoodie again, FRIDAY locks every exit from the penthouse to the balcony. Got it?”

Peter’s shoulders slumped. “Got it.”

Tony watched him for a beat, his expression unreadable. Then, finally, he sighed and shook his head. “Look, I’m not doing this to make your life miserable, kid. I just—” He stopped, then started again, quieter this time. “You’re my responsibility. Whether you wanted that or not. Whether I wanted that or not.”

Peter glanced up, startled by the honesty in his voice.

Tony looked away quickly, picking up another tool just to have something to do with his hands. “I mean, don’t get me wrong — you’re not exactly easy. You build web shooters behind my back, sneak out every night, jump off buildings—”

“I caught all of them!” Peter said quickly.

Tony turned, eyes narrowing, but there was the faintest ghost of a smile tugging at his mouth. “That’s not the point. The point is, if you’re gonna keep doing this — and let’s face it, you are — then we do it my way. You patrol only on weekends. You don’t skip homework for hero work. You don’t skip school for a fight. You start dropping grades, I shut the whole thing down. Clear?”

Peter nodded slowly. “Clear.”

“Good.”

Tony turned to the counter again, summoning a small holographic schematic that flared to life between them — a rotating wireframe of a sleek red-and-blue suit, intricate and gleaming.

Peter’s breath caught. “Whoa.”

“Yeah.” Tony’s voice softened a little. “No more duct tape and hoodies. You’ll get something better — reinforced fabric, biometric locks, built-in tracking, HUD interface, comms link directly to me. I’m not letting you run around the city half-exposed anymore.”

He hesitated, and when he spoke again, his voice had a different tone — the one he used when he was trying not to sound like he cared too much. “You won’t be out there alone again. Not while I’m around.”

Peter’s chest tightened. He stared at Tony, at the man who’d spent years avoiding being anything close to a father figure, now standing in front of him talking about rules, safety, training — all the things parents were supposed to talk about.

And for the first time in his life, Peter saw Tony Stark not as the billionaire genius, or the careless guardian who’d inherited a kid he didn’t ask for, but as someone trying.

Someone who looked scared.

Someone who cared.

The edges of Tony’s sarcasm were still there, sharp as ever, but underneath it was something raw — something that made Peter’s throat ache. For months, he’d seen Tony at a distance, always surrounded by his work, his tech, his noise. But here, now, Tony was just there. Talking. Laughing. Scolding. Treating him like a person — not a mistake.

And it hit Peter, hard, that maybe he wasn’t just the burden Tony got stuck with. Maybe, in some strange, unspoken way, Tony actually wanted him here.

Tony clapped a hand lightly on Peter’s shoulder — firm, grounding, a little awkward, like he wasn’t sure if it was okay. “Get some sleep, kid. Training starts tomorrow, after school. You’re gonna learn how to do this right.”

He turned toward the door, the automatic panels sliding open with a soft hiss. The glow from the tower’s hallway spilled in, catching the lines in his face — the exhaustion, the worry, the faint trace of pride he’d never admit to.

Peter sat there in silence, his chest tight, his skin stinging from the antiseptic and the weight of everything that had just been said.

He watched Tony go, waiting for the door to close — but before it did, Tony looked back once. Just long enough to meet Peter’s eyes.

And he smiled. Small. Barely there. But real.

When the door shut and the medbay fell quiet again, Peter let out a shaky breath. The silence felt different now. Softer. Warmer.

His ribs still ached. His skin still burned. But for the first time since putting on the mask, he didn’t feel like a screwup pretending to be something he wasn’t.

He felt like he mattered.

Like maybe — just maybe — he’d finally stopped being a drunken mistake turned responsibility.
And started being someone Tony Stark chose to care about.

The next morning, Peter practically bounced out of bed. For once, it wasn’t because of alarm clocks or a nagging sense of duty—it was because he wanted to get moving. His bruised ribs and scraped cheek were still tender under the layers of his clothes, but the antiseptic and bandages from Tony’s medbay had done their job, and his body—already quicker at healing than normal—was bouncing back in ways that made him almost giddy. Every step toward the kitchen, every sip of cereal, felt charged, like the city outside was waiting just for him.

The morning sun caught the glass edges of Stark Tower as Peter bounded into the sleek black car waiting in the garage. His hoodie was still slightly damp from the previous night’s rooftop patrol, but he barely noticed. Today wasn’t about dodging danger or testing new gadgets—it was about him and Tony, as his dad. For the first time, he felt like he mattered outside the mask.

“Morning, kid,” Happy said, glancing over with the faintest edge of boredom in his voice.

“Morning! Oh man, Happy, you won’t believe it,” Peter burst out before Happy could even put the car in gear. “Today, I’m—like, officially—spending time with Dad. For real this time. Not just dinner, not just him popping in for ten minutes while I try to do homework. Real, proper Dad time.”

Happy sighed, tugging at his collar as he adjusted the mirror. “Mm-hm. That’s… great, kid. Try not to scare everyone in traffic with all that enthusiasm, yeah?”

Peter waved a hand, nearly tipping his water bottle onto the floor. “I won’t! Well… maybe a little hyper. But can you blame me? It’s Dad! Not Tony Stark, the genius, the billionaire, the guy who’s always ‘busy.’ I mean Dad! Like, someone who actually—y’know—cares what I think.”

Happy just let out a short, humorless laugh and shook his head. “Mm-hm. Loud and clear. Dad time. Noted.”

Peter settled into the seat, bouncing on the edge, eyes darting toward the Tower as they pulled out of the garage. The streets of Manhattan blurred past, but Peter didn’t notice. His mind was racing with possibilities: drills in the training room, Tony showing him suit upgrades, maybe even a rare Dad joke tucked somewhere between lectures.

“Hey, Happy,” Peter said, leaning forward suddenly. “Do you think he remembers that time I tried to build a mini web-shooter out of a soda can? That thing shot soda everywhere and nearly ruined his conference call?”

Happy’s lips twitched. “Mm-hm. I remember. You got grounded for three days and had to mop the lab floors yourself.”

Peter grinned sheepishly. “Okay, yeah, but it worked… kind of. At least I didn’t blow anything up.”

“Yet,” Happy muttered, eyes forward.

The drive stretched on. Thirty, forty-five minutes of Peter chattering nonstop while Happy drove in polite silence, only occasionally answering or muttering sarcastic asides. Peter rattled off questions about what drills Tony would have ready, guessed at the new suit’s upgrades, imagined scenarios where they both practiced web-slinging or rescue tactics, and laughed at hypotheticals. Happy occasionally shook his head, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel.

By the time they arrived at Midtown, Peter’s energy had reached a fever pitch. He practically leapt from the car. “Thanks, Happy! See you later!”

“Try not to break anything,” Happy said dryly, raising a hand.

Peter grinned and bolted into the school, nearly colliding with Ned at the lockers.

“Whoa. Slow down, Parker,” Ned said, adjusting his glasses. “You’re like… vibrating. What’s going on?”

Peter threw open his locker and stuffed his bag in haphazardly. “Big plans, Ned. Big. With Dad. For the first time, real time. Not just dinner or him being busy—Dad time. I can’t say exactly what we’re doing—classified or something—but it’s gonna be awesome.”

Ned blinked, clearly confused. “Wait, you mean Stark? Like, Tony Stark?”

“Yep. My dad,” Peter said, voice softening. “Finally, he’s actually… paying attention. Not just me sneaking around or him being busy. Like, we’re doing stuff together. Just him and me.”

“Uh… okay. That’s… cool, I guess. Don’t get hurt or anything,” Ned said, still looking dubious.

Peter grinned and dashed off toward homeroom. The hallways seemed to stretch endlessly, a blur of lockers, students’ chatter, and the scrape of sneakers against the floor. Each tick of the clock felt exaggerated, dragging the minutes into hours. His excitement from the car ride was still there, but now it mixed with impatience.

By third period, even his boundless energy couldn’t completely mask the monotony of school. Math problems blurred together, biology diagrams swam across the page, and Peter tapped his pencil incessantly, glancing at the clock every thirty seconds. Every tick felt like a reminder that the minutes until he could leave for the Tower were stretching out forever.

MJ, ever observant, had her sketchbook open in the back of the room. She traced Peter’s fidgety movements, capturing the tension and impatience in exaggerated lines. Peter caught a glimpse of it and laughed softly under his breath, though he didn’t say anything aloud. Somehow, he knew she’d get it.

By the final bell, Peter felt like he had been in class for weeks instead of hours. He bolted out the doors, Ned trailing behind, glasses slipping down his nose. “Slow down, Parker!”

“I can’t! I have to get there!” Peter laughed, practically vibrating with anticipation. This wasn’t about hero work. This was about him and his dad—something he’d wanted for months. He imagined Tony laughing at a bad joke, pretending to be serious during a drill, maybe even teasing him the way Happy or Ned would never dare.

Back in the car, Peter jabbered nonstop about what he imagined for the day: drills, suit demos, Dad jokes tucked into lectures, maybe even a rare “good job” if he performed well. Happy’s responses were minimal, but he listened. Occasionally, he muttered dry commentary or shook his head at Peter’s hyperactive imagination.

Peter leaned forward, eyes bright as the Tower grew larger in the distance. “This is it, Happy! Today’s the day. I get to be with Dad. Just him. Not some Stark machine or billionaire genius. Just Dad.”

Happy smirked faintly. “Try not to break him, kid.”

Peter laughed, nearly falling out of the seat, but underneath the laughter was something quieter, stronger—a spark of hope. For the first time in a long time, he didn’t feel like he was sneaking around in someone else’s shadow. He felt like he was going home.

The training room’s doors hissed open, revealing the sprawling expanse of the Tower’s lower floors. The training room in Stark Tower was vast, lined with steel walls, mats, and an array of obstacle rigs that looked like something out of a sci-fi playground. Drones hovered quietly in the corners, lights scanning the room with soft whirs. Peter’s pulse raced—not from fear, but from anticipation. He had been waiting for this for months. Not the suit, not the web-shooters, not even swinging across rooftops—but this: real time with his dad. A dad who was actually paying attention, not just around in name, not distracted, not someone who only noticed him when it was convenient.

Peter bounced on the balls of his feet, hoodie tied around his waist now that he’d shed it for training. Even without the lingering soreness from past patrols—his healing factor had taken care of that—he felt alive in a way he hadn’t in months. Every nerve in his body was tingling with excitement.

Tony moved around the room like a whirlwind, scanning holographic readouts and adjusting drones. Even in the high-stress environment, his signature sarcasm peeked through.

“All right, kid,” Tony said, fingers flying over a console. “Time to see what you’re actually capable of. Agility, reaction time, strength, endurance. Don’t worry about heroics—just move. I want numbers, I want data, I want to know exactly what your suit will need and what your limits are.”

Peter’s chest swelled a little. Numbers, data—that was manageable. That he could do.

Tony tapped a panel on the floor. The room shifted. Obstacles rose and fell, swinging beams and rotating platforms creating a makeshift course that would challenge even seasoned acrobats. “First test: obstacle navigation. I’m recording every movement. Every micro-adjustment. Every mistake. No pressure.”

Peter laughed, bouncing forward. “Piece of cake!”

Tony didn’t respond, just kept his eyes on the holographic readouts flickering before him. “Wobble on left foot during swings. Noted. Don’t ignore it. If you’re gonna do this, do it right.”

Peter’s grin faltered for just a second, then returned. He loved the challenge, but more than that, he loved that Tony was actually watching, noticing, correcting.

Next came wall climbs. Vertical walls, slick surfaces, a mix of flat panels and angled grips. Peter leapt, stuck webs to the top, and swung up in one fluid motion. The drones tracked every movement, projecting real-time stats to Tony’s console.

Tony’s voice cut through the hum. “Web-shooter test. Hold your own weight plus thirty percent. Don’t fall. And if you do, don’t think for a second that I won’t record it for posterity.”

Peter grinned again. “Got it, Dad!”

Tony’s readouts flared red and yellow as he analyzed each line Peter fired. “Huh. Left wrist strain on swinging. Overcompensation. Suit needs reinforced joint. Not your fault yet, but keep it in mind.”

Peter swallowed, excitement and nerves mixing. I can do this. I can do this.

Tony paused, tapping a few holograms. “Look, you’re hanging in the gray zone a little too long there. Gray zone’s fine for instincts, but instincts don’t get you out of everything. Planning, strategy, foresight—that’s how you stay alive. Understand?”

“I get it,” Peter said, voice full of determination. He didn’t need to explain how much he wanted to impress Tony, to be seen—not just as Spider-Man, but as Peter, the kid Tony actually cared about.

Tony leaned back, arms crossed, smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I shouldn’t be dragging a fourteen-year-old into this kind of high-tech playground. You’re turning fifteen soon.”

“August,” Peter said, a small smile tugging at his lips.

Tony snorted. “That doesn’t make it any better.”

Peter laughed softly, the sound bouncing off the steel walls. This is real. He’s actually talking to me. And he’s worried. About me.

Tony’s gaze sharpened as he pointed toward a web-line test. “Final drill. Swing, stick, carry load. I need to see what you can manage in the air, how much extra you can hold, how far you can push yourself without breaking a sweat—or the suit.”

Peter launched himself, feeling every movement tracked and measured. Each swing, each grab, each landing was fed into Tony’s console. Peter thought about every moment he’d trained alone on rooftops—now, every instinct, every habit, every angle was under the sharp, careful gaze of someone who actually wanted him to succeed.

Tony leaned against a console, smirking. “You survived, didn’t die, didn’t rip your suit. That’s progress. Tomorrow: harder, faster, more moving parts. And yes, I’ll still be watching. Sarcasm included.”

Peter laughed again, chest full of adrenaline and pride. This was it—the spark of a bond forming. Not just guardian and ward. Not just a responsibility Tony had inherited. Something real.

Tony clapped a hand on his shoulder, firm but slightly awkward. “Get some rest, kid. Tomorrow, we push even further. And maybe I’ll let you think you’re in charge for a second. Don’t get used to it.”

Peter grinned. “Deal, Dad.”

As he left the training rig, sweaty, exhilarated, and brimming with energy, Peter’s thoughts ran wild. I’m actually learning. I’m actually being seen. Not just a mistake or a project. I’m his kid. And he’s proud of me.

