Never Got Away

by autumnmemoire

Summary:

Tony and Steve's blissful family life shatters when a seemingly innocent ‘Take Your Kid to Work Day’ turns catastrophic, shaking the very foundation of their happiness.

Notes:

I know… what am i doing making another spiderson fic. lol.
Also my first Stony! More tags will be added along the way.

Chapter 1: Cashmere

 

“It’s an incredibly somber scene here tonight, Savannah. What was once the mighty Triskelion, a global symbol of peace and security, now lies in ruins. Behind me, flames still consume large portions of the structure, and emergency crews are racing against time, combing through the wreckage in search of survivors. Earlier today, a hijacked SHIELD helicarrier crashed into the building, dealing catastrophic damage that has devastated this entire area.”

The camera pans across; helicopters circles overhead, emergency crews sifting through the debris, and civilians huddled in shock.

“We’ve been informed that some Avengers, namely Captain America and Black Widow, were among the first to respond, leading evacuation efforts and supporting the search for the missing.”

The correspondent pauses, touching her earpiece, her gaze shifting skyward. “Wait—this just in. We have visual confirmation. Iron Man... Iron Man is now on the scene.”

Red and gold armor pierces the smoke-choked sky, touching down with a heavy thud. Tony steps out, his gaze sweeping over the wreckage as he gasps in short, strained breaths. He searches, scanning every face, every broken figure in the rubble. Shock after shock slams into him, but he can't offer comfort—not when he's barely holding himself together, fighting to stave off an anxiety attack.

One thought relentlessly pounds in his mind: Peter's safe. Peter's with Steve. They'll all return home tonight, have dinner like always. But the mantra does nothing to calm his nerves.

A soft touch on his elbow jolts Tony. He whirls, only to be met with his husband.

“Tony.”

One look at Steve's face, and Tony knows. He sees the truth in the way Steve's shoulders sag, in the quiet fear behind his eyes—knows it before Steve can even speak. But no—he refuses it, forces the thought away, his chest tightening in protest.

“Where's— Where's Peter?”

Steve doesn't answer. Tony's head shakes violently, as if he can throw off the meaning in Steve's silence, his husband's eyes already clouding with unshed tears.

“No. No. Don't—Don't you dare give me that look, Steve. Where is he? Where's our son?!”

Steve's gaze falters. Tony's fingers dig into Steve's arm, clutching him—like if he grips hard enough, the truth will change, like Peter will suddenly appear, smiling, running toward them for a hug, safe in Tony's arms.

“Mr. Rogers. Mr. Stark.”

A responder steps forward, hesitant, holding something—something red and blue, too familiar, too much to take in. “We found this.”

The cashmere scarf dangles from the responder's grip. Tony's trembling hands reach for it, his breath hitching the moment he catches sight of the initials embroidered in gold.

PSR.

And then he sees it—the dark stain of blood.

Everything stops.

Steve and Tony’s world crashes into silence as the red deepens, spreading until it swallows everything…

their breath,

their heart,

their hope...

 

---

Hours earlier

 

“Peter.”

Tony steps into his eight-year-old son’s room, drawing the blinds open with a seamless swipe of his hand. Sunlight floods in, spilling across the scattered toys on the floor, while Manhattan’s skyline stands tall in the distance, already bathed in the morning’s radiance.

Tony sits on the edge of Peter’s bed, leaning down to press a soft kiss to his son's temple, his fingers lightly brushing Peter's messy light brown hair—a perfect blend of his and Steve's, though it leans more toward Steve’s soft waves.

“Peter Stark-Rogers. Come on, baby, time to wake up.”

Peter stirs beneath the covers, his brown eyes fluttering open for a brief second before squeezing shut against the brightness. He lets out a sleepy groan, yanking the duvet back over his head.

“Daddy, nooo… No school today.”

Tony chuckles softly, reclining so he can rest his chin on the small where Peter’s shoulder is tucked beneath the covers.

“Okay then, but didn’t you say you wanna go with your dad today for that school assignment? Or you could tag along with me. I know how much you love sitting through meetings.”

Peter pokes his head out just enough to give his dad a scrunched-up look, whispering, “Boring.”

With a fond smile, Tony gently pinches his son’s nose. “Come’re you,” he says, pulling his son into a hug. Peter wiggles closer, resting his head on Tony’s chest, finding the perfect spot, right where he can hear the steady rhythm of his daddy’s heartbeat—just over the place where the arc reactor used to glow.

“Promise me you’ll stick close to dad, this time, yeah? No wandering off like last time. You can have all the adventures you want here at the tower, but not there. Got it?”

Peter giggles. “Got it, Daddy.”

Peter’s breathing evens out, slipping back into sleep, Tony's gaze softens, lingering on his son’s. It feels like only yesterday Peter was a tiny baby cradled in his arms. He and Steve had cherished every moment of Peter’s childhood—the milestones, every cry, every laugh, the quiet mornings like this one, when the world felt still and perfect. Even now, in moments like these, Tony finds himself wishing he can freeze time, to hold onto the precious seconds before they slip away, as if by holding on just a little longer, he could keep Peter safe forever.

A warm kiss brushes the nape of Tony’s neck, and he glances up, meeting Steve’s eyes just as Steve moves around to Peter’s other side. His broad, muscular frame settles in, wrapping around them both in safety and comfort that makes Tony feel, for a moment, like nothing in the world could touch them.

Steve presses a gentle kiss atop Peter’s head, his gaze flicking back to Tony. “Did you manage to convince him to tag along with you?”

Before Tony can respond, Peter, still half-asleep, mumbles groggily, “I’m going with you, Dad.”

Steve quirks a brow. “Then why are you still in bed, buddy?” He reaches down to tickle Peter’s side.

“Daaad!” Peter’s sleepy laugh bursts out, high-pitched and infectious, as he curls up and grabs at his sides in defense. Tony watches them with a fondness that feels almost too big for his chest.

“I’m getting up!” Peter yells between fits of laughter, scrambling out of bed and heading toward his walk-in closet, still grinning.