It was dizzying, overwhelming, wonderful. And for the first time, Peter didn’t want it to end.

Chapter Text

For the past few weeks, Peter’s life had shifted so completely it almost didn’t feel like his own anymore. Every morning before school, he trained. Every evening after homework, he trained again. His muscles ached constantly, but in a way that made him feel alive — like he was finally becoming someone worth noticing. Tony had him running simulations, doing strength assessments, web trajectory drills, agility tests — all of it. The training room had practically become his second home, humming with holograms, automated drones, and Tony’s voice constantly echoing through the speakers with corrections and half-sarcastic encouragement.

And it worked.

Peter was faster now — quicker to react, sharper in movement and judgment. He could handle impacts that once left him winded, lift more than twice his body weight, and his web accuracy had gone from sloppy to surgical. He was learning when to punch and when to dodge, when to think and when to act. He felt stronger, smarter, and for the first time, capable.

Still, he wasn’t ready for a real fight. Not yet.

At least, that’s what Tony kept telling him — right up until everything fell apart.

The Sokovia Accords had been building tension for months, but now the whole world was cracking under the weight of it. Bucky Barnes had escaped custody. Captain America was officially a fugitive. Lines were being drawn — fast — and everyone was choosing sides. For weeks, Tony had managed to keep Peter out of it, brushing him off with, “The kid needs time.” But time had officially run out.

But before the chaos hit, life had given Peter one small, perfect pause — his fifteenth birthday.

It wasn’t anything flashy. Tony had insisted he didn’t “do birthdays,” but somehow Peter came home to find the workshop lights dimmed and a glowing holographic banner overhead that read “Happy Birthday, Spider-Kid.” There was cake — lopsided, store-bought, probably Pepper’s doing — and a few presents stacked haphazardly on the workbench.

“Okay, don’t freak out,” Tony had said, handing him a small box wrapped in shiny silver paper. “It’s not much. Just… something to make the webs stick a little better.”

Inside was a new set of upgraded web cartridges, sleeker and more advanced than the ones Peter had been using. He’d spent hours that night testing them out, grinning every time one fired cleanly.

Ned and MJ had called, of course. Ned had sung way too loudly over FaceTime while MJ pretended not to care but smiled anyway. And for once, Peter hadn’t felt torn between two worlds — hero and student, genius and kid. He was just… happy.

It was the first birthday Tony had actually spent with him. Peter didn’t say anything about it, but Tony could tell. They’d eaten cake until Pepper rolled her eyes and forced them both to stop before one of them passed out from sugar.

That had been two weeks ago. It felt like a lifetime.

Now, the lab was quiet — too quiet — when Tony appeared in the doorway, one hand holding a tablet, the other balancing a half-empty cup of coffee. His expression was serious, but his tone stayed infuriatingly casual.

“Pack your suit, kid. We’re leaving for Germany in two hours.”

The pencil froze mid-equation. Peter blinked at the paper, as if maybe he’d misheard. “…What?”

Tony didn’t miss a beat. “Big mission. International mess. Could use your help. And before you start — yes, it’s that kind of help.”

Peter’s heart leapt straight into his throat. “Wh—wait, Germany? Like, Germany Germany? Dad, I have homework!”

Tony sighed, tilting his head with exaggerated disbelief. “Oh, sure, let me just call the UN real quick and tell them to hold off until your worksheet’s done. I’m sure they’ll understand.” He set the coffee down with a soft clink, giving Peter a look that said this wasn’t up for debate. “This isn’t some class project, Pete. I need someone fast, smart, and capable — and you fit the bill.”

Peter hesitated. “But… what about the training? You said I wasn’t ready.”

“I also said I shouldn’t be dragging a fifteen-year-old into a political meltdown,” Tony muttered, rubbing a hand over his face. “And yet, here we are.”

Peter fidgeted with his pencil, heart pounding. “What exactly are we doing?”

Tony’s tone softened, though his jaw was still tight. “Keeping the good guys from killing each other. I need you in the grey zone — not picking sides. Just… keeping things clean. Controlled. Also for the sake of your privacy, don't call me Dad during the fight. Got it?”

Peter nodded, though his stomach twisted. The idea of standing between actual Avengers terrified him. But Tony had chosen him. Trusted him. And that trust felt heavier than the suit itself.

He barely remembered packing. One second he was tossing his suit into a backpack, the next he was on a sleek Stark jet cutting through the clouds. The city fell away beneath them, golden and small, and Peter sat grinning behind his phone camera, trying to sound casual even as his voice shook.

“Okay, so,” he whispered into the camera, “we’re heading to Germany for, uh, reasons. Top secret stuff. I’m with my dad — he’s being all mysterious about it, as usual.”

He flipped the camera toward the cockpit, where Tony glanced over his shoulder. “Put that away, Parker. Classified airspace.”

Peter laughed. “Say hi to the vlog, Dad!”

Tony didn’t look up from the controls. “You’re grounded.”

Peter turned the camera back, grinning. “He doesn’t mean that. Probably.”

The rest of the flight blurred in a mix of excitement and nerves. Tony didn’t talk much — too focused, scanning holograms and muttering about team formations and protocol. Every now and then, though, he’d glance back, checking that Peter wasn’t trembling or panicking.

When the jet finally descended, Berlin sprawled out beneath them — a maze of concrete and sunlight. The air was warm and sharp with jet fuel. Tony’s entire posture shifted the second he stepped out: shoulders squared, eyes alert, the confident mask of Iron Man sliding into place. But Peter saw the flicker of protectiveness underneath, the part of Tony that still couldn’t believe he’d brought his son into this.

Peter followed, clutching his backpack like a lifeline. His pulse thrummed in time with the whir of Stark tech and the distant roar of engines. He was really here.

Germany. The Avengers. An actual mission.

He couldn’t tell if this was going to be the greatest day of his life — or the most terrifying.

The debriefing room buzzed with low voices and faint tension. Holographic screens floated above the table, each one showing images of the opposing team — Steve Rogers, Bucky Barnes, Sam Wilson, Clint Barton, Wanda Maximoff, and a grainy, unidentified figure they didn’t yet know was Ant-Man.

Peter sat stiffly beside Tony, mask on, trying not to stare too long at the faces of people he’d grown up hearing about. Heroes. Legends. Now labeled as fugitives.

Tony stood at the head of the table, arms folded. “Alright. You’ve all seen the footage. Rogers broke Barnes out of custody and is now traveling with a handful of enhanced allies. They’re heading for the airport — intel says they plan to escape the country within the next few hours.”

Natasha leaned forward, her expression unreadable. “And our objective?”

“Apprehension,” Tony said flatly. “Non-lethal. We’re here to stop them, not destroy them.”

Rhodey huffed under his breath. “Can’t believe we’re calling this a friendly intervention.”

Tony ignored him and continued, flicking through holographic feeds. “Barnes is priority one. Two enhanced soldiers, one high-level telekinetic, a bird-suited annoyance, and Barton — who apparently came out of retirement just to make my life harder.”

Peter blinked. “You mean Hawkeye?”

Rhodey shot him a look. “Yeah, that Hawkeye. You sure this kid’s up for it, Tony?”

“Rhodey—”

“No, I’m serious,” Rhodey pressed, gesturing toward Peter. “You said it yourself, he’s fifteen. This isn’t a sparring match, this is a warzone.”

Peter straightened, trying to sound braver than he felt. “I can handle it, sir.”

Natasha’s gaze softened slightly — not pity, but something close. “He’s wearing the mask to keep his identity out of this,” she said, glancing at Tony. “Smart call.”

Tony gave a curt nod. “Last thing I need is someone trying to hit the kid through his civilian life.”

Across the table, Vision spoke, calm and even. “It is unwise to underestimate Mr. Parker. His reflexes and adaptability exceed most trained combatants.”

Peter turned to him, startled by the familiar warmth in Vision’s tone — it was JARVIS, but not. The same steady rhythm, but filtered through something new. It hit him like a memory he didn’t know he’d missed.

Rhodey wasn’t convinced. “Fine. Just make sure he stays out of the heavy fire.”

Tony gave him a sharp look. “He’s not going in alone, and he’s not frontline. He’s support. Web containment, distraction, disarm. That’s it.”

“Copy that,” Natasha murmured, standing. “Then let’s move.”

As the group began preparing to deploy, Peter sat for a moment longer, heart hammering. He was about to face Captain America. The same man who’d saved the world a dozen times over.

And Tony — his dad — was trusting him to help stop him.

The airport tarmac stretched before them like an empty battlefield, the sunlight bouncing off the polished concrete and glinting off scattered vehicles. Dust rose in lazy swirls from overturned baggage carts and abandoned luggage, carrying a faint smell of jet fuel and ozone. The quiet hum of distant planes waiting to take off felt like a countdown to the chaos that was about to erupt.

Steve Rogers strode across the runway, uniform crisp and taut over his muscles, the weight of history and responsibility in every step. His gaze swept over the runway and the parked choppers, assessing, calculating. He had always been steady, but under that calm exterior, his heart was hammering with tension—he knew what was coming.

Tony Stark descended beside War Machine, boots hovering just above the concrete, repulsors buzzing faintly as they ionized the air. He tilted his head, smirk flickering across his face, though the edge of frustration was clear in his voice. “Wow. It’s so weird how you run into people at the airport. Don’t you think that’s… weird?”

“Definitely weird,” James Rhodes muttered, scanning the tarmac with wary eyes, fingers tightening on his weapon controls.

Steve Rogers stood rigid, his boots planted firmly on the tarmac, shoulders squared beneath the weight of his uniform. His eyes were sharp, scanning, calculating, but his gaze kept flicking toward Tony Stark hovering above the runway, the humming of repulsors slicing through the quiet. Every muscle in Steve’s body was coiled, a taut wire ready to snap. His voice, calm but laced with steel, cut through the tense air. “Hear me out, Tony. That doctor—the psychiatrist—he’s behind all of this.”

Tony’s armor gleamed in the sunlight, every curve and panel reflecting the tension of the moment. He hovered slightly above the ground, arms crossed, repulsors idling but ready. A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, almost playful, but his eyes were sharp, calculating. “Anyway,” he said, voice smooth but heavy with impatience, “Ross gave me thirty-six hours to bring you in. That was twenty-four hours ago. Can you help a brother out?”

Steve’s jaw tightened, hands clenching at his sides, the calm in his voice belying the barely-contained anger simmering beneath. “You’re after the wrong guy,” he said, each word measured, precise, carrying the weight of moral conviction.

Tony’s expression darkened, the smirk vanishing, replaced by the weight of frustration and disbelief. “Your judgment is askew,” he said, voice rising, urgent, almost pleading, “Your old war buddy killed innocent people yesterday.”

Steve’s eyes narrowed, unwavering, and his voice carried quiet fury beneath the calm. “And there are five more super soldiers just like him. I can’t let the doctor find them first, Tony. I can’t.” His stance was resolute, unyielding, his gaze burning with the moral clarity that had always defined him.

Natasha’s voice floated across the tarmac, soft but urgent, a note of warning threading through every word. “Steve… you know what’s about to happen. Do you really want to punch your way out of this one?”

Tony’s patience snapped. The tension in his armor thrummed, repulsors humming louder, eyes flashing with exasperation and resolve. “All right, I’ve run out of patience. Underoos!”

From above, a streak of red and blue spiraled down like a comet, landing with a sharp, fluid motion. Peter Parker, sleek and new in his suit, moved with the quick reflexes of youth and the precision of someone testing his wings. Webs shot out from his wrists, wrapping around Steve’s shield in an instant. The shield yanked violently from Steve’s grasp, spinning through the air before clattering across the concrete. Steve froze, momentarily off-balance, hands bound by Peter’s webs. His brow furrowed in irritation, mixed with surprise.

Tony hovered nearby, exasperation dripping from his voice, but there was also pride there, faintly hidden under his sarcasm. “Nice job, kid.”

Peter crouched, panting slightly from the sudden motion, suit gleaming, eyes wide with a mixture of nervousness and pride. “Thanks… well, I could’ve stuck the landing better. It’s the new suit… it’s perfect. Thank you,” he said, almost stumbling over his words, his youthful energy bouncing against the tension of the standoff.

“Yeah,” Tony said sharply, cutting him off, his tone firm but protective. “We don’t need to start a conversation.” There was a weight in his voice, a sense of authority, the command to focus amidst chaos.

Steve’s eyes flicked to Peter, softened just slightly despite his frustration. “You’ve been busy,” he said, tone dry but carrying a hint of acknowledgment, almost respect for the small figure who had disrupted the battlefield in an instant.

Peter’s voice, high and eager, cracked slightly with excitement. “Okay… Cap… Captain. Big fan. I’m Spider-Man.” He gestured vaguely at himself, chest puffed out, trying to look braver than he felt.

Tony waved a hand, dismissive but approving, his voice carrying amusement mixed with impatience. “Yeah. We’ll talk later. Just… good job.”

From the chaos, Scott Lang appeared in a sudden flicker of movement, tiny and fast. In one deft motion, he snatched Steve’s shield from Peter’s grasp. Peter staggered back, arms flailing, barely catching the edge of a railing to stay upright. Tony muttered, exasperated but pragmatic, “Oh, great. All right. There’s two on the parking deck. One’s Maximoff—I’ll grab her. Rhodey, you want Capsicle?”

“Got two in the terminal, Wilson and Barnes,” Rhodey called out, scanning the area, eyes narrow and calculating.

“Barnes is mine!” T’Challa shouted, his tone low and commanding, leaping with fluid, precise grace toward his target.

Peter’s eyes darted nervously to Tony, seeking guidance. “Hey, da- I mean Mr. Stark… what should I do?”

Tony’s voice rang clear, firm, and commanding, cutting through the noise of the approaching battle. “What we discussed. Keep your distance. Web ‘em up.”

Peter inhaled sharply, nodding, muscles coiling as adrenaline surged. “Okay, copy that!”

And then it happened.

From every angle, the two teams surged toward each other. Boots struck concrete with explosive force, dust and debris kicked up in clouds around them. Energy blasts lit the air with bright, sizzling arcs. Repulsors hummed, arrows streaked, and every movement carried intent, weight, and consequence.

Peter launched himself into the chaos, swinging between the figures of giants, dodging debris thrown by Wanda, his new suit glinting as webs shot from his wrists, catching fast-moving targets to aid his allies. He moved with a strange mixture of panic and precision, weaving through the first clashes of fists and energy blasts, body twisting and contorting midair as he found his rhythm.

The battlefield erupted around him, shouts, groans, and the roar of repulsors blending into a cacophony of controlled chaos. Peter’s heart raced, every nerve alight as he dodged, spun, and flung webs—his presence small but impactful in the storm of heroes colliding.

Bucky Barnes crouched low in the center of the terminal, muscles coiled, eyes darting across the chaos as metal groaned and glass shattered around him. His cybernetic arm hummed faintly, the hydraulics reacting to every subtle movement, and his jaw was tight, lips pressed into a thin line of concentration. A streak of red and blue rocketed past, slamming through a massive glass panel. The explosion of glass sent jagged shards skittering across the polished floor, a few pinging off the walls with metallic ting.

“What the hell is that?” Bucky barked, voice rough with tension, stepping back, reflexively swinging his metal arm to deflect the air currents from the shattering glass. His eyes narrowed on the blur of motion: Spider-Man, smaller, younger, but moving with preternatural agility, weaving between the debris with near-perfect timing.

Above him, Sam Wilson’s wings flared like a mechanical bird of prey, the polished carbon fiber glinting under the harsh terminal lights. He strafed through the air, shooting calculated bursts from his wing-mounted blasters. “Everyone’s got a gimmick now,” he said, voice sharp, tight with annoyance, twisting midair to avoid a chunk of falling glass. The tips of his wings sliced the air with a faint whish as he banked sharply, narrowly missing a tumbling chair.

Peter Parker swung through the shattered opening, a fluid motion honed by frantic practice. His legs tucked, then kicked out, striking Sam in the midsection. The force sent Falcon careening backward, wings flapping wildly. Sam’s eyes widened in surprise and frustration, his body spinning and crashing into a steel support beam with a dull thunk.

Bucky lunged, metal arm arcing like a battering ram. The punch came fast, powered by his enhanced superhuman strength, aiming straight for Peter’s chest. Peter’s reflexes fired instantly—his fingers wrapped around the metal wrist, stopping it dead mid-swing. The vibration shot up his arm, but he grinned under his mask. “You have a metal arm? That is awesome, dude!” His voice was a mixture of adrenaline-fueled awe and cheeky bravado.

Sam twisted and struck again, slamming Peter backward. Peter spun in midair, dodging debris and retaliating with rapid, precise blows, weaving a dance of attack and evasion. “You have the right to remain silent!” he quipped, voice high and nervous, but sharp with determination. His legs kicked, hands fired webs, and he twisted again to avoid a stray beam, muscles coiled tight like springs.

He swung upward, landing on the rafters, crouching low atop a steel beam. The wind of the terminal buffeted him, shards of glass glittering like rain in the artificial light. “Oh god,” he muttered, eyes wide, scanning the chaos below. Bucky, standing on a crumbling section of flooring, hurled an object at him. Peter caught it mid-leap, flipping it effortlessly back toward his attacker.

“Hey buddy, I think you lost this!” he called, voice ringing with mockery, though every word trembled slightly with tension. Bucky ducked just in time as the object slammed into the column he was hiding behind, splintering into fragments.

Sam, regaining his balance, kicked the beam beneath Peter, sending the young hero flinging forward. Peter’s hands shot out instinctively, firing a web that wrapped around Sam’s wrist. With a sharp tug, the Falcon crashed to the terminal floor, wings scrabbling as he attempted to stabilize, caught off-balance and struggling against the sticky webbing.

“Those wings… carbon fiber?” Peter asked, leaning forward with the curiosity of a teenager examining alien tech. He ran a gloved finger along the web that anchored Sam to a balcony railing.

Sam gritted his teeth, straining against the bonds. “Is this stuff coming out of you?” he asked, voice incredulous but tinged with admiration.

“That would explain the rigidity-flexibility ratio,” Peter said, voice light but electric with excitement, “which, gotta say, that’s awesome, man.”

Sam shook his head, a rueful grin cracking his focused expression. “I don’t know if you’ve been in a fight before, but usually there isn’t this much… talking.”

Peter’s laugh was brief, nervous, but full of energy. “Alright, sorry, my bad.” He swung down toward Bucky, agile and fluid, only to find the Winter Soldier leaping in his path. Both Bucky and Sam fell through another large pane of glass, shards glittering like frozen fire as they plummeted. Peter’s body reacted instantly, shooting webs that latched to both men, holding them mid-fall.

“Guys, look… I’d love to keep this up,” Peter called breathlessly, voice a mix of panic and determination, “but I’ve only got one job today, and I gotta impress Mr. Stark, so… I’m really sorry.”

Before he could stabilize, Redwing swooped down from above, talons extended. Peter’s body flailed as he was grabbed and dragged through the remaining shards of the glass wall. “Wwahhhh!” he yelled, spinning in the air, limbs outstretched, a brief flash of panic and exhilaration crossing his masked face.

Bucky landed heavily, knees buckling slightly as he pushed off the terminal floor, shards of glass crunching beneath his boots. His metal arm whirred and flexed, catching him mid-step, and he scowled, frustration and awe warring in his expression. “You couldn’t have done that earlier?” he muttered, voice low, edged with dry exasperation.

Sam, tangled in webbing but still managing to twist upright, threw a weary glare at Peter. “I hate you,” he muttered, tone heavy with both defeat and begrudging admiration.

Peter dangled from Redwing, his legs kicking and arms gripping for purchase, swinging precariously as the wind rushed past him. His chest heaved, heart pounding, eyes darting between the two super-soldiers. Every clang of metal, every shatter of glass, every sharp whoosh of Falcon’s wings, every calculated swing of Peter’s webs—the chaos of the terminal was alive around them, every second charged with tension, fear, and the reckless thrill of battle.

Peter swung past Steve, the web line singing through the air with a sharp thwip, carrying him at a dizzying speed. The terminal blurred around him—shattered glass catching the light in jagged patterns, metal beams bending under the weight of the earlier chaos, and sparks flickering from damaged consoles. He twisted midair, body coiled like a spring, legs tucked, toes pointed for balance.

Steve snapped his shield through one of Peter’s webs with a sharp clang. The metal rang out, the reverberation shaking the beams above. Peter jerked sideways in surprise, his arms flailing for split-second correction, fingers brushing against dangling wires and steel rods as he twisted his body to compensate.

“That thing does not obey the laws of physics at all,” Peter muttered, voice muffled slightly by his mask but full of exasperation and awe. His knees bent, landing lightly on a raised platform as he absorbed the shock of the sudden shift in momentum.

Steve’s gaze was steady, calculating. “Look kid. There’s a lot going on here that you don’t understand,” he said, voice firm and calm, a sharp contrast to the chaos swirling around them. His posture was solid, feet planted shoulder-width apart, ready to pivot, strike, or block at a moment’s notice.

Peter’s eyes narrowed under his mask. He crouched, then leaped toward Steve, wrists flicking to fire two quick webs—one wrapping around the shield, the other latching onto Steve’s ankle. With a sharp tug, Peter yanked with all his weight. Steve stumbled slightly, boots skidding across debris, but he maintained balance, his arms flexing as he countered, shielding himself from the full force of the pull.

Peter didn’t hesitate. He swung a precise kick, striking Steve’s chest. The impact spun Steve back a step, and Peter rolled with it, using the momentum to somersault across the floor. Dust, shards of glass, and fragments of bent metal flew around him like confetti, clinging to the edges of his suit.

Landing on his feet, Peter sprang up, muscles tensed, back arched, eyes scanning Steve’s next move. “He also said to go for your legs,” he muttered under his breath, voice tight with focus and excitement.

Steve pivoted, retrieving his shield in a swift, fluid motion. Peter shot another web, tangling Steve’s hands. He yanked sharply, trying to pull the super-soldier off balance, but Steve was ready. He twisted midair, muscles coiling, and used Peter’s own pull against him, catapulting the younger hero through the air. Peter spun, arms and legs tucked for control, landing on a gangway above with a controlled thud, crouched low, breathing fast but steady.

Steve followed immediately, light on his feet, legs pumping, eyes locked on Peter. “Stark tell you anything else?” he called, voice carrying the weight of experience and warning.

Peter didn’t pause, adrenaline and exhilaration mixing in his chest. “That you’re wrong. You think you’re right. That makes you dangerous,” he said, voice tight but clear, almost like a dare. He swung from the gangway rail, body twisting midair, legs snapping forward to brace for landing.

Steve anticipated, leaping toward him with precise timing. His boot connected with Peter’s side, sending a sharp jolt of pain through the younger hero, but Peter twisted instantly, rolling midair, gripping the gangway’s steel support with one hand. His fingers scraped along the cold metal as he spun under Steve’s leg, using the momentum to spring himself off for another attack. Sparks flicked from the contact point, small arcs of electricity illuminating the tension in Peter’s tense muscles.

Steve recovered immediately, throwing his shield at the gangway Peter had just used for leverage. The impact caused the structure to tip, tilting dangerously as Peter braced with both hands. Dust and small fragments of glass and metal tumbled around him, coating his suit with grime and streaks of battle. He shifted his weight, crouching low, arms extended, muscles taut like cords ready to snap.

For a fleeting second, Steve’s eyes softened—a glimmer of admiration. “You got heart, kid,” he said, voice low, almost drowned by the surrounding chaos, yet cutting through the noise. “Where’re you from?”

There was a pause. Peter’s mind flickered through the years—Malibu, the gleaming Stark Tower, fleeting moments of comfort—but his heart settled, stubborn and certain, on the place where he had been truly happy. The red brick house in Queens, May’s laughter in the kitchen, Ben’s steady guidance, the sunlight spilling over the yard… that was the Peter who had lived, laughed, and dreamed without the weight of the world pressing down. Peter’s chest rose and fell rapidly, adrenaline still pumping, yet beneath it now was something steadier, rooted. His voice carried the certainty of that choice, firm and weighted with memory and meaning. “Queens,” he said, tone quiet but resolute, a small, wistful grin flickering beneath his mask—this was the Peter Parker that Spider-Man protected, and this was the home he carried in his heart.

Steve Rogers’ eyes softened ever so slightly, a ghost of a smile tugging at his lips as he watched Peter steady the falling gangway. “Brooklyn,” he said, voice calm but carrying that unspoken acknowledgment of shared roots and hard-earned pride. Without another word, he turned and stepped away, leaving Peter holding the gangway, a silent testament to the trust forming between them in the chaos.

Peter’s legs ached from holding up the massive passenger-loading tunnel, his muscles trembling under the strain. Dust and metal screeched around him as he pushed with all his strength, straining against the weight. With a loud clang, the tunnel toppled to the side, sending a shower of loose panels and dust into the air. Peter scrambled to his feet, chest heaving, mask fogging slightly. “Oh…” he muttered, taking in the chaos of the airport—flying debris, Iron Man and War Machine zipping through the air, and the looming figure of Giant Ant-Man, his huge fists crushing anything nearby.

“Holy shit!” Peter shouted, adrenaline pumping as he adjusted his trajectory, narrowly avoiding debris.

James Rhodes grunted, voice tense through his helmet. “Okay, tiny dude is big now. He’s big now!” Now trapped in Lang's oversized hand.

Rogers, sprinting toward the fray, caught Peter’s quick glance. “I guess that’s the signal,” he said, urgency in his tone.

Sam Wilson, weaving between debris and laser fire, cheered. “Way to go, Tic Tac!”

Tony Stark hovered above, firing at Scott, voice commanding and furious. “Give me back my Rhodey!”

Across the runway, Rhodey struggled in Scott Lang’s oversized grip, armor groaning under the strain. With a sudden, powerful heave, Scott flung Rhodey through the air like a ragdoll, the armored figure spinning end over end.

Tony hovered just above him, visor down, voice sharp and urgent. “Give me back my Rhodey!” he yelled, fists clenching as he fired repulsor blasts at the towering Scott.

Peter didn’t hesitate. Swinging from a web anchored to a nearby support beam, he shot a line directly at Rhodey mid-flight. His fingers latched onto the armored hero’s suit just in time, yanking him to safety with precise timing. Rhodey’s boots scraped along the runway as Peter slowed their momentum with a series of rapid web pulls, holding him securely in midair. “Got you!” Peter called, voice a mix of relief, adrenaline, and exhilaration, his chest heaving as he swung them both clear of Scott’s massive grasp.

Giant Ant-Man roared, picking up a massive bus and hurling it toward the unsuspecting Black Panther. Vision descended in a streak of gold, phasing through the projectile and splitting it in two before it could hit T’Challa. The Panther’s eyes widened, but he didn’t miss a beat—spotting Steve and Bucky sprinting past him toward the Quinjet. Meanwhile, Iron Man chased Sam, weaving through Scott’s swinging plane wing, dodging with a twist and a flare of repulsors.

Sam didn’t hesitate, letting loose Red Wing, which streaked toward Iron Man, striking the helmet with a sharp crack. Scott’s massive foot swept through the crates T’Challa was standing on, sending splintered wood flying as he braced for the incoming assault. “You wanna get to them… you gotta go through me,” Scott bellowed, voice booming, his arms swinging dangerously. War Machine swooped in, but Scott’s hand lashed out; the armored hero dove clear just in time. Peter, clinging to a web anchored on War Machine’s back, spun around the giant, wrapping his webs around Scott’s oversized arms to slow his movements before using the momentum to kick straight into Scott’s face. The sheer impact sent the giant staggering backward, his hands flailing.

Tony Stark hovered above the chaos, voice sharp and cutting through the noise. “Okay, is anybody on our side hiding any shocking and fantastic abilities they’d like to disclose? I’m open to suggestions.”

Each move was a blur of reflexes—Peter ducking debris, twisting midair to avoid swings, shooting precise webs. The air was thick with dust, the acrid smell of burning rubber and metal, and the roar of the crowding fight. Giant Ant-Man reeled back, momentarily stunned, and Peter swung over him, fists tight on his webs, ready to continue the assault.