Lying together in the quiet of the room, Steve gently nudges Tony's back, pulling him closer, his breath warm against Tony's cheek, while Tony's fingertips trace the sharp line of Steve's cheekbone in a light, affectionate touch. After eight years of marriage, Tony still never tires of this—of Steve's Adonis-like features, of these intimate moments that belong solely to them. Once, they were opposites in every way, clashing on nearly everything, but their love for their son had grounded them, a force that holds them together, stronger than any difference they once had.

“He hates meetings and long flights, Cap. Just show him around for a few hours.”

Steve huffs, exasperation and fondness blending together. “Last time I showed him around, he nearly gave me a heart attack. The entire HQ went on red alert.”

Tony chuckles. “He was four. You know how he loves running around.” His grip on Steve’s arm tightens just slightly. “But don’t let him run around this time.”

“I won’t,” Steve promises, placing a gentle kiss to Tony’s forehead.

“Ahh!! Cold! Cold! Cold!” Peter’s voice echoes from the bathroom.

They both laugh.

“I got it.” Steve rolls out of bed, only to step squarely on a stray Lego piece. He winces, biting back a yelp, while Tony’s laughter fills the room.

 

---

 

Tony drapes a cashmere scarf around Peter's neck, the soft fabric a blend of red and blue—Steve’s and his colors entwined. “Behave, okay? Just stick with your dad.”

Peter exhales dramatically, rolling his eyes in a way that mirrors Tony’s signature gesture. “Daddy, you’ve said that like a million times.”

Tony grins, brushing a thumb gently over Peter’s cheek. “I’ll see you both at dinner.” He pulls Peter into a warm embrace. “I love you, buddy.”

“I love you too,” Peter says, his voice soft before stepping back to take Steve’s hand.

Steve leans in, sharing a brief kiss with Tony, their whispered I love you's exchanged as Peter looks off to the side, pretending not to notice.

With a lingering glance, Tony steps onto his private jet, pausing at the door to watch Steve and Peter make their way toward the quinjet. His gaze holds steady, filled with quiet contentment as he watches the two most important people in his life disappear into the horizon.

 

---

 

Peter sits atop Steve’s broad shoulders as they stroll through the Triskelion grounds, heading toward Steve’s office. It’s a ritual they've had since Peter was two—Steve always carrying him high, giving him the best view of the world. This ride, while different from the thrill of soaring through the sky with Tony, held its own special place in Peter's heart. Now, at eight, Peter still loves it, and Steve doesn’t mind a bit. He treasures the feel of Peter’s small hands gripping his hair, knowing these days are numbered—the boy on his shoulders will grow, and someday he’ll be too big for this. But for now, Steve savors every step, carrying his son through a world that still feels safe and full of wonder.

As they continue their journey, Peter, busy with his homework, bombards Steve with questions about his job. Steve smiles, explaining his roles as Field Commander, Strategic Consultant, and mentor in a way that an eight-year-old could grasp—explaining that he makes sure the good guys win, teaches people how to make smart decisions like a superhero coach, and figures out the best plans to stop the bad guys.

“Fights bad guys,” Peter scribbles under the 'Cool Things Your Parent Does' section of his worksheet, using Steve's head as a makeshift desk, his tiny handwriting a little wobbly from the movement.

Steve chuckles, nodding to a passing colleague who offers a salute. Stopping by the elevator, he feels Peter lean forward, small fingers tracing the lines of his face. “I like when you make people safe, Dad. Just like how you keep Daddy and me safe.”

Steve’s heart swells, his smile softening from the depth of feeling behind it. He lifts Peter’s small hand, pressing a gentle kiss to his knuckles. “I’ll always keep you and Daddy safe, bud. Always.”

“I want to be like you and Daddy when I grow up,” Peter writes his answer to the last question. “I’ll fight bad guys too.”

Steve’s smile falters for just a moment. He and Tony had hoped for something different, something safer, but with Peter sharing Steve’s super-soldier genes—and their values—he knows it might be inevitable.

“With great power comes great responsibility, my son,” Steve says gently, the words a reminder and a promise all at once. He lifts Peter down from his shoulders, settling him against his side where Peter’s small arms loop around his neck. Peter's gaze locks onto his father’s face, trying to grasp the meaning of those words, still just out of reach. His chin rests on Steve’s shoulder, deep in thought.

The elevator chimes, and as the doors slide open, they reveal a small army of black-ops agents packed inside.

“We’ll take the next one,” Steve says, his voice calm, though his eyes flicker over the group, assessing the situation.

“Plenty of room, Cap.” Rumlow grins, waving them in with a gesture that feels more like an order than an invitation. “Hey, Peter.”

“Hi, Mr. Brock. Hi, Mr. Jack,” Peter greets the agents, bright and innocent, as if reciting names from a roll call.

Steve tightens his hold, hoping this is nothing, but his instincts scream otherwise. He catches sight of one agent gripping the elevator rail too tightly, notices sweat beading on another's forehead. They're waiting for him. But no matter what happens, Peter's safety comes first.

He kneels and sets Peter down, his heart pounding harder than he lets show. “How about you show them your Iron helmet, bud?” Steve opens Peter's backpack. Peter nods excitedly.

Steve carefully places and adjusts the helmet on Peter's head before guiding him into the elevator. “Jarvis, activate Protocol Nightlight.” At once, JARVIS plays Peter's current favorite movie, The Incredibles, making it soundproof from the the world outside.

The elevator doors slide shut, and Steve's eyes fix on the blinking floor numbers as they begin their ascent. He straightens, ready. “Before we start…” His voice drops low, steely. “No one touches my son. Understood?”

The agents don't bother to reply—they charge. Steve moves with the precision of a seasoned warrior, each motion a calculated strike. Every punch thrown his way is dodged, every movement shields Peter in the tight space, ensuring no stray hit comes close to his boy. Peter, oblivious to the chaos, shifts uncomfortably, confused by the absence of his dad’s comforting hand and the strange sensation of being jostled.