The fight raged on around them, each hero locked in their own skirmishes, but for Peter, it was all about rhythm—using his webs, his agility, and quick thinking to keep Giant Ant-Man off balance, and carve a path through the chaos.

Vision shot across the battlefield with fluid precision, phasing straight through Scott’s torso. “Something just flew into me!” Scott exclaimed as he stumbled back into the fuselage of a parked plane, metal groaning under the impact. Vision’s eyes glowed with a brilliant light, and he fired a focused beam from the Mind Stone, slicing through a nearby building to block Bucky and Steve’s path to the Quinjet. Dust and debris rained down around them, a wall of destruction in their wake.

Wanda was quick to respond. Crimson tendrils of energy surged from her hands, suspending the collapsing slabs of debris midair like a barrier. Rhodey gritted his teeth, activating a sonic device on his gauntlet. A piercing wave of sound erupted, shattering Wanda’s concentration and forcing the debris to shudder. She hissed, energy faltering under the assault, giving Rhodey just enough room to push forward.

Bucky and Steve barely slipped past the precarious blockade, boots pounding the runway as they scrambled toward the Quinjet. Natasha was waiting, poised and alert. “You’re not gonna stop,” she said coolly.

Steve’s jaw set. “You know I can’t,” he replied.

Natasha hesitated, tension in her eyes. “I’m gonna regret this…” she muttered. Then with decisive motion, she stunned T’Challa, who had been closing in from behind. “Go,” she commanded. Steve and Bucky surged forward, pushing past sparks, dust, and debris as the Quinjet’s engines roared to life.

Meanwhile, Peter continued his relentless assault on Scott, weaving around swinging fists, ducking massive feet, and lashing webs with lightning reflexes. Dust, sparks, and the acrid smell of burning metal filled the air. Each movement was a blur, calculated instinctively—every swing, every push, every kick had a purpose. He crawled up Scott’s massive helmet, obscuring his vision.

“Get off!” Scott roared, voice thunderous as he stomped and swung wildly. Peter grinned beneath his mask, spinning and ducking, firing a web and yanking with all his strength, keeping the giant on the defensive.

Everywhere around him, heroes clashed with villains, debris rained from the ceiling, and alarms screamed in the distance. But for Peter, the fight was a rhythm, a chaotic dance. He ducked, twisted, and fired, each motion calculated to protect his teammates and carve a path through the chaos.

Smoke and sunlight rippled across the airport’s ruined stretch of tarmac, the heat rising in wavering mirages that distorted the battlefield below. The air smelled of scorched metal and jet fuel, every breath thick with grit. Giant-Man loomed above it all like a moving mountain—his footsteps landing with bone-shaking booms that sent vibrations through the cracked concrete, his shadow stretching and folding over the chaos like an eclipse.

Through the smoke and the shriek of twisting steel, Peter swung fast and low between broken pylons, his movements sharp and fluid. The sound of web-shooters echoed—thwip, thwip, thwip—as his voice cut through the comms with breathless excitement.
“Hey, guys! You ever see that really old movie, Empire Strikes Back?”

“Jesus, Tony, how online is your kid?” Rhodey’s voice crackled back, full of disbelief.

“I don’t know,” Tony shot back, banking sharply around the burning tail of a grounded plane. “I don't monitor his screen time.”

Peter’s grin widened beneath the mask as he dodged a tumbling cargo crate. His body moved on instinct, twisting midair, flipping over a collapsing gangway as sparks rained around him. “You know that part—where they’re on the snow planet? With the walking thingies?”

For a split second, even Tony faltered, confusion flickering across his HUD. Then realization hit. “Maybe the kid’s onto something.”

Rhodey’s targeting system pinged alive. “High now, Tony. Go high.”

Peter didn’t hesitate. He flipped once, twice, and shot a web that latched onto Giant-Man’s boot. Then another. And another. Every motion was rapid, precise—each web line singing through the air as it tightened around Scott’s colossal legs. He circled him like a blur, weaving an intricate spiral of silk that glistened white against the smoke-darkened sky.

“Almost there—just a little—YES!” Peter shouted, laughter bubbling through his voice, his heart hammering in his chest.

Above, Iron Man and War Machine streaked through the haze like twin comets—one gold, one gunmetal. Their repulsors flared, cutting through the smoke in long arcs of molten light. Both armor suits aligned perfectly in the air, and then—BOOM!—they struck. The impact reverberated across the tarmac, a thunderous crack that echoed through the hangar.

“Ha! That was awesome!” Peter whooped, elated.

But his triumph lasted barely a second. Giant-Man teetered backward, arms swinging wildly to catch his balance. One of those massive hands cut through the air like a falling wall—and caught Peter full-force.

The world spun. Wind roared past his ears as his body was hurled backward, web-line snapping loose. He hit the ground hard, sliding across the cracked runway, the impact rattling through every bone. His chest seized as the breath tore out of him; his mask fogged at the edges from the sudden gasp.

The dust slowly settled. For a moment, all he could hear was the low hum of repulsors and the distant creak of twisted metal. Then a shadow fell over him—sharp, heavy, blocking the harsh sunlight from his visor.

“Kid, you alright?”

The voice cut through the haze like a blade. Peter blinked against the sting in his eyes. Everything hurt — his ribs ached with every shallow breath, and his arms trembled from exhaustion. Smoke hung heavy in the air, curling up from the cratered concrete around him. Something sparked near his head, showering him with glowing embers.

A shadow loomed. Metal glinted.

Peter flinched hard, throwing his arms up. “Hey! Get off me!”

“Same side,” the voice said quickly, controlled but firm. The Iron Man helmet folded back with a hiss of air and steam, plates shifting and retracting into the armor’s collar. Tony’s face appeared beneath, streaked with sweat and soot. His eyes swept over Peter, sharp and assessing, but the tightness in his jaw gave him away. “Guess who. Hi. It’s me.”

Peter blinked, dazed. “Oh.” His breath came in short bursts, the fight still pounding in his veins. “Hey, dad.”

“Yeah.” Tony crouched down, metal creaking as his armor adjusted. His gaze flicked over the cuts and bruises decorating Peter’s face. “You’re done. Alright?”

Peter frowned, blinking through the dizziness. “What?”

“You did a good job,” Tony said quietly, tone softening. “Stay down.”

But Peter shook his head, already trying to push himself up. His fingers dug into the cracked floor for leverage, gloves torn and dust-covered. “No, I’m good. I’m fine.”

“Stay down.” The command came sharper this time, not angry — but protective, urgent.

Peter’s voice cracked with stubbornness. “No, it’s good — I gotta get him back —”

The mask sealed over Tony’s face again with a metallic snap. The glowing eyes flared to life, and his voice came out through the suit’s filter, low and firm. “You’re going home, I’ll call Happy. You’re done.”

Peter froze. The words landed harder than any hit he’d taken. “Wait, Dad, wait! I’m not done, I’m not—” His breathing faltered, the last threads of adrenaline burning out. He felt it then — the ache, the exhaustion, the sting of failure pressing in on all sides. “Okay,” he whispered finally, defeated. “I’m done. I’m done.”

For a moment, Tony didn’t move. The silence stretched, broken only by the distant rumble of crumbling metal. His face softened behind the visor — just a flicker of something proud, something scared. Then he nodded once, almost imperceptibly.

“Good work, kid.”

The repulsors ignited, flooding the hangar with blue light. The blast of air knocked loose debris aside as Tony shot upward, streaking into the gray sky like a flare.

Peter watched him go, chest heaving, heart aching in ways he didn’t understand.

Inside the hangar, chaos reigned. The air shimmered with heat, and the floor was littered with twisted girders and flickering lights. The Quinjet roared to life, engines screaming so loud they shook the shattered windows.

Natasha sprinted across the slick floor, her silhouette framed by the blinding glow of the jet’s thrusters. Smoke curled around her as she turned, glancing back toward T’Challa, who was advancing fast, claws extended, the sharp scrape echoing through the ruins.

“Romanoff!” he shouted, voice edged with fury.

She stopped, just for a heartbeat, her expression hard but conflicted. “I said I’d help you find him,” she called back, her tone steady even as the wind from the jet whipped her hair around her face. “Not catch him. There’s a difference.”

The Quinjet’s cannons fired, a thunderous burst that cleared the remaining debris from the hangar’s exit. Natasha leapt onto the ramp just as it lifted, the engines flaring white-hot.

T’Challa lunged. His claws screeched across the hull, carving sparks into the metal, but his grip slipped. The thrust of the engines threw him backward, the heat rippling through his suit. He landed hard, sliding across the concrete as the Quinjet blasted into the sky and vanished into the clouds.

For a long moment, the only sound was the wind, whistling through the broken structure.

Outside, the battlefield had gone still. Smoke drifted over scorched asphalt and fractured concrete. Abandoned weapons lay scattered among the wreckage of dreams — the kind of silence that felt like the aftermath of something greater than war.

Vision knelt beside Wanda. Her eyes were glazed with exhaustion, tears cutting faint lines through the grime on her face. He looked at her with something between sorrow and disbelief, the faint hum of his power flickering weakly from the gem in his forehead.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly, his voice barely above the sound of the wind.

Wanda’s lips trembled. “Me too.”

For a moment, the world seemed to stop — smoke curling around them, the faint sound of sirens somewhere far away, the fading echo of jet engines in the distance.

Vision lifted his head, eyes reflecting the dark sky. “It’s as I said,” he murmured. “Catastrophe.”

The airfield had long vanished behind them, replaced by a boundless ocean of sky and flame. The setting sun bled across the horizon, casting molten streaks of orange and red through the clouds. Heat shimmered in the upper atmosphere, the air trembling around three figures locked in a desperate chase—Iron Man, War Machine, and Falcon—streaking after the fleeing Quinjet like sparks trailing from a dying firework.

Below them, the world was a blur of greens and golds, farmlands glowing in the late afternoon light. The Quinjet tore across it all—its engines screaming, exhaust flaring like twin suns—leaving contrails that fractured the clouds into ribbons of silver.

Rhodey’s voice burst through the comms, raw and urgent. “Vision, I got a bandit on my six!”

Falcon’s wings carved the air behind him, cutting precise arcs through the haze. He rolled sideways and loosed a burst of mini-explosives. They erupted midair, popping like fireworks in the thin atmosphere. The shockwaves rippled through Rhodey’s flight path, making his HUD flicker red with static warnings. “Vision! You copy? Target his thrusters—turn him into a glider!”

High above them, Vision floated in stillness, framed against a sky that was half dusk, half fire. The Mind Stone in his forehead pulsed once—an almost imperceptible flicker—and then released a single, blinding beam of golden light.

The laser carved through the heavens like the finger of a god. It ripped the sound barrier apart, humming with raw celestial power. Falcon reacted instantly, instincts honed by years of combat; he folded his wings and dove, slicing through the wind in a corkscrew dive that left a silver wake behind him.

But the beam kept going.

It struck Rhodey.

The impact lit his chestplate like a dying star. Sparks and shards of glowing metal erupted outward as the beam sliced clean through the War Machine’s power core. For a split second, Rhodey’s armor glowed bright gold from within—then the light went out. His thrusters died, engines choked, and the suit fell silent.

“Tony!” Rhodey’s voice crackled with static, barely audible over the wind. “I’m flying dead stick!”

Black smoke streamed from his armor as gravity took hold. He spiraled downward, tumbling through layers of cloud that smeared across his visor like fogged glass. The world around him blurred—sky, sun, and earth all twisting together in dizzying motion.

“Rhodey!” Tony’s voice broke through the comms, harsh and unsteady. The panic in his tone carried weight—it wasn’t the voice of Iron Man, the untouchable genius—but of a man terrified of losing another friend. “Hold on!”

He dove.

The air screamed around him as he broke formation, thrusters blazing blue-hot. His HUD dimmed from the glare as he plunged through the smoke, each meter of descent pounding through his heart. Below, Rhodey’s armor tumbled helplessly, black trails streaking behind him like a wounded comet falling to earth.

“RHODES!”

The cry echoed through the empty fields.

A heartbeat later, the world exploded in sound and dust. War Machine hit the ground with bone-rattling force, metal folding, dirt erupting in a violent plume that stretched skyward like a mushroom cloud. The shockwave rippled through the grass, flattening whole patches in concentric rings.

Tony landed seconds later, slamming into the ground hard enough to crack the earth beneath his boots. The air around him shimmered with heat, the repulsors sputtering as they powered down. He staggered forward through the settling dust, the light of his chestplate cutting a sharp blue arc through the gray haze.

The only sounds now were the distant hum of the Quinjet fading into the horizon and the faint, broken hiss of Rhodey’s armor venting smoke.

Tony fell to his knees beside his friend. “Read vitals.”

FRIDAY’s voice came through softly, her usual clinical tone almost fragile. “Heartbeat detected. Emergency medical is on its way.”

Tony’s throat tightened. Relief and guilt collided in his chest like colliding steel beams. His gauntlets trembled as he pried the faceplate open. It fell away with a metallic clang, revealing Rhodey’s face—blood trickling from his temple, dirt streaking across his skin, eyes closed, still breathing.

The field around them glowed gold in the sunset, the wind sweeping through tall grass that whispered in waves. The sky was streaked with smoke trails and distant fire—a battlefield suspended between silence and aftermath.

A shadow crossed Tony’s path. Falcon landed nearby, his wings folding against his back with a soft hydraulic hiss. He took a hesitant step forward, his voice rough, almost breaking. “I’m sorry.”

Tony didn’t even look at him. The glow in his gauntlet flared bright white.

The repulsor blast fired point-blank, striking Falcon square in the chest. The force hurled him backward through the air, his wings sparking as he crashed into the dirt with a heavy thud.

The light from Tony’s armor dimmed again, leaving him in the pale glow of the setting sun. His shoulders sagged, the weight of everything pressing down on him. Vision descended moments later, hovering before landing softly in the grass. The Mind Stone flickered weakly, casting faint amber light over the wreckage.

He said nothing.

Tony remained still, kneeling beside Rhodey, one arm around his friend’s battered armor. The air hung heavy with smoke and the scent of scorched metal. Dust settled slowly in the fading light, turning the battlefield gold and gray.

The war wasn’t over—but for Tony, the fight had already gone silent.

Chapter Text

Peter’s suitcase, along with his old backpack with the frayed handle, was still propped against the corner by the elevator, scuffed and scratched from the plane ride with Happy. He’d taken off his mask as soon as they boarded, leaving his face bare, exposed to the cabin air and the soft hum of the engines. Now, back in the quiet of Stark Tower, the scratches on his cheek and temple itched faintly beneath the small strips of bandages. They were reminders of the fight—a day that had felt endless—but here, in this apartment, they seemed small, almost manageable.

He sank onto the couch, legs curled beneath him like a coil unspooling, a piece of toast in hand—peanut butter and jelly, carefully spread to the edges, no crust, just how May used to make them. He took slow bites, letting the soft sweetness ground him after the chaos.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out and swiped through the notifications.

Ned had texted him a photo of their missed homework assignments—scribbles of equations and notes that looked entirely foreign after the adrenaline of battle. Peter smiled faintly, relieved that life outside the battlefield kept going, mundane and unchanging.

Then MJ’s message came through: a blurry photo of Flash slumped in a corner during decathlon practice, looking thoroughly defeated while the others ran drills around him. Peter chuckled softly, a laugh just for himself, and set the phone down. Even after today’s chaos, the world outside of superheroes continued in all its ridiculous, ordinary glory.

He turned back to his tablet, reviewing footage from the fight—clips of himself swinging through the terminal, dodging debris, narrowly avoiding Bucky’s metal arm. He paused at one of the moments where he’d vaulted over shattered glass, landing with precision that made him grin, and let out a small laugh at his own panicked commentary. In this stillness, it all felt distant, almost like watching someone else’s story.

The sun had dipped lower, spilling warm orange light across the walls, dust motes floating lazily in the glow. Peter ran a hand through his hair, brushing at the drifting specks as if to capture a bit of the calm in his hands.

He leaned back into the couch, letting the softness cradle his tired muscles. His ribs ached, his arms trembled slightly from the fight, but here, right now, he could let go of the tight coil of tension that had kept him sharp, alive.

Another bite of toast. He closed his eyes, letting the simple pleasure anchor him. For a few golden moments, there were no villains, no alarms, no repulsors—just him, the quiet apartment, the fading sun, and the steady hum of the city beyond.

Somewhere deep in his chest, a small, stubborn part of him clung to the calm, knowing it wouldn’t last. But for now, Peter let himself just be Peter.

Being too absorbed in the stillness he barely even registered the sound of the elevator ding.

Tony’s footsteps echoed softly across the polished floor. When he appeared at the doorway, his eyes were sharp, cold even, but there was an attempt at a smile—small, controlled, as if he wanted to reassure Peter without letting himself get caught in the moment.

“Hey, kid,” Tony said, voice low. His gaze flicked over Peter, lingering just long enough to measure, then darted away toward the lab. “You… did good out there.”

Peter’s chest tightened at the tone. It was acknowledgment, yes, but clipped, careful. He wanted to speak, to reach across the space Tony was keeping, but all he could manage was a small, quiet, “Thanks.”

Tony nodded once, curt, and turned toward the lab. “I’m going to check on some things,” he said. His voice carried no heat, no invitation—just duty.

Peter watched him go, shoulders slumping slightly, a hollow ache settling in his chest. He understood. He had expected this. Tony had just seen Rhodey nearly die. He had fought to save his friend, and now he needed space, distance. But the sting still burned, familiar and sharp, echoing from the countless nights of his childhood when Tony had been too absorbed in his work, too far away to notice.

“I get it,” Peter whispered to himself, voice almost inaudible, trying to steady the pulse of hurt. “I get it. He’s… he’s just scared. That’s all. He’s scared.”

He sat in silence a moment longer, letting the quiet fill the apartment, letting the warmth of the late sun fall across him. His hands fidgeted with the edge of his notebook, the whispering of reassurances threading through each breath. He wanted to reach out. He wanted to bridge the distance. But he didn’t. Not yet.

The lab door clicked softly behind Tony, and the apartment returned to the stillness. Peter’s jaw tightened, a flicker of hurt behind his eyes, a reminder that even when Tony tried to be there, he could still leave him feeling alone.

“Okay,” Peter murmured, whispering to himself again. “I’m fine. I can handle this. I’m fine.”

The words were small, but they were steady, a fragile anchor in the calm before whatever was coming next.

The late morning sun spilled across the streets near Midtown High, catching on the edges of fire hydrants and the iron railings that lined the sidewalk. Peter Parker walked the final two blocks from where Happy had dropped him off, backpack slung loosely over one shoulder, his jacket zipped just enough to hide the faint bruises and scratches that had marked weeks past. His body was healed, the bandages gone, the soreness faded, but the memory of it all still lingered in the back of his mind, soft but persistent, like the hum of distant traffic.

At his locker, he paused for a moment, taking in the familiar jumble of metal doors and hallway chatter, then carefully pulled out his textbooks. Dread ran through him as he thought of the homework Ned had sent over—the math and science problems were easy enough, English not so much. The price to pay for missing school to go play superhero.

A tap on his shoulder made him glance up. Ned, grinning from ear to ear and holding a tiny Palpatine Lego figure like it was the key to the universe, leaned close. “Join me, and together… we’ll build my new Lego Death Star,” he whispered conspiratorially.

Peter’s grin had to be muted; a few “popular” girls’ laughter drifted down the hallway. “That… actually sounds amazing,” he said, keeping his voice low. “How many pieces?”

“I already started the base. You in tonight?”

Peter nodded, keeping his grin muted. “Yeah, sounds good. We’ll see how fast we can finish it.”

They started walking down the hallway together, weaving through the stream of students, heading toward homeroom. Ned jabbered on about what Peter had missed while he’d been away. “So, while you were gone—what, two weeks at Stark Industries?—Flash spent like ten minutes trying to show off on the football field, and apparently he wiped out a trash can. Betty and Jason had a whole news segment about homecoming tickets—everyone’s losing it. And, uh… Mr. Morita nearly took out a drone flying through the hallway. You would’ve loved that.”

Peter listened, nodding quietly, letting Ned’s excitement wash over him. “Sounds… eventful,” he said, his voice calm, measured. Walking with Ned, moving through the familiar chaos of the hall, Peter felt grounded—like he was back in a world that didn’t immediately demand him to be anyone other than himself.

Ned grinned, giving him a light bump on the shoulder. “Yeah, but don’t worry, I’ve got you covered on all the important stuff. Homework, assignments, minor disasters… your absence barely registered. Nobody would even notice you weren’t here if I didn’t keep track.”

Peter smiled faintly, a quiet reassurance to himself. “Thanks, Ned.”

Chapter Text

The world pressed down on him—heavy, suffocating, unrelenting. Peter groaned, a ragged sound swallowed by the wreckage above. Dust clung to his tongue, his throat, every gasp dragging grit into his lungs. The air stank of metal and scorched concrete. Somewhere above, a pipe creaked, shifting under the weight of the collapsed structure.

He tried to move—and screamed.

A white-hot bolt of pain tore through his leg, sharp enough to slice through the haze clouding his mind. His breath came in short, frantic bursts as his eyes darted down, and then he wished he hadn’t looked.

The metal pipe had punched clean through his thigh, glinting dull silver where it vanished into torn flesh. Blood pooled beneath him, thick and dark, the slow rhythm of it a countdown he couldn’t stop. He could feel it—his body trying to fight back. That impossible, alien sensation beneath his skin, like static running through his veins. The wound tried to close around the pipe, muscle fibers twitching, pulling against it, knitting just enough to make the pain worse.

“God…” he rasped, voice shaking. His fingers trembled as he reached toward it, then stopped halfway, unable to bring himself to touch the jagged metal. His head spun. The edges of his vision blurred and darkened, the world rocking in slow, nauseating waves.

He was dimly aware of the distant sounds—sirens maybe, or the echo of something collapsing further away—but they were fading beneath the roar of his pulse. Every beat made the pain flare, and every flare made the world feel smaller, tighter.

He pressed his head back against the cold, uneven ground, trying to breathe through his teeth. “Okay, okay…” he muttered, voice hoarse. “Think, Pete. You’ve— you’ve had worse…”

He hadn’t.

The truth was, he could feel how much blood he’d lost, the way his thoughts kept slipping sideways. His skin was cold and slick with sweat, every nerve firing at once, half screaming, half fading. His body kept fighting to heal, but the pipe held the wound open—a cruel stalemate between human fragility and spider resilience.

He blinked hard, forcing the haze back for just a second longer. The ceiling above him was cracked, golden light bleeding in through gaps in the rubble, turning the air dusty and soft. For a moment, it almost looked like sunset.

The world was pain and dust.

Peter’s lungs burned with every breath. The weight of the collapsed building pressed against his ribs, the edges of broken steel digging into his back. Somewhere below the rubble, something dripped — slow, steady — maybe water, maybe blood. He couldn’t tell anymore. His vision pulsed between clarity and blur, each heartbeat flashing color behind his eyes.

And through the haze, memory rose like smoke.

It started at the bank.

The day had been perfect — blue sky, steady wind, the kind that made his web-swinging effortless. He’d been buzzing from the afterglow of his decathlon meeting, grinning under his mask as he flipped over traffic, tossed a wave at kids on the sidewalk, even stopped to help an old woman cross the street. She’d thanked him with a churro, and he’d eaten it on the ledge of a fire escape, pretending he was just another guy watching the city go by.

That calm shattered the second he saw four men slip into the bank with faces hidden behind cheap Avengers masks.

“Finally, something good,” he’d whispered, voice crackling with nervous excitement.

He’d gone in light, confident, the way he always tried to. Quips ready, heart pounding with that dangerous, dizzying mix of fear and thrill that came with every fight.

“What’s up, guys? You forgot your PIN number?”

The line had made him grin under his mask. That quick, bright flicker of pride always came with the jokes — the way the words made him feel like Spider-Man instead of just Peter Parker.

Then everything went wrong.

The glow from the alien weapon was hypnotic, like molten lightning trapped in glass. The sound it made when it fired wasn’t like anything human — a low, electric growl that crawled through the air. He’d dodged, webbed, twisted through the chaos. His spider-sense was screaming, but he was fast, so fast. He thought he could handle it.

Until he couldn’t.

A beam sliced past him, close enough that he felt the heat burn across his side. The next shot tore through the wall — and into the deli across the street.

The explosion hit like thunder.

Heat washed over him. Glass rained down, each shard catching light like fire.

“Mr. Delmar!” he’d shouted before he even thought about it.

He ran into the smoke. Every breath seared his lungs. Shelves were toppled, food burning. The air was thick with the scent of melted plastic and scorched bread. He’d found the old man coughing behind the counter, dragged him out, scooped up the cat that hissed at him through the haze. His arms were shaking by the time he got outside.

Then he looked up — and the bank was empty. The robbers were gone.

He’d stared at the wreckage, the wrecked storefront, the blackened walls of Delmar’s Deli. He could feel the weight of it — that this was on him.

He’d meant to stop them. Instead, he’d caused this.

Still, when he got home that night, he’d told himself Tony would understand. He always did, eventually.

But he didn’t.

The lab lights were dim, the air thick with the smell of solder and oil. Boxes lined the walls, half-packed, as holograms flickered lazily in the air. Tony didn’t look up when Peter came in.

“Dad,” Peter started, the words tripping over themselves, “you’re not gonna believe this — I stopped a bank robbery tonight, but they were using Chitauri weapons. Like the real thing. From New York. We need to—”

“Peter,” Tony said, cutting him off without even glancing up, “not now.”

Peter froze. “But this could be huge—”

Tony slammed a tool onto the bench. “Yeah, well, so could the bill for the deli you blew up! Do you have any idea the kind of mess you just caused?”

Peter’s mouth went dry. “I—I was just trying to help—”

“Help?” Tony barked a humorless laugh, his voice sharp. “You helped by putting people in danger. You’re supposed to think before you act, kid. You don’t get to play hero whenever you feel like it.”

That last word — play — burned.

“I’m not playing!” Peter shouted before he could stop himself. “You weren’t there! I stopped them before it got worse—”

Tony’s voice rose. “Worse? Peter, I’m juggling federal relocation orders, post-accords audits, and trying to move everything to the new compound, and you—”

Peter blinked, thrown. “New compound?”

Tony’s tone flattened. “We’re moving. I’ve been packing for weeks.”

He said it so casually, like it was nothing. Like Peter’s life wasn’t built here — his room, his school, every bit of comfort he’d managed to find after years of being passed around.

Peter’s voice cracked when he spoke again. “You’re just… leaving?”

Tony finally looked up, eyes tired, mouth pressed thin. “You’ll stay here with Happy for now. I can’t deal with this on top of everything else.”

Something in Peter broke a little at that.

He’d fought super soldiers. He’d lost 2 sets of parents. But nothing could ever sting as much as the feeling of abandonment.

He opened his mouth — but the words caught in his throat.

Tony had already turned back to his work, the holograms flickering between them like a wall.

Peter stood there, frozen, until his chest started to ache. Then he turned and walked away.

He didn’t see Tony glance up again — or hear the soft, barely-audible whisper that followed him to the elevator.

“I can’t lose another person right now.”

But even if he had… he wouldn’t have believed it.

Now, buried under the rubble, that memory burned brighter than the pain. It was louder than his heartbeat, sharper than the metal in his leg.

And even as his vision blurred and the world faded, one thought pulsed over and over, like a broken echo in his mind:

You were supposed to care this time.

Peter didn’t remember leaving—just the sting in his throat and the echo of his footsteps pounding through the Tower’s empty hall. The argument with Tony still rang in his ears, looping over and over until it drowned out everything else.

By the time he reached the streets, the air felt colder. Streetlights flickered on one by one as dusk deepened, washing New York in uneven shades of orange and steel-blue. His breath trembled. His chest hurt. He wasn’t sure if it was from holding back tears or trying to convince himself he didn’t care.

You think I don’t have enough to deal with, Peter?

You’re making things worse.

We’re moving to the Compound. It’s final.

He’d waited for Tony to stop him, to say something. But the elevator doors had closed, and the silence that followed told him everything.

By the time he looked up again, he was already standing outside Ned’s building. He didn’t even remember walking there. His legs moved on autopilot.