“Stop movie,” Peter says, bypassing the protocol. The screen goes black just as his eyes catch sight of the unconscious agents piled in the corner, and Rumlow's hands gripping Steve's throat, trying to choke the life out of him.

In a flash of instinct, Peter lunges forward. His small fist connects with Rumlow's stomach, the force far greater than the boy could have imagined. Rumlow slams into the wall, leaving Peter wide-eyed at the result. Steve, caught off guard for a split second, quickly recovers and delivers the final blow, sending Rumlow to the ground, unconscious.

As the elevator dings, arriving at Steve’s office floor, Steve and Peter lock eyes. “Good job, buddy,” Steve says, catching his breath, raising his hand for a high five. Peter grins and eagerly slaps his hand against his dad’s. The moment barely settles before another set of elevator doors slides open behind them.

“Our little super soldier!” Sam grins as he steps out.

“Uncle Sam! Aunt Tasha!” Peter cheers, his excitement bursting. “I helped Dad!”

“Oh, we see that,” Sam says, glancing at the unconscious agents scattered on the floor.

Natasha steps forward, sweeping Peter into her arms. “We missed you, Iron baby.”

“Am not a baby anymore, Auntie,” Peter protests, though he snuggles deeper into her embrace.

Natasha shifts, her tone serious as she meets Steve’s eyes. “We need to talk.”

 

---

 

Inside Steve's office, Natasha reveals a list of names connected to the sinister plot of Hydra, details about the Helicarriers, and the unexpected news that the launch of Project Insight has been moved up to this afternoon. The most shocking revelation isn't just seeing his son's name on the target list, but realizing Peter is here, dangerously close to the impending chaos. They thought they had more time, days at least, but now, they have to move. Fast.

Steve's gaze shifts to his son, who sits on the floor surrounded by scattered Lego pieces. Minutes are slipping away, and his mind scrambles to find a way to keep his boy safe. He promised his husband he won't lose sight of their son, no matter what happens, and he's determined to keep that promise.

“Tony's gonna kill me,” Steve says. Sam and Natasha exchange concerned glances but remain silent, understanding the gravity of the situation. The mission itself is dangerous enough, but the thought of something happening to Peter terrifies Steve more than any enemy he's ever faced. Tony would never forgive him. And Steve knows, deep down, he won't forgive himself either.

Natasha breaks the tense silence. “Can't Tony come here?”

“He's halfway around the world. Has a meeting in Dubai.”

“We have less than an hour,” Sam interjects.

With Sam and Natasha heading to their posts, Steve sends out a broadcast to SHIELD, exposing Hydra's infiltration. The die is cast. Before departing for the Helicarriers to plant the chip, Steve ensures Peter's safety, strapping him into the quinjet parked at a secure distance from the Triskelion.

“Stay here, okay? Don’t go anywhere. Don’t open the hangar unless it’s me. I promise I'll be back before you know it.”

Peter clutches a lego Darth Vader, his small fingers fidgeting as he looks up at Steve. “Can I come with you, Dad? I can help.”

“It's too dangerous, Peter.” Steve brushes his thumb gently over Peter's chubby cheek.

“Cause of Uncle Bucky?” Peter's innocent question cuts deep. Steve had shared stories of his childhood with Peter—Bucky, his oldest friend, and might’ve picked up on their earlier conversation about the Winter Soldier.

Steve forces a smile. “Yeah, bud. But don't worry. After this, we'll go on your first mission, alright? We'll rescue your lost spider stuffed toy at the compound.”

Peter brightens, though still uncertain. “You promise?”

Steve nods, leaning in for a hug, pressing a soft kiss on Peter's cheek. “I love you.”

“I love you too. Be careful, Dad.” His small arms loops around Steve's neck.

As Steve pulls away, the weight of what's to come settles over him. With one last look at his son, he steps out of the quinjet, ready to face whatever lies ahead, driven by the need to create a safer world for Peter.

 

---

 

Peter can't stand staying still. He's easily distracted, always itching to move, always needing something to do. Within minutes of sitting down, he's already unbuckling his seatbelt, exploring every nook and cranny of the Quinjet. There are no toys here; they're all left back at Dad's office.

Glancing outside, Peter sees they're parked by a park. A playground bustles with activity, and food trucks line up, bright and inviting. He longs to run over and play with the other kids—or better yet, get something to eat. Dad promised he'd be back soon, and they'd grab food together. But Peter's stomach grumbles, loud and impatient.

“Jarvis, can you order me something from the trucks?”

JARVIS scans the area, pulling up contact info for the food trucks. “I'm afraid they don't offer delivery, young master.”

Peter frowns. “But I'm hungry.”

“There are snacks in the compartment.” The panel slides open, revealing neatly stacked snacks inside. But Peter only pouts, eyeing the options with disinterest. He doesn't want snacks—he wants tacos.

His mind wanders to the tacos he, Kate, and Johnny get from the food truck after class at Dalton, their private school in Manhattan. They'd sit by the playground near the tower, laughing and playing while their chaperones watched from a distance. Kate and Johnny have been his best friends since kindergarten. They're always together, a trio of privileged kids with bright futures ahead. But today, it's just him, stuck on the Quinjet, waiting. And the snacks? They're just not cutting it.

Peter slips on his Iron helmet, overrides JARVIS' warning—a skill he's mastered after watching his daddy work on tech—and opens the hangar. “Be back in a jiffy, J.”

Moments later, Peter stands in front of the taco truck. The owner smiles at him. “Hey, little Iron Man, what can I get you?”

Peter lifts his helmet, revealing his face with a small smile. “Hi... Can I get your most popular taco, please?” He tiptoes, handing over a black card with Tony Stark engraved on it. The owner's eyes widen but accepts it. Minutes later, Peter's clutching a paper bag of tacos, happily munching as he walks back toward the Quinjet.

Suddenly, screams erupt from the direction of the Triskelion. People rush out of the building in panic. A gust of icy wind rips through the area, and Peter's scarf whips from his neck, carried off by the breeze.

“No!” Peter lunges for it, but it soars further toward the building. He sprints after it, the cool air stinging his cheeks. Just as his fingers brush the fabric, a massive shadow looms overhead.