He climbed the stairs and knocked. Once. Twice. The door opened a crack, and Ned’s grandma peered out—short, silver hair curling around her temples, eyes full of concern. She said something quick and soft in Tagalog, confusion flashing when Peter didn’t respond.

“Uh—Ned? Is he home?”

Her brows knit, then she called out over her shoulder, “Ned! May bisita ka!”

Footsteps shuffled, and Ned appeared, half-dressed in a hoodie, holding a screwdriver and a tiny Lego wing. His grin faltered when he saw Peter.

“Dude… you look like you got hit by a bus. What happened?”

Peter stepped inside without answering. His voice came out low, cracked at the edges.

“I screwed up. Big time.”

Ned blinked. “Okay… like, school screwed up or superhero screwed up?” He meant it as a joke, but the second Peter didn’t laugh—didn’t even smile—Ned froze.

Peter stared at the floor. His fingers fidgeted with the hem of his sleeve. “You remember that bank robbery yesterday?”

“Yeah, it’s all over the news. Some nutjobs with alien guns—” Ned’s voice trailed off as realization started to dawn. “Wait. No way. No way.”

Peter’s silence said everything.

Ned’s mouth dropped open. “You’re—” He pointed, stuttering. “You’re the guy in the video! You’re Spider-Man?!”

Peter winced. “Ned, keep your voice down—your grandma’s right there!”

Ned just gaped, whisper-shouting anyway, “You’re SPIDER-MAN?! Since when?! How—what—WHY DIDN’T YOU TELL ME?!”

“I didn’t want anyone to know,” Peter snapped, more from exhaustion than anger. He rubbed at his face, eyes burning. “It just… happened. The spider bite, the powers, the suit—all of it.”

Ned stumbled back into a chair, muttering, “Bro. My best friend is Spider-Man. I literally helped you with homework last week—”

“Ned!”

“Right, sorry. Sorry. Just—holy Thor, man.”

Peter let out a shaky breath, the words finally spilling loose.

“I tried to do the right thing, okay? Those guys at the bank had alien weapons—real Chitauri stuff. I tried to tell my dad, but he didn’t care. He just got mad. Said I caused more trouble, said he didn’t need the stress.” His voice cracked. “And then he tells me we’re moving. Just like that. No warning. Out of New York. Out of everything.”

The raw edge in his voice made Ned sober up fast. He leaned forward, whispering, “Wait, wait—moving? What about you? What about school?”

“That’s what I said.” Peter’s hands trembled. “I asked him what happens to me, and he just—brushed it off. Like I was another line item on his schedule.”

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The hum of the fridge filled the silence. Ned’s grandma peeked in, murmured something softly, then slipped away again.

Finally, Ned said, quieter this time, “Dude… that’s… that’s just mean. You risk your life for people, and he just—” He stopped himself, shaking his head. “I don’t get it.”

Peter swallowed hard. “He doesn’t see me, Ned. Not really. He just sees Spider-Man. And I’m so tired of trying to prove I can be both.”

The confession hit heavier than either of them expected. Peter’s shoulders sagged. For once, he didn’t look like the cheerful, joking friend Ned always knew. He looked… fifteen. Tired. Scared.

Ned moved closer, his voice softer now. “Hey. You’re not alone in this, okay? You got me. Always.”

Peter exhaled, the tension in his chest loosening just a bit. “Thanks, Ned.”

They sat there for a long while, the sounds of the city muffled through the thin apartment walls—sirens, laughter, distant traffic. Two friends on a sagging couch, a secret between them that suddenly felt a lot heavier than either expected

The days that followed bled into one another, each morning feeling like the weight of the night before pressed against him. Peter moved through school on autopilot—heads down, answers given quietly, smiles forced when someone glanced his way. He was present but absent, a shadow in the halls, always half-listening for the hum of his own thoughts. Whenever Tony Stark’s name came up—whether in passing, in gossip, or awe of Ironman—his stomach twisted with a dull ache.

Since that night, Peter had kept his distance. No calls. No messages. No chance to see if his dad would even notice he was gone. Part of him had hoped Tony would reach out first, that he’d walk into Peter’s room, like nothing had happened, offering the casual smirk he always wore and a quiet, “Kid, we need to talk.”

But Tony hadn’t. He’d left for a wedding in India days ago, and Peter only found out when Happy mentioned it casually while handing him a cup of coffee in the kitchen.

“He’ll be back next week. Don’t do anything to burn down the Tower while he’s gone.”

It shouldn’t have hurt. But it did.

By Friday, Liz Allan’s party was all anyone could talk about. The decathlon team was going, and Ned had been buzzing for days, waving his phone, insisting this was finally their chance to not be background characters in their own high school story. Peter had nodded along, forced a smile, and agreed to go—but there was a restless tug in his chest. That same whisper that had driven him to keep putting on the suit, to keep proving he could do more.

By the time they reached the house, the backyard was alive with music and fairy lights, clusters of students laughing and drinking, red cups in hand. Ned nudged him eagerly.

“Dude, this is it. You swing in, say something cool, I record it, and boom—instant legends.”

Peter managed a grin. “Yeah. Legends.”

He slipped away, away from the noise, away from the expectant eyes. Out onto the quiet stretch of lawn behind the house, he pulled the mask from his backpack. Fingers brushed the webbing, a mix of reassurance and burden. Just a quick show-off move, he told himself. Just enough to prove he could still be someone.

Then his senses screamed.

A pulse of warning—sharp, electric, insistent—ran through his skull. The music dimmed. Laughter warped into background noise. The night itself seemed to tilt, alive with tension. Every nerve fired. Something was wrong.

Peter followed the pull of his spider senses without thinking. The laughter and music from Liz’s party faded behind him as he sprinted down the quiet streets, every step precise, every breath measured. Around the corner of a dimly lit alley, he froze.

A small group of figures huddled near the back of a cargo van. Their hands passed glowing, alien-looking tech between them, devices humming with an eerie blue energy. Peter’s pulse quickened—not the usual thrill of swinging rooftops, but the sharp, sinking twist of danger. He crouched, readying his web-shooters, fingers brushing the triggers.

“Now what’s going on here?” he muttered under his breath.

He leapt forward, just as the figures turned—before he could fully engage, a shadow fell over him.

A figure, wings stretched wide like some mechanical vulture, swooped down from above. The roar of turbines drowned out everything else.

The impact hit like a freight train, slamming into Peter’s chest with bone-jarring force. His body rolled with the momentum, boots scraping pavement, arms flailing, breath knocked out of him. Before he could recover, the figure’s talons—or what passed for talons on the mechanical wings—closed around his sides, sharp enough to bite through fabric, grip unyielding. Peter thrashed, kicked, and tried to pull free, every instinct screaming.

“Let go!” he gasped, but the words were lost in the roar of air and machinery.

The ground disappeared beneath him. The winged figure surged upward, twisting him into the night sky. Peter’s stomach lurched. The city spun beneath him, streets tilting, lights streaking like molten ribbons. He clawed at the metal, at the wings, at anything, but the talons dug deeper, slicing into his side with each struggle.

And then—release.

Weightless. Air whipping past. The world blurred. He hit the surface of the giant lake below with a deafening splash, cold biting instantly through his suit. Reflexively, he tried to swim, but the parachute Tony had installed for safety deployed too late.

It was supposed to save him.

Instead, it wrapped around him, straps and cords tangling, dragging him down, pinning his limbs. Water filled his lungs. Panic surged. Every stroke became a battle, every movement a fight against the cords and the cold that burned through his chest. Bubbles escaped his mouth as he clawed desperately, arms flailing, legs kicking.

He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t think.

Dad…

The thought broke through, sharp and sudden. Tony. If he hadn’t made this parachute, if he hadn’t added the safety failsafe, maybe… maybe he’d already be at shore. And even that thought made his chest tighten with sadness.

Below him, dark water swallowed the city lights, the sky twisted above him, and the struggle went on—every second stretching, every gasp a battle.

Then, through the haze of panic, a glint of red and gold cut through the water. Mechanical, precise, unyielding. A hand reached out. Strong. Steady.

Iron Man.

The fingers closed around him, pulling, hauling, slicing through the darkness, dragging Peter back toward the surface. The cold air tore into his lungs as he broke free, choking, coughing, sputtering, but alive. His limbs went limp, exhaustion and relief crashing together.

The last thing he saw before he could even process it was the arc reactor glinting like a star in the night sky—and the realization that his father hadn’t abandoned him after all.

Peter’s lungs burned as he drew in a shaky breath. The med bay lights were dim, humming softly overhead. He blinked against the haze clouding his vision, trying to remember where he was — the last thing he recalled was water, darkness, the crushing pull of the lake, and then… metal hands.

His eyes drifted to the corner of the room — the gleam of red and gold caught the light. An Iron Man suit stood perfectly still beside the bed, arc reactor pulsing faintly. For a fleeting second, Peter’s heart leapt.

“…Dad?” he whispered, voice hoarse.

The armor’s head turned toward him with a faint mechanical whine. Tony’s voice crackled through the speakers, sharp and unmistakably alive.

“Peter. You’re awake.”

Peter’s shoulders sank as reality hit. Just the suit. Not him. Still… hearing his voice steadied the pounding in his chest.

Tony didn’t give him time to speak. “Do you have any idea how close you came to being frozen fish food out there? Because I just spent two hours watching your vitals flatline, luckily this place has wifi.” His tone wasn’t calm — it was sharp, biting, the kind of anger that came from fear.

Peter swallowed, guilt rising in his throat. “I—I didn’t know it would—”

Tony cut him off, voice tightening. “Did you know you hibernate when you get cold? ‘Cause I sure didn’t! Turns out my kid turns into a damn popsicle when he gets dunked in a lake!”

Peter winced, staring at the floor. He could hear the frustration behind the sarcasm, that thin thread of panic Tony tried to hide behind his usual snark.

“I was just trying to help,” Peter murmured.

Tony’s sigh filtered through the suit’s speakers, static crackling in the silence. “You went to a party, Peter. With the suit. You thought that was smart?”

“I wasn’t— it wasn’t supposed to—” Peter’s words stumbled over themselves. “I thought if people saw Spider-Man, they’d—”

“—what? Think you’re cool?” Tony snapped. “This isn’t some high school popularity contest. You’re not showing off. You could’ve been killed.”

The words stung. Peter looked away, jaw tight, throat closing up with everything he wanted to say but couldn’t. The fact that Tony wasn’t there to yell in person somehow made it worse — like the distance between them had teeth.

Tony’s voice softened just a fraction. “Look, I get it. You wanted to help. You always do. But you don’t have to do it like this. You’re supposed to be the smart one here, remember?”

Peter let out a quiet breath, fingers twisting the blanket. “Guess I didn’t do a great job proving that.”

There was a pause — a long, heavy silence broken only by the faint hum of the med bay monitors.

Then Tony said quietly, “You’re lucky to be alive, kid, but if something else happens, that’s the end of Spider-boy.”

Peter didn’t answer. He just nodded, eyes fixed on the faint reflection of the armor’s glow against the window. Lucky. That’s what everyone would say. But to him, it didn’t feel like luck — it felt like he’d failed at both sides of his life, again.

And this time, Tony wasn’t even there to tell him otherwise.

Weeks later, life went on — at least, that’s what Peter told himself. Midtown’s Academic Decathlon team was heading to Nationals in D.C., and for once, Peter felt like maybe things could just be normal. He tried to forget the distance between him and his dad. Tried to be a regular student, a regular friend.

Except… he wasn’t.

The night before the competition, he and Ned sat on their hotel room floor, the Spider-Man suit spread between them. Tony’s voice was still locked in Peter’s head — “Don’t do anything stupid. I’m not always gonna be there to catch you.”

He told himself this wasn’t stupid. It was smart. Tony had restricted the suit, hidden entire systems behind something called “Training Wheels Protocol.”

So they hacked it.

And when Peter unlocked the restrictions, it was like seeing color for the first time. The HUD flared to life with new features, sensors, combat modes, web variations he’d never imagined. He felt unstoppable.

That confidence carried him through D.C. — right up until the monument exploded. His classmates were trapped in the elevator, glass shattering, debris falling, and it was Spider-Man — him — who pulled them to safety. He saved everyone.

And still, Tony didn’t call.

The air over the harbor hung heavy with salt and fog — thick, grey, and unmoving. The kind of stillness that felt like a warning. Peter could feel it sitting on his skin beneath the suit, a quiet pressure in his chest that hadn’t gone away since D.C.

That had been two days ago. Two days since he’d ripped the training wheels off the suit, hacked it open with Ned, and learned what it could really do. He’d saved his teammates. He’d stopped a disaster. But it hadn’t felt like victory — not when he’d realized there was something darker behind all of it. The alien tech, the weapons… someone was distributing them. Someone big. And the next deal was going down today. On the Staten Island Ferry.

He perched high on a loading crane before the ship departed, eyes locked on the deck below. His heart thudded in time with the dull clang of metal chains and the distant cry of gulls. Dozens of people crowded the deck, just regular commuters — laughing, scrolling their phones, sipping coffee. And then there were the others. The ones who stood too still. The ones who looked around too much.

Those were his guys.

Peter slipped into the ship’s lower deck, keeping to the shadows. His fingers twitched with nervous energy as he tapped the side of his mask.

“Karen,” he whispered, “scan for weapons signatures.”

Before she could respond, a soft chime echoed in his ear.

Karen: “Incoming call from Dad.”

Peter froze. “No, no, no. No, no, don’t answer.”

The line clicked anyway.

Tony: “Pete. Got a sec?”

Peter winced, crouching behind a stack of metal barrels. “Uh, I’m actually at school.”

Karen: “No, you’re not.”

Tony’s voice held that effortless calm that somehow made it worse. “Nice work in D.C.”

Peter blinked, thrown. “Okay.”

“My dad never really gave me a lot of support…” Tony continued, voice lighter, conversational, like this was a normal chat between father and son. “And I’m just trying to break the cycle of shame.”

Peter’s eyes darted toward the men pulling sleek alien-looking weapons from duffel bags. His pulse jumped. “Uh, I’m kind of in the middle of something right now.”

“Don’t cut me off when I’m complimenting you,” Tony said sharply. “Anyway, great things are about to—”

A blaring horn from the ferry cut through the air, deafening.

Tony hesitated. “What is that?”

“Uh, I’m at band practice.”

Tony paused for half a beat. “That’s odd. Happy told me you quit band six weeks ago. What’s up?”

Peter’s throat went dry. “I gotta go. Uh, end call.”

“Hey—” The connection died.

Peter’s heart hammered. The men were raising their weapons, laughing like they knew something he didn’t. One wrong move, one unstable pulse, and—

It happened.

A flash. A blinding burst of blue-white energy erupted from one of the weapons, screaming across the deck. The blast ripped through steel like paper. The sound was pure chaos — tearing metal, shattering glass, people screaming as the ferry split in half.

Water exploded upward, drenching everything. The ship groaned, twisted — passengers sliding, scrambling for balance as alarms blared.

Peter launched into action. His webs fired in rapid bursts, string after string latching onto beams, walls, anything solid. Each impact sent a shock up his arms. He swung across the gaping wound in the ship, sealing fragments together, fighting gravity itself.

“Come on, come on…” he muttered, voice shaking. “Hold it together…”

He fired another web. Another. Dozens — no, hundreds — until the entire deck looked like a spider’s frantic last stand. He braced himself in the middle, arms outstretched, holding both halves of the ferry with nothing but his will and webbing.

The ship trembled. The lines strained. His muscles screamed.

“Come on, Spider-Man,” he hissed. “You’ve got this.”

Then — snap.

Every web tore at once. The force threw him backward, crashing into the deck. He rolled to his knees, gasping, staring helplessly as the two halves of the ferry started to drift apart. People were falling, crying, clinging to whatever they could.

And then — the roar of repulsors.

Dozens of red-and-gold flashes streaked through the air, weaving in formation. Micro Iron Man drones, welding, sealing, stabilizing — moving with impossible precision. The noise was deafening, the light blinding.

Within seconds, the ferry stopped falling apart. The drones retreated, the chaos quieted. Water still poured in through the cracks, but the ship was whole. Barely.

Peter stood there, mask torn, chest heaving, the salty air burning his throat.

Then, with a heavy metallic thud, Iron Man landed.

The faceplate slid open. Tony Stark’s eyes locked on his.

There was no pride. No relief.

Just disappointment.

The city was quiet except for the hum of helicopters circling above the shattered ferry. Their lights painted the water in flashes of red and blue. Peter sat on the edge of a rooftop, legs dangling over the side, staring blankly at the chaos below. His mask lay beside him, torn and useless. The wind tugged at his hair, cold against the sweat drying on his skin.

He didn’t even hear Tony approach until the whine of the repulsors broke through the night.

The Iron Man suit hovered for a moment, red and gold lights reflecting in Peter’s wide eyes. Then Tony’s voice came through the helmet — sharp, clipped, furious.

“Previously on Peter Screws the Pooch,” Tony said, landing hard on the rooftop. “I tell you to stay out of this, and what do you do? You hack a multimillion-dollar suit so you can sneak around behind my back doing the one thing I explicitly told you not to do.”

Peter’s head snapped up. “Is everyone okay?”

Tony’s mask shifted slightly, the expression unreadable behind metal. “No thanks to you.”

Peter’s fists clenched. “No thanks to me?” He stood abruptly, anger and shame twisting in his chest. “Those weapons were out there, Dad! I tried to tell you, but you didn’t listen! None of this would’ve happened if you’d just— just listened to me! If you even cared, you’d actually be here and not—”

The suit hissed, splitting apart with a mechanical whine. The pieces folded back to reveal Tony standing there, face bare, eyes hard. He stepped forward fast — and for a second, Peter forgot how to breathe.

“I did listen, kid,” Tony said, voice low but shaking. “Who do you think called the FBI, huh? You think I didn’t know? You think I wasn’t trying to protect you?” He took another step closer, frustration edging into hurt. “Do you have any idea how insane I sounded defending you in that boardroom? You know who believed in you? Me. Everyone else thought I was out of my mind for trusting a fourteen-year-old to handle this kind of thing.”

“I’m fifteen,” Peter muttered weakly.

Tony’s voice cracked. “Not now. The adult’s talking.”

The silence that followed was heavy. Peter looked away, his throat burning.

“What if somebody had died tonight?” Tony’s voice rose, raw and breaking. “Would that still feel worth it? Because that’s on you, kid. And if you’d died—” he swallowed hard “—then that’s on me. And I can’t— I won’t carry that.”

Peter’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Yes, sir.”

“No,” Tony said, shaking his head. “Don’t ‘sir’ me. Just— god.” He ran a hand through his hair. “I wanted you to learn, Peter. Not get yourself killed trying to impress me.”

Peter’s words came out small. “I just wanted to be like you.”

Tony’s gaze softened, just for a moment. “And I wanted you to be better.” His tone turned final, distant. “It’s not working out. I’m gonna need the suit back.”

Peter’s stomach dropped. “For how long?”

Tony’s expression didn’t change. “Forever.”

Peter blinked, stunned. “No, no, no, please—” His voice broke. “Dad, you don’t understand, please! This— this is all I have. I’m nothing without the suit!”

Tony’s face twisted — anger, pain, and regret all bleeding together. “If you’re nothing without the suit,” he said quietly, “then you shouldn’t have it.” He let out a bitter laugh, barely audible. “God, I sound like my own dad.”

Peter looked down, the weight of everything pressing on his chest. “I don’t… I don’t have any other clothes.”

Tony’s tone softened, just a fraction. “We’ll sort that out.”

Then Tony was gone — swallowed by the clouds, leaving Peter standing there with nothing but his phone, boxers and a cheap tourist shirt which boldly said “I survived my trip to New York.”

For a long time, Peter just stood there. The mask beside him fluttered in the breeze, like it wanted to leap away — like even it didn’t want to be near him anymore.

The days after the ferry incident blurred together. Queens felt smaller, quieter, and heavier somehow — like the whole world was holding its breath. Peter stopped patrolling. He didn’t check his suit tracker or tinker with gadgets in the corner of his room anymore. Every part of him still burned with Tony’s words. If you’re nothing without the suit, then you shouldn’t have it. They echoed with every heartbeat.

He kept his distance after that. At school, he tried to laugh when Ned made jokes, tried to act like the same old Peter Parker, but his chest still ached whenever his thoughts drifted back to the disappointed tone in his dad’s voice. At home, Tony buried himself in his work, and Peter didn’t try to interrupt. The silence between them grew until it became something physical — thick, sharp-edged, impossible to ignore.

When Homecoming night arrived, Peter stood in front of the mirror in his bedroom, fumbling with a crooked tie. He looked… ordinary. Just a kid in a suit. For a second, he wondered if that was what Tony wanted — for him to stop trying to be more than he was. But the thought stung. He adjusted his tie again, sighed, and stepped out.

Tony was in the lab, surrounded by holograms and half-assembled armor, the blue light painting harsh shadows across his face. Peter hovered in the doorway, hesitant. “Hey, Dad?” he asked, voice barely above a whisper. “Can you… help me with this?”

Tony didn’t look up from his tablet. “Happy can do it. I’m in the middle of something.”

Peter waited — one beat, two — hoping for him to turn around, to notice. But he didn’t. The machines kept whirring, the same soft mechanical heartbeat that filled the Tower every night. Finally, Peter nodded, forcing a small smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Right. Okay.”

Happy met him downstairs, car engine humming softly. The ride to Liz’s house was quiet except for the low rumble of traffic. Streetlights slid across the window, streaking gold against the dark. Peter stared out at them, his reflection pale in the glass. “You good, kid?” Happy asked. “Yeah,” Peter lied automatically. “All good.”

The night air carried that faint buzz of early summer — the kind that made everything feel both alive and painfully fragile. Peter stood at the foot of Liz’s porch, palms sweating against the soft petals of the corsage he’d almost crushed from how tightly he was holding it. Through the front windows, laughter and warm light spilled out, brushing against the dark like something out of a memory he didn’t quite belong in.

He raised a hand to knock.

The door opened before he could, and Peter’s heart stopped cold.

Adrian Toomes filled the doorway — tall, calm, polite in the way a snake might be still before it strikes.

Peter’s stomach dropped. He knew that face. The ferry. The wings. The man whose weapons had nearly killed dozens of people.

“You must be Peter,” Toomes said pleasantly, the corners of his mouth curving just a little too tight.

Peter forced his throat to work. “Uh—yeah. Hi, sir.”

Toomes offered his hand. His grip was iron, the pressure deliberate, a message behind the smile. “Come in, kid.”

Inside, the house was warm, normal — pictures of family trips lined the walls, the faint smell of dinner still in the air. But every part of it felt wrong. Peter’s senses were screaming, telling him to get out, but he couldn’t. Liz was at the top of the stairs, radiant in her red dress, beaming when she saw him.

“You look great,” Peter managed, voice trembling slightly.

“Thanks,” Liz said with a shy grin, oblivious to the tension simmering below the surface.

Her mother insisted on pictures — Peter stood beside Liz, smiling stiffly, trying not to look at her father’s reflection watching him in the mirror. Toomes’ eyes never softened, not once.

When it was time to leave, Toomes jingled his keys and said, “I’ll drive you two.”

Peter hesitated. “Oh—no, it’s okay, we can—”

“Insist,” Toomes cut in, polite but sharp.

So Peter climbed into the back seat beside Liz, feeling like the air itself had turned heavy. Toomes’ eyes flicked to the rearview mirror every few seconds — never looking at Peter directly, but always watching.

“So,” Toomes began, his voice smooth and conversational, “what are your plans after high school, Pete?”

Peter swallowed, staring at the blur of streetlights through the window. “Uh… not sure yet.”

Liz laughed softly. “He’s a intern for Tony Stark, remember? He’s already got his future sorted.”

The name hung in the air. Peter felt the tension shift.

Toomes’ hands flexed on the steering wheel. “Stark, huh?” he said, too casually. “Small world.”

Peter said nothing. The silence that followed felt endless, thick with unspoken realization. Each passing streetlight illuminated just a little more of the truth forming behind Toomes’ eyes.

By the time they pulled up to Midtown, Peter could tell. Toomes knew.

He parked but didn’t unlock the doors. Liz, still blissfully unaware, smiled at her dad. “Thanks, Dad.” She kissed his cheek and stepped out of the car. “See you inside, Peter!”

Peter managed a weak smile. “Yeah… see you.”

The door closed. The world shrank to the quiet hum of the engine and Toomes’ steady breathing.

Then the glove box clicked open.

Peter froze. A gun gleamed faintly in the dim light.

“So,” Toomes said, his voice suddenly flat, all warmth gone, “does she know?”

Peter couldn’t move. Couldn’t even blink.

“Didn’t think so.” Toomes rested one hand on the wheel, the other still near the gun. “You saved her once. So here’s me returning the favor. You go in there, enjoy your little dance, and forget you ever saw me. Because if you don’t…” He tilted the weapon just slightly, enough to make Peter’s stomach twist. “I’ll kill you and everyone you love. That’s not a threat, kid — that’s a promise, now what do you say when someone does you a favour?”

Peter’s throat tightened. His voice came out small. “…Thank you.”

Toomes gave a cold smile. “Good boy.”

Peter climbed out, the door clicking shut behind him. The car rolled away, its taillights fading into the dark.

Inside the school, everything was loud and bright — music thumping, voices laughing — but it all felt far away. Liz was waving from across the gym, glowing in the colorful lights, and all Peter could think about was the echo of Toomes’ voice, the weight of that gun, the promise behind it.

He turned away. Untied his tie. His reflection in the glass doors barely looked human — pale, shaking, afraid, but determined.

He couldn’t just walk away. Not now.

He ran.

Down the hallway. Into the locker room. Toward the vent he’d hidden his old suit in.

The fabric was rough, frayed, nothing like the sleek Stark-made armor he’d once had — but it was his. It was him. He pulled it on, every movement trembling with adrenaline.

No AI. No heat vision. No enhanced webbing. Just Peter Parker.

And that had to be enough.

He slipped out the window and sprinted across the parking lot — just in time for a blast of electricity to slam into his back. Sparks tore through the air, lighting up the night.

Peter hit the pavement hard.

Schultz — the Shocker — stepped forward, gauntlet glowing. “He gave you a choice,” he growled. “You chose wrong.”

Peter rolled aside as another pulse of energy shattered a lamppost beside him. He spotted his web-shooters glinting under the bus and dove for them. The next shockwave hit, throwing him backward again.

“Why did he send you?” Peter yelled, forcing himself to his feet.

“Guess you’ll never know,” Schultz snarled — just as a webline shot out of nowhere and yanked his arm sideways.

Peter blinked. “Ned?!”

Up in a classroom window, Ned waved nervously, holding one of Peter’s spare web-shooters.

“Nice shot!” Peter yelled, grabbing the line and slamming Schultz into the bus, wrapping him in webbing. “Ned, listen — Liz’s dad is the Vulture. He’s going after a plane full of Stark tech!”

“What?!”

“Just trust me! Call Happy, track my phone — it’s still in his car!”

Ned scrambled to the computer. “Got it!”

Peter didn’t wait. He fired a webline and launched himself into the night.

Wind howled in his ears as he swung through the city, the lights blurring beneath him. His lungs burned, but his heart burned hotter.

He followed the signal — the faint ping from his phone — until he landed in front of a dark warehouse on the docks. The building groaned against the wind, its windows blacked out, the faint hum of stolen tech pulsing from inside.

Peter crept in, every footstep echoing.

“Toomes!” he shouted. His voice bounced through the metal corridors. “It’s over!”

Toomes was there — calm, half-dressed in his wingsuit, working at a crate. He didn’t even turn around.

“Oh, hey, Pete,” he said quietly. “Didn’t hear you come in.”

Peter stepped closer, fists trembling. “You’re done hurting people.”

Toomes looked up, almost… sad. “You really think you’re the good guy here, kid? You think your dad’s any different from me?”

Peter flinched. “He’s nothing like you.”

“Sure he is,” Toomes said, eyes narrowing. “He builds weapons. I sell them. Only difference is — I don’t pretend I’m saving the world while doing it.”

Peter fired a web. It caught Toomes’ hand, pinning it to the table. “You don’t get to talk about him like that.”