The Helicarrier. Falling.

Peter freezes, his young eyes widening as the ship descends like a collapsing titan from the sky. The world slows, the screams fading, and in that suspended moment, everything else fades—the tacos, the scarf, all forgotten, drowned by the thundering heartbeat in his ears.

All Peter can think about is his dads, and how he wishes he had just stayed on the Quinjet.

 

 

---

 

 

A convoy of black sedans crosses into South America, tires crunching over the rough terrain in the dead of the night.

“Pierce is dead. We’ve lost control of the Winter Soldier,” an undercover Hydra agent says into the phone.

The driver's eyes flick to the rearview mirror, then back to the winding road ahead. In the backseat, Peter’s small body lies motionless, his face bloodied and bruised, his head resting against the torn remains of his Iron Man helmet. Only one half of the helmet clings to his head, almost shattered beyond recognition.

“Doesn’t matter,” Rumlow says, his smirk widening into a cold grin. “We’ve got a new puppet.”

 

Chapter 2: Stars

The paintbrush glides smoothly across the wall, forming the shape of a baby spider with wide, innocent eyes. Steve dips the brush into the paint and continues tracing. Art has always been his escape from work, and painting their future son's room has become his biggest project in recent months, alongside preparing the nursery and taking care of his husband.

“You're sure we're going with spiders?” Tony leans against the doorway, one hand resting on his rounded belly.

Steve smiles, setting the brush aside, and turns to face him.

“I mean, it's cute,” Tony adds. “But spiders are usually among the top ten scariest for kids, honey.”

Steve steps forward, resting his hand on the spot where Peter usually kicks. “It’s what excites our son the most, my love,” he says, feeling a familiar nudge against his palm.

“Yeah, definitely feels like it.” Tony winces, rubbing his belly, the kicks now more uncomfortable than the wonder they’d inspired when he first felt them. He glances up, catching Steve’s gaze, filled with the same deep affection—so familiar, so steady, like nothing else in the world matters but him. “What?”

“Thank you.” Steve leans in and presses a gentle kiss to his lips. “For our family. For marrying me.”

“Cap, I know you're so hopelessly in love with me, but that's not gonna get you laid tonight. Your son's been giving me hell.”

Steve laughs. “How about a massage then?”

“Hmm, now you’re speaking my language,” Tony smirks, turning to lead the way, his hand slipping into Steve’s.

Now, as Steve stands in Peter’s room, the memory brings a bittersweet smile to his face. He comes in every night, after yet another fruitless search. They cling to Peter’s things—clothes, sheets, toys arranged just so—as if preserving every detail could somehow keep their son close. Tony comes in his own time, more often than Steve, though they never seem to be in the room together. Well, Tony can’t—not since they came home without their son.

Steve’s eyes drift to the spider painting on the wall, noticing a small crack in it. Barely there, but enough to catch his attention. An eyesore, much like the sudden crack in their marriage. Only, this crack isn’t small. It runs deep—a rift between them, unspoken but ever-present, eroding the warmth from their home. They haven’t truly seen each other since, unable to hold each other’s gaze for long. Steve’s afraid—afraid that if he does, he’ll see the full force of Tony’s anger and grief, and the crushing weight of his own guilt will grow heavier still.

“Dadda, I made a drawing!” Three-year-old Peter runs toward Steve, clutching a piece of paper in his small hands. He’s still ‘Dadda’ at this age; by six, he’s ‘Dad’. The drawing shows a stick figure of the three of them, Tony in his armor, Steve with the star on his chest, and Peter in the middle—their glue, their balance, their heart that holds them together.

“This is beautiful, Pete. We've got a future artist here.” Steve peppers Peter’s cheek with kisses, making him burst into giggles.

“Future engineer too, aren't you, bud?” Tony grins from across the room.

Peter nods enthusiastically. “I'll be both!”

The memory flickers in Steve’s mind, a flash of happiness eclipsed by the present. His throat tightens as he swallows the lump that rises. They have so many dreams and hopes for their son, but more than anything, they want him to be happy and safe. That’s what matters most, that Peter is healthy and happy.

Steve moves through the quiet kitchen, his eyes briefly catching the drawing, still pinned to the fridge by a magnet, before he heads straight to the lab where Tony’s usually holed up. His footsteps echo on the stillness—a far cry from the usual light and laughter that used to fill their home. Tony’s been working nonstop, creating devices to scan the Triskelion debris, searching the Earth for any trace of Peter.

When Steve enters the lab, he finds Tony slumped over his desk, asleep—head resting on his arm, the other hand loosely gripping a half-empty glass of scotch.

“Love...”

Tony doesn’t stir. He’s been finding Tony like this more and more lately, a drink in hand before Steve can even stop him. Gently, Steve lifts Tony and carries him to their bedroom. He removes Tony's shoes, pulls the duvet over him, and watches his every breath, peaceful for the moment.

Steve lies beside him, wishing he could just say how sorry he is. Sorry for breaking his promise to keep their family safe. Sorry for not being there to protect their son. Sorry for failing as a hero and as a father. But no amount of sorry can bring back their son.

The next morning, Steve wakes to an empty bed. The intimate mornings they once shared—cuddling close, skin to skin, breath to breath, have now become a fading memory. He lies there for a moment, staring at the space where Tony should be, knowing Tony has retreated to either the lab or their son's room. This morning, it's the latter.

In Peter's room, Tony lies on the bed, clutching their son's pillow, breathing in the faint scent of Peter that still lingers, eyes vacant as he stares out the window.

Steve quietly slips beside him, sliding an arm around Tony’s waist. He presses his face against Tony's neck, placing a soft kiss there, but Tony remains motionless. Steve realizes just how much he’s missed his husband—so close, yet so far.

“Breakfast?”

“You go ahead.”

“Have you eaten something since yesterday’s breakfast? Tony, you’ve got to stop drinking—”

“I’m fine,” Tony snaps, sitting up abruptly. He leaves the room, heading straight for the kitchen. Steve follows, his gaze never leaving Tony, the silence between them heavy, suffocating only broken by the whir of the blender. They're far from fine—it's the last word that could describe what they've become.

“Captain Rogers, you have a voicemail from Detective Calder,” JARVIS interrupts. A boy’s body has been found, and they need both Steve and Tony to come in.

Tony’s eyes meet Steve’s for a brief moment. “It’s not Peter,” he says, voice flat, but the stiffness in his shoulders betrays him.

Steve wants to believe it too. Tells himself their son is still out there, alive and well. His eyes drift to the sunny-side-up eggs sizzling in the pan—the way Peter likes them. But before he can speak, Tony's already heading for the lab.

Steve stares after him, feels the crack between them widening. Tony’s slipping away from him, and deep down, Steve fears there’s nothing he can do to stop it.

 

 

---

 

 

Tony has been sober for nine years. Nine. One more year would have marked a full decade. That is, until having a drink becomes the only way he can tolerate the devastating reality of his son's absence.

He knows he shouldn't blame Steve. They all saw the quinjet footage—Steve securing Peter, Peter overriding the protocols himself, wandering to the trucks, straying off to retrieve the scarf. That was the last thing the cameras caught. But every time Tony looks at his husband, he can’t shake the bitter reminder that Steve saved thousands—even his long-lost best friend—everyone except their son.

They always knew the risks of their superhero lives. That’s why they went to such lengths to protect Peter from the media, making sure no one knew his face or where he went to school. Paparazzi shots scrubbed from the internet. Everything was to keep him safe, to prevent him from becoming a target. And yet, despite it all, he vanished without a trace.

Tony wonders if he should’ve been there. If he should’ve stayed a full-time dad, watching over Peter, instead of returning to his CEO role when Peter started first grade at seven. Maybe then Peter would’ve been safe, protected like he always should’ve been.

Now, every waking moment, he worries. Is Peter alive? If he is, is he okay? What's happening to him? Is he safe? Hurt? Eating well? The thoughts swirl until Tony forces himself to stop, to breathe, and reach for his anxiety meds before he spirals down any further.

Each time the search pings back the same dead end, Tony feels a tension headache. He takes naps in Peter's bed, the faint scent of his son on the sheets the only thing relaxing him. Other times, he wanders to the playground where Peter and his friends play. He and Steve used to take turns chaperoning whenever Steve had time off work. Now, Tony sits there, disguised, his mind looping Peter's laughter, the way he’d scrape his knee from running too fast when he was much younger, and the cries that always followed.

Lost in thought, Tony barely registers the approach of a little blond boy, sipping from a juice box, a little girl trailing beside him. It only takes a glance for him to recognize them—Johnny and Kate, Peter’s best friends.

“Johnny, don’t bother him.” Kate tugs at Johnny’s shirt, but Johnny takes a step closer anyway.

“When’s Peter coming back, Mr. Stark?”

Tony forces a smile, though it barely holds. “Soon, kids. He’s coming home soon.”

“We made this for him.” Johnny holds out a small clear container filled with tiny paper stars. “Our teacher said wishing upon a star makes your wish come true. Maybe these stars will bring Peter home.”

Tony’s throat tightens as he accepts the gift. “Thank you.”

Kate and Johnny smile, hand in hand they return to the swings.

Franklin, Johnny’s father, and Eleanor, Kate’s mom, spot him from a distance and approach.

“We’re sorry about what happened, Tony,” Franklin says gently.

“If there’s anything we can do,” Eleanor adds.

Tony hates their tone—the way it sounds as if his son’s already gone. There’s nothing they can do. But he forces a smile, thanks them, and heads back toward the waiting Royce where Happy stands by, ready to take him back to the tower.

That night, Tony sits on the edge of the tower's landing pad, his gaze lost in the sea of Manhattan's twinkling lights. Steve returns earlier than expected, silently joining him. Between them lie the paper stars, a bottle of scotch, and a single glass. To Tony’s surprise, Steve pours himself a drink and downs it, despite knowing it won’t give him the numbing escape he seeks.

“How did it go?”

“Not our son.”

Relief floods Tony, a weight he hadn’t realized he was carrying lifting from his chest. But almost immediately, a darker thought takes hold, constricting his chest. He takes another sip before laying bare his fears.

“Does it make me a terrible father if I'd rather he be gone than know he's out there somewhere, kidnapped or hurt?”

Steve's gaze remains fixed on the distant city lights. “No, it doesn’t.”

Silence settles between them until Steve’s gaze shifts to the paper stars.

“What’s this?”

“Peter’s best friends made it. They say if we wish on it, Peter comes home.”

Their eyes meet, and they share a chuckle. Though weak, it's the first genuine moment of levity they've shared, a moment of respite in their ongoing nightmare.

“Thoughtful little kids.”

That night, and every night since, they wish upon the stars—paper stars, city stars, the stars above. Seasons change, but Peter remains missing. They find half of the Iron Man helmet, one of Peter’s shoes, and his scarf. Nothing more. Still, they refuse to let the case close.

Their routine falls apart; arguments drag on through the night, no longer softened by whispered apologies at bedtime.

The distance between them grows; where once they understood each other with a single glance, now they struggle to grasp what the other is thinking.

Tony reaches for the scotch more often, but Steve always gets home just before Tony can pour a second drink. Tony recoils, but eventually relents, choosing silence over confrontation.

But one rainy night, Steve comes home to find Tony slumped on the floor of the lab, a near-empty bottle beside him.

“That’s enough, love.”

Steve gently takes the glass from Tony's hand. He helps him to his feet, but Tony stumbles, his fist hitting Steve’s chest.

“Bring him back. Bring my son back.”

“Tony—”

“You promised!” Tony shoves him away, gripping the edge of the table. “You promised you'd never take your eyes off him! You promised you'd keep him safe! Where is he now, Steve? Our son… Peter… Peter’s our everything, and now he’s gone. We have nothing left.”

Tony steps closer, his gaze cold and sharp, cutting into Steve. “You and me? We're done.” He pulls back, about to turn away, but Steve grabs his arm.