Toomes smiled thinly. “You’ve got heart, kid. But not a clue how the world works.”

He flicked a switch.

The wings roared to life — and the support beams behind Peter began to crumble.

Peter’s eyes widened. “No—”

The ceiling collapsed.

Sparks. Concrete. Screaming metal.

A beam slammed into his side, pinning him down. A steel pipe tore through his leg.

The world went silent except for the echo of his own ragged breathing.

Through the haze, Toomes’ voice came, distant and steady. “Sorry, kid.”

Then he was gone.

Now he was here.

leaving Peter trapped beneath the wreckage. A rusted pipe pierced through his leg, anchoring him to the ground. The air was thick with dust and smoke, every breath a struggle.

He could barely move. His vision swam, and for a moment, he couldn’t tell if he was seeing stars or just the flicker of broken lights overhead.

Every muscle in his body trembled. Every heartbeat pounded like a drum against the crushing silence.

And beneath it all — beneath the pain and the fear — was one thought:

You said I should be better, Dad.

I’m trying.

Chapter Text

Peter groaned, a low, rasping sound that seemed to get swallowed by the smoke and rubble around him. His body was pinned under the weight of concrete, twisted metal, and shattered beams, the jagged pipe sticking deep into his leg like some cruel anchor. Every heartbeat sent a flare of pain shooting up his calf and into his thigh. He tried to move, just a little, to shift the debris, but the pile above him groaned and creaked as if mocking his struggle.

“Ugh… c’mon…” he muttered through clenched teeth, his voice hoarse, rasping from dust and smoke. He coughed violently, smoke filling his throat, burning his lungs, making him gag. Each attempt to push himself free only caused the debris to shift, heavier than before, crushing him back into the ground. A block of concrete slid against his shoulder, forcing him to inhale the acrid dust, his lungs seizing.

He felt panic clawing up his chest, his mind screaming at him to get out. His fingers scrabbled at a small gap in the debris, trying to find something—anything—to give him leverage. The pipe in his leg made every movement agony, its metal edges scraping through torn flesh and muscle.

“Ah… no… no, no, no…” he groaned, muffled by the thick smoke. His teeth dug into his lip as he twisted slightly, feeling the sharp, pulsing pain radiate from his calf to his knee. He tried to roll, just a fraction, but the rubble above him shifted, heavier now, forcing him down again. His chest felt like it was being crushed by a thousand pounds. Each breath was a battle, each gasp a fiery punishment, as the smoke clawed at his lungs and burned his throat.

He could taste blood in his mouth, metallic and bitter, and the heat from the fire that had started somewhere nearby made his skin sting. He coughed violently, hacking up a mix of ash and blood. “Gah… get… off… please…” he wheezed.

Peter knew he couldn’t wait for anyone. No one knew he was here. He had to do it himself. Every instinct screamed at him to move, to survive. With shaking hands, he wrapped his fingers around the jagged pipe in his leg. The metal was cold, hard, and cruel against his burning flesh. He tried to pull it free. Pain exploded in his leg, white-hot and relentless, fire dancing through every nerve ending.

“Ahhh… fuck!” he groaned, teeth gritted, sweat and blood mingling on his forehead. He felt the debris above him shift again, the pile creaking as if threatening to crush him further. His lungs screamed for air, burning with every rasping breath. Smoke filled his throat, making him gag, but he forced himself to inhale anyway.

Peter twisted and pulled with everything he had, the pipe scraping against muscle and bone. His vision blurred from pain, smoke, and sweat. “C’mon… c’mon… come on…” he whispered, his voice a rough rasp. The metal finally gave way with a sickening, tearing sound, and he cried out, biting down on his lip, tasting blood, sweat, and dust.

He collapsed back against the rubble, his chest heaving, lungs screaming for oxygen. But the relief was only partial; he was still trapped, still under the weight of the debris. Every movement sent shocks of pain through his body, every breath burned, but he forced himself to inch forward. Fingers scraped raw against concrete, his palms bleeding from trying to find purchase.

“Just… a little… more,” he rasped, groaning with each push, each shift, each scrape of metal against bone. The smoke and dust choked him, but he forced another desperate breath, coughing and gagging as he tried to roll a jagged slab just enough to create space. A beam pinched his shoulder painfully, but he ignored it, gritting his teeth through the fire of pain.

Time seemed to stretch, each second an eternity. The debris didn’t forgive, didn’t relent. But neither would he. Inch by inch, groan by groan, he pushed, twisted, wrenched. The taste of blood, the stench of smoke, the sting of cuts and bruises—it all became a background to a single, driving thought: Get out.

Finally, after what felt like hours trapped in the crushing weight, sweat and blood soaking into his clothes, muscles trembling violently, he found a gap just large enough. With a final, desperate grunt, he shoved with every ounce of strength left in him. A jagged piece of concrete shifted, giving him the break he needed.

“Yeah… yeah… almost…” he rasped, coughing violently, choking on smoke. His body screamed at him to stop, but he ignored it. He had to get out.

With the small gap he’d made, Peter shifted his weight and shoved again—hard. The slab scraped over him with a low, grinding groan, showering his face with grit. It didn’t lift much, just enough to let him twist his shoulders free.

“Come on—come on—” he panted, voice breaking as he pushed.

The rubble didn’t move cleanly; every inch forward dug something new into him. A beam jabbed his ribs, a cracked edge scraped across his thigh, smoke rolled into his lungs in thick, burning waves. He gagged, eyes watering, coughing so violently his whole body shook.

Still—he pushed.

With one final, shaky surge, he dragged his torso into the narrow gap. His trapped leg tore painfully free as he yanked it out from under the smaller debris pinning it.

A raw, involuntary groan ripped out of him.

But then—air. Space. He collapsed forward onto his hands, coughing hard, sucking in whatever oxygen the smoke would let him have.

He was out.

Peter pushed himself upright, breath shaking, leg throbbing like it had its own pulse. When he looked down, the gash was worse than he expected—deep, jagged, bleeding fast.

“Great… perfect…” he muttered, forcing his trembling fingers to steady.

He fired a tight line of webbing into his hand and wrapped it around his thigh. The moment he cinched it down, white-hot pain shot up his side. His knees nearly buckled.

“Ah—! Okay—okay—just… hold together,” he gasped, pulling the webbing one last time until the bleeding slowed to a sticky ooze.

It wasn’t pretty. But it would hold enough for him to move.

He limped forward out of the debris field just as the low roar of engines cut through the night. Peter’s head snapped up, eyes widening.

The plane.

Loaded with Stark tech. Tower inventory. And pieces of the Avengers’ gear—stuff that couldn’t fall into anyone else’s hands.

Stuff his dad trusted him to keep safe.

A spark of fear hit him, followed by something sharper—anger, determination, the instinct to protect what mattered. To stop someone who had already taken too much tonight.

He raised his arm, aimed despite the tremor in his hands, and fired a web line.

“You’re not stealing everything,” he rasped.

The web caught on a distant structure. Peter gritted his teeth, broke into a limping run, and let the tension yank him forward. The world blurred as he swung up into the air, every movement sending new waves of pain lancing through his leg—but he didn’t slow.

Another web. Another swing. Higher, faster.

Smoke in his lungs, blood in his boot, leg screaming with every shift of weight—

Peter never remembered the exact moment he managed to crawl onto the plane—just the roar of the engines, the sting of cold wind tearing at his face, and the blinding adrenaline pushing him forward despite the fire in his leg.

One second he was swinging after the plane, the next he was clinging to the underbelly, dragging himself up through a panel Toomes had torn open. The cargo bay was chaos: crates shaking loose, cables whipping around in the turbulence, bits of Stark and Avengers tech rattling dangerously with every lurch.

Toomes was already inside.

And he wasn’t hiding anymore.

He dove at Peter the moment he hauled himself in, the Vulture talons screeching across metal as they clashed. Peter’s hands slipped on a loose wire; Toomes slammed him into a crate hard enough to knock the air from his lungs.

“Kid,” Toomes snarled over the roar of the engines, “you don’t know what you’re getting in the middle of.”

Peter coughed, pushing himself back up even though every rib screamed. “I know you’re stealing stuff that doesn’t belong to you!”

The plane bucked violently.

Both of them staggered. A crate burst open beside them, spilling glowing tech across the floor. Warning alarms blared overhead as the plane dipped lower—too low.

Too fast.

Peter shot a web to anchor himself, only for the plane to lurch again, sending him swinging sideways. Toomes’ wings deployed inside the cargo bay, shredding straps and crates as he steadied himself.

Then the terrible screech of metal tore through the cabin.

The second wing clipped a bridge tower.

The entire plane shuddered so hard Peter’s teeth rattled. Something exploded near the cockpit—bright, white-hot, blinding. The nose dipped sharply toward the coastline.

They were going down.

“No—no, no—!” Peter slammed another web onto a crate, trying to stabilize the shifting weight so the whole cargo hold wouldn’t collapse inward. The floor tilted again, throwing him forward; he grabbed onto a netted section of Avengers equipment and held on as the plane plummeted.

Wind roared through the newly torn-open hull. Sparks showered from the ceiling. Toomes tried to take flight again, but the whole plane twisted sideways, pinning one of his wings against a wall.

The impact hit like a bomb.

The plane smashed into the beach, skidding across sand in a screaming trail of fire and metal. Peter was thrown across the cargo bay, slamming into a crate so hard he saw stars. Glass shattered, containers burst, tech scattered around him like glowing shrapnel.

They didn’t stop.

Not until the nose struck a dune and the rest of the fuselage buckled to a grinding, groaning halt.

Peter lay there, dazed, the world ringing, smoke filling his lungs, blood pounding in his leg.

The rest blurred together in flashes of motion and pain.

The explosion. Toomes’ wings overheating. Peter diving forward to pull him out of the sky before the whole suit blew. Sand, smoke, ringing ears. Toomes struggling, then collapsing. And finally—

silence.

The kind of silence that only comes after something violent.

Peter stood over the unconscious Vulture, chest heaving, sweat stinging his eyes. His hands shook as he pulled a scrap of Stark Industries inventory paper from the sand, scribbled a shaky note—Found this guy trying to steal your stuff. You’re welcome. – Spider-Man—and webbed Toomes to a chunk of the broken plane fuselage.

Sirens were distant. Too distant.

He didn’t wait around.

He couldn’t.

His leg hurt, his ribs ached, and all he could think about was getting home—back to the Tower. Back to somewhere familiar. Somewhere his dad might be.

The swing back was slow, uneven. He landed on the balcony of Stark Tower with a grunt, pain flaring up his thigh. The lights inside were dim, soft glows reflecting off polished floors and silent hallways.

Peter stumbled through the empty halls of the Tower, the faint echo of his boots bouncing off bare walls. Boxes were no longer stacked in neat columns, wires coiled and labeled, holograms flickering in lazy loops over cleared workbenches. The place smelled faintly of oil, solder, and the faint ghost of burnt wiring from the night’s chaos.

“Dad?” he called out, voice cracking.

His voice echoed back at him.

No reply. No footsteps. No holograms humming to life. Not even Dum-E trundling by.

Peter stepped inside, limping heavily, leaving small drops of blood across the tiles.

“Dad?” he called again—quieter this time. More hopeful. More afraid.

Nothing.

The Tower felt… hollow. Like a museum after closing. Rooms he knew, hallways he’d run through a thousand times, all still and empty.

Peter’s stomach dropped.

And then, slowly, memory hit him like a punch.

Tony wasn’t here.

A hollow laugh escaped Peter, short and bitter. “Of course… of course he’d already gone.”

He sank against the wall, the makeshift webbing on his leg still holding, but pulsing painfully with each heartbeat. He pressed his palm to the floor, letting his fingers trace the smooth metal as if he could pull the Tower back into place, pull Tony back with it.

The plane, the crash, Toomes — everything had been spinning so fast, and now, standing in the silence, Peter felt the weight of how alone he really was in this fight. The Avengers’ stuff, the Tower’s belongings, even Tony himself — all moved, all gone, leaving him with nothing but his exhausted body and a burning need to keep going.

Peter remained slumped against the wall, every breath a ragged scrape of lungs and pain. His leg throbbed with an almost mocking rhythm, a pulse of fire that spread from his thigh down to his foot. He dug through his pocket, fingers trembling, nails scraping the phone case, and pulled out his lifeline: Tony’s number.

Please… please be there,” he whispered, more to himself than the empty room. He tapped the screen. The first ring sounded too loud, too final. He watched the seconds stretch, each one heavier than the last. Two rings. Three. Then the cold, mechanical click of voicemail.

Peter’s chest seized. He pressed the button to leave a message, but the words lodged in his throat. He tried again.

“Hey, Dad,” he rasped, voice rough, cracking already. “Remember that plane that held all our… stuff? Well, I kinda crashed it. But hey! At least I got Toomes!”

The words came out sharp, sarcastic, like he could pretend everything was fine. But the second the joke left his mouth, the weight of everything—the pain in his leg, the smoke, the adrenaline fading into exhaustion—hit him like a freight train. His shoulders slumped further, the phone slipping slightly in his blood-slick fingers.

Then he let out a quiet sob, sarcasm gone, replaced by pure, desperate fear. “I… I don’t know what to do. My leg… it’s… there’s a hole… I can’t stop it… I don’t know how…”

He swallowed hard, trying to fight back the sobs, but they came anyway, trembling, wracking his body. “I… I need you. I need you here. Please, I don’t want to be alone, I… I can’t do this alone. I’m scared, Dad. I’m really scared.”

His hands shook violently as he gripped the phone, pressing it against his ear as if the sound of Tony’s voice could magically reach him. “I thought I could handle it, I thought I was ready… I was wrong. I messed up. I… I don’t want to die here, Dad. I… I just need you. I hate that I need you like this. I’m sorry. I—”

He choked on a sob, blinking tears away, pressing the phone tightly to his chest. For a moment, he just stayed there, trembling and crying, his voice echoing off the walls. Finally, with a shaking thumb, he pressed the delete button. The voicemail vanished.

Peter let out a shuddering breath, leaning his forehead against the wall. “Okay… okay…” he whispered to no one. The sarcasm, the bravado, the jokes—they were gone. Only pain, fear, and exhaustion remained.