“We made a vow, Tony. We promised we wouldn’t quit, that we’d stand by each other no matter what.”

Tony's jaw clenches. “We only got married because we fucked around and you knocked me up.”

Steve’s eyes plead with Tony, desperately clinging to the fragile thread between them. “I married you because I love you.”

Once, love was all they needed. But now, as everything collapses around them, love, as it turns out, isn’t enough to hold them together.

Tony yanks his arm free. “Promises don’t mean anything anymore.”

The chasm spreads everywhere, splitting their home. The cold seeps in, snuffing out the last spark of warmth until only darkness remains.

 

Chapter 3: Moon

Four-year-old Peter stares up at the moon, its soft light shimmering across the Malibu waves. His small head rests against Tony's shoulder as Tony cradles him in the backseat of the Royce, the car gliding toward the mansion.

“Daddy?”

“Hmm?”

“Why does the moon follow me wherever I go?”

Tony glances at Steve, sitting beside him, and they exchange a soft smile. He presses his cheek against Peter’s head. “Because it’s always watching over you, no matter where you are. Just like your Dadda and I.”

Steve runs his fingers through Peter’s hair. “We’re always looking after you, bud.”

Peter doesn't remember much from when he was four—just fragments of Christmases at the Malibu mansion to escape the cold New York winters; but those words from his dads stayed with him, etched into his mind and heart.

Now, those same words hold him together as he sits in the corner, knees pulled tight to his chest. His lips quiver, cheeks stinging with tears that refuse to stop. He gazes out from the tiny, grimy window of his room, the pale glow of the moon his only companion; its soft light reminding him he's not alone, though he's never felt more isolated. Since waking up in this dank, shadowy room, all he's done is call for his dads, only to be met with silence or harsh dismissals.

A loud clang breaks the silence, making Peter flinch.

“Quiet! Don’t you ever get tired of crying?”

“I want Dad… I want Daddy,” Peter sobs. “Give me back to my dads.” He can’t sleep without his Dads’ hugs, without their goodnight kisses, the warmth that used to chase the nightmares away.

“Your daddies already think you’re dead, brat. So shut the hell up and let us get some rest, will you?” a guard says, only to be smacked in the head by Rumlow.

“They’re never going to find you, Peter. Get some sleep. Big day tomorrow.” Rumlow turns to leave.

Anger flares inside Peter, and before he realizes it, his hand grabs the nearby fork and hurls it. It whizzes past Rumlow, inches from his face, embedding itself in the wall.

Rumlow smirks. “That’s gonna come in handy. Hold onto that for tomorrow.”

 

---

 

“Ugh, I don’t eat that.” Peter shoves the metal tray of breakfast away, the clatter echoing off the cold, hard floor. He craves eggs like his Dad makes them—sunny-side up, with toasted bagels thickly smeared with cream cheese. And the smoothies Daddy always blends for him. Not this cold, tasteless bread, dry meatloaf, and rubbery scrambled eggs.

“Spoiled, privileged shit,” the guard snaps. “Think this is a hotel?”

Peter's eyes narrow. “Who asked you to kidnap me anyway? Least you could do is serve something decent!”

“You’re really Stark’s kid. If it’s up to me, you’d be dead.”

Peter glares up at the guard, unblinking, unflinching, until the guard's eyes falter. Another door swings open, and Rumlow steps in.

“Eat, or you don’t eat at all.”

Peter’s gaze sharpens. “When my dads find me, you’re gonna wish you were dead.”

Rumlow chuckles, a dark, humorless sound. “If they even find you.”

Peter bites down hard on his lip and clenches his fists, determined not to let them see how close he is to tears. He needs to be strong, like his dads. He's a big boy now, like Dad tells him, and he won't let this get to him.

 

---

 

Peter watches as Rumlow assembles a gun. The mechanics of it all come naturally to Peter, an instinct passed down from his daddy’s knack for fixing things. His eyes follow Rumlow as he raises the pistol, lining up his shot. Some bullets hit their mark; others miss.

“Your turn.”

Peter picks up the gun, struggling to manage its weight. “It’s heavy,” he says, lifting it toward the target—only for it to shift, pointing at Rumlow instead.

Rumlow arches a brow, stepping closer until his forehead presses against the barrel. "Go ahead," he taunts. "Let’s see if you’re a murderer, just like your fathers.”

Peter’s gaze holds steady, but his grip tightens. “My dads aren’t murderers. They’re heroes.”

Rumlow sneers. “Tell that to the families of their so-called casualties. Stark made his billions on blood, did you know that? And Captain America, that hypocrite spilled plenty all in the name of his righteous cause.”

Peter’s eyes gloss over as Rumlow’s grin spreads. “It’s the truth.”

It takes everything in Peter to force the gun at the targets. He squeezes the trigger, startled by the recoil, but the shot lands dead center—a perfect bullseye.

Rumlow laughs, glancing at the two way mirror. “You’re a natural.”

But the praise curdles inside Peter, leaving nothing but a bitter taste.

 

---

 

Peter memorizes every detail of his prison—the rhythm of the guard’s taps on the doors, the exact path Rumlow leads him through—training room, shooting range, back to his cell. He maps it all in his mind, charting entrances, exits, every twist and turn.

No matter how strong a front he puts on, Peter's still afraid of the dark and being alone, so he counts primes in his head, just as his daddy taught him to keep the fear at bay. During the day, he finds brief moments of peace by drawing at the wall, reminiscing about the times he and Dad used to sketch together.

At night, he lies awake on the stiff mattress, so different from the cloud-like comfort he's used to. He stares up at the moon and finds solace in the stars—more than he's ever seen in New York or Malibu, reminiscent of the Milky Way. He replays memories of his dads' hugs, and rests his forehead against the broken half of the Iron Man helmet, mimicking his daddy's habit; the comforting gesture lulling him to sleep as he wishes his dads would find him soon.

Peter forces himself to swallow every tasteless meal, longing for the home-cooked meals his dad makes. He misses his toys, his Lego pieces now warped into jagged gun parts. The playground where he once laughed with friends replaced by laps around a track and grueling obstacle courses meant to break him down, to build endurance.

Each day, his childhood slips further away, leaving only the instinct for survival in its place, forcing him to grow up too fast.

Every five days, Rumlow takes him to Dr. Octavia, according to her ID. She draws his blood—it only stings, like an ant bite—and hands him a lollipop afterward, engaging him in small talk.

“Do you like it here, Peter?”

Peter's brow furrows. She looks kind, but the question makes him question her motives.

“Oh, totally. I hear this place got awesome reviews on Kidnapped Kids Quarterly,” Peter smiles, and she chuckles.

For a while, Peter thinks she’s the kindest person here, always asking him how he’s feeling, gives him little treats, even supplies the chalks and art kits he’s requested, brushing off his snarky remarks with easy laughter—until one day, he overhears them on the other room.

“As much as I'd love to try, we can't use the same mind control on him that they did on Barnes,” she says, her voice suddenly cold.

“Why not?” Rumlow's gruff voice follows.

“He’s too young. If we push it, we’ll fry him. He won’t be a mindless assassin loyal to us, he’ll just be... mindless. Worse than useless. He’ll be a vegetable.”

“So, what's the plan then?”

“While I perfect that that chemical subjugation compound...” She smirks, eyes gleaming with psychotic excitement. “Let me try one of my experiments on him. His super-soldier genes might be compatible with one of my pets.”

Peter’s heart slams against his chest. Panic claws at him as he stumbles backward, knocking over a glass container. It shatters, the spider inside scurrying out.

The crash draws their attention.

Peter doesn’t waste a second. His eyes land on an extra ID card on the floor carelessly left in the debris of the container. He grabs it, heart racing, and bolts for the door. Swiping the card, he unlocks every door as he sprints through the facility. Guards rush at him, but he punches them down without slowing.

He bursts through the final door and out into blinding sunlight. A sea of trees surrounds him, nothing but green in every direction. He runs, breath ragged, legs burning, until the dense forest gives way to a small town.

People. Good people.

Relief crashes over Peter, and he nearly weeps with joy.

A woman from a nearby canteen spots him, taking in his disheveled state—his feet and clothes caked with dirt, sweat slicking his skin.

“Añarangue, mitã!” [My goodness, child!]

Peter staggers toward her, her language foreign to his ears. “Where—where am I?”

“Estás en Paraguay, niño.” Thankfully, Peter understands Spanish.

“Puedo tomar prestado tu teléfono? Por favor, please, please.” Peter glances nervously over his shoulder.

The woman digs into her pocket and hands him her phone.

Peter’s hand shakes as he punches in his father’s number, the one he's known by heart since childhood.

The line rings.

“Pick up, pick up, pick up...”

Time stretches agonizingly until, finally, Peter hears his daddy’s voice. “You've reached the life model decoy of Tony Stark.”

“Daddy!” Peter breaks into a grin, the first genuine one he's had since, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes.

There’s a soft inhale on the other end before Tony’s voice returns, sharper, more real. “Peter...”

Before Peter can say another word, the phone flies from his hand. Gunfire erupts in the canteen. Octavia, Rumlow, and their goons open fire, killing everyone—including the woman who had kindly handed Peter her phone.

Peter stares in shock at her lifeless body on the floor, blood pooling at his feet. He brought this slaughter to them.

“You don’t have to kill them!”

Rumlow’s gaze is cold. “Run away again, and these people won’t be the last.”

Peter's eyes flick to a nearby gun from a guard. In one swift motion, he snatches it and levels it at Rumlow. But before he can muster the courage to pull the trigger, a sharp sting shoots through the back of his neck. His vision blurs, doubling. The ground rushes up to meet him, and everything fades to black.

As Peter collapses, Octavia steps forward, inspecting the fresh bite on his neck. She claps gleefully, holding the dead spider in her palm. “There you are.” She nudges Peter's body with her heel, rolling him over. “Went ahead with my little pet, didn't you?”

“Don't tell me that thing killed him,” Rumlow says, gripping Octavia's arm as guards lift Peter's limp form.

She sneers. “Quite the opposite, darling.”

Rumlow speaks into his radio. “Let's move out. The Avengers will be here soon.”

 

 

 

---

 

 

 

“Are you sure about this, Tony?”

Tony glances at Natasha, seated nearby, then turns his gaze back to the floor-to-ceiling windows, the lawn and lake stretching out beyond the compound, reflections rippling across the glass, of Peter biking around the grounds, evenings spent boating across the lake, watching sunsets with Peter and Steve.

“Tony,” Pepper interjects from her seat. “You and Steve have no prenup. If you go through with this, he gets half of everything.” She shoots a glance at Natasha. “No offense.”

Natasha smiles. “None taken. I’m not his lawyer.”

“Does he even have one?” Rhodey asks, crossing his arms. Natasha only shrugs. He shifts his focus back to Tony. “Christ, Tones. You two should be standing together, not splitting apart. Especially now.”

Tony spins his chair toward them, a hiss of frustration escaping. “What is this? What are you all doing here? An intervention? Too late for that.” He pushes up from his seat, heading for the bar.

Rhodey’s words chase him. “Peter won’t want to come back to a broken home.”

Tony exhales sharply, his patience wearing thin as he fumbles through the shelves behind the counter, his hands coming up empty. “Where the hell are my whiskeys?”

“Steve threw it all out,” Natasha says.

“Fuck’s sake. Such a grandpa.” Tony's hand trembles as he reluctantly grabs a bottle of water instead. The cold plastic feels like a mockery of what he really needs. He cracks it open, the bland taste doing nothing to numb the pain in his chest.

Since Steve moved out of the tower, he not only cleared out all the alcohol but also locked Tony out from getting more—JARVIS and Happy both under strict orders to not replenish it. Everyone around Tony, all united in this effort to keep him sober. Now, with his lawyers about to finalize the divorce, Tony feels the absence of his vices like an open wound, the burn of withdrawal hitting harder, every loss bleeding into that void.

The door swings open, and Steve walks in with Sam. Tony doesn’t bother looking. Where he used to never tire of Steve’s face, now he can’t even look at him without wanting to punch his perfect face, his perfect teeth. But even from across the room, Tony’s stomach betrays him—still feeling Steve's pull.

“I don’t want anything,” Steve says.

“Man?” Sam shoots Steve an incredulous look, only to be silenced by Natasha’s glare. Sam takes a seat beside her. “I’m just saying, this is his chance to be a millionaire.”

“I just want to be able to visit Peter’s room in every one of our homes,” Steve adds, voice softer now.

Tony sinks back into his chair. “Access to everything. Great.”

The lawyers summarize the terms. Steve and Tony will remain the leaders of the Avengers, with Tony financing and Steve commanding. Tony's assets remain his own, and they'll share custody of Peter.

When Tony finally looks at Steve, his eyes land on the stuffed spider toy in Steve’s hand. His breath catches.

“You found it,” Tony says, his words halting the lawyers' droning.

“Yeah.” Steve's smile is faint, a ghost of happier times. “Turns out it got stuck in the gap behind Peter’s bed.” He hands the toy to Tony, and as Tony takes it, his throat constricts, a vise tightening around his chest. The softest trace of Peter’s baby scent still lingers there.

“Sir,” one of the lawyers prompts, gesturing to the papers laid out before them.

Tony feels Steve’s gaze searing into him, but his eyes stay locked on the line where his name needs to go. He can’t bring himself to meet those blue eyes. He knows what he'll see there—hurt and love, enough to unravel him, to remind him of the love he’s buried beneath layers of blame and ache.

Steve’s last words echo in his mind, the ones that still haunt him—because Tony had been the one to push him away.

“I’m always gonna love you.”

It's funny how a piece of paper can define a life—birth certificates, marriage licenses, and now this.

Tony signs, the scratch of pen on paper deafening in the silent room. Steve does the same, each stroke a nail in the coffin of their relationship.

As Tony sets the pen down, their beginning replays in his mind—stolen glances across crowded rooms, heated arguments blurring into passionate kisses, late nights sneaking into the lab, Steve's lips on his neck, their shared laughter, the surprise and joy of two lines on a pregnancy test, the cheers and fireworks from their wedding at a castle in upstate New York—friends turned family, celebrating a love they thought would last forever.

This ending feels just like their beginning—everything on a whim, everything uncertain.

The silence shatters as Tony’s phone rings.

“Oh, barely a second there, and these vultures are already on me.” Tony stands up, swiping the screen. He answers in his usual mock greeting for the press, putting the call on speaker. “You've reached the life model decoy of Tony Stark.”

“Daddy!”

Tony freezes, the familiar voice hitting him like a shockwave.

“Peter…”

Steve is already on his feet, going over Tony’s side.

“Peter, baby, where—” Tony’s voice trembles, panic sharp in his chest, but the line goes dead.

“Jarvis, trace the call. Now,” Tony orders, summoning his suit. Steve strides toward the hangar, Sam and Natasha already moving to follow, while Rhodey goes to his suit.

An hour and a half later, Tony lands in the middle of nowhere in Paraguay, the exact location JARVIS traced. He scans the area. Not a single living soul in sight—only bodies, scattered across a small canteen.

Rhodes lands moments after. “My god," he says, taking in the carnage.

Tony struggles to keep his breathing steady as his eyes catch a phone on the ground, shattered with a bullet lodged in it. He scans it, confirming Peter’s fingerprints.

“Sir, there's a facility five miles from here,” JARVIS informs.

"Go ahead. I'll handle it here," Rhodey says.

Tony touches down at the facility, deep in the rainforest, surrounded by an oppressive canopy of dense trees and eerie silence. His scan shows no signs of life—no vehicles, no people. His fists clench. They cleared out fast.

Inside, the dark facility feels like a graveyard. The shadows cling to the walls as he passes a training room, a shooting range, a clinic. Every step cuts deeper into Tony. Peter had been here all along. Peter had even run five miles from here just to reach out, just to call them. His Peter. His baby he swore to protect from any harm, walking these halls, carrying burdens no child should ever bear.

Rounding a corner, he finds it—a small room that instantly screams Peter, the innocent chalk drawings on the walls stopping Tony cold. The ache in Tony’s chest tightens, doubling. He can almost see his son, alone and scared, staring out the tiny window.

Stepping out of his suit, Tony traces the drawings with trembling fingers. The skyline of New York, a playground with Kate and Johnny, their Avengers family at the compound, and then—Tony in his Iron Man suit, Steve in his Captain America gear, with Peter between them, wearing red and blue. Their heart. The embodiment of everything they've fought for.

Footsteps approach from behind him, and Tony turns to see Steve standing there, eyes mirroring the same devastation.

“He’s just a kid,” Tony whispers, his voice breaking. Since losing Peter, he’s held himself together, refusing to let grief consume him. But now, the dam breaks, and the tears flow. “He’s just a kid.”

Steve steps forward and gathers Tony into an embrace, their walls crumbling as they hold onto each other amidst the ruins.

 

Chapter 4: Hide and Seek

“Gotcha!”

Steve’s grin fades as he finds only empty space behind the bookshelf—Peter’s usual hiding spot.

Somewhere in the penthouse, three-year-old Peter stifles a quiet giggle from his new secret lair.

Steve peeks behind the curtains. Nothing. He’s already searched the closets, but no luck there either. He finally pauses at the open door of Tony’s lab, raising a brow at his husband, who’s poorly concealing a smile behind his hand.

A small, hushed voice whispers from the lab. “Daddy, don’t tell.”

Steve and Tony try not to laugh, Tony throwing a reassuring wink toward Peter, who's hidden under his workbench.

“Where could Peter be, love? Any ideas?” Steve asks, playing along.

“Haven’t seen him around, honey. Maybe you should check under the beds?”

“Oh, you’re right! I haven’t thought of that.”

Peter hears Steve’s footsteps fading away, thinking the coast is clear. Just as he relaxes, Steve appears out of nowhere, causing Peter to squeal in surprise.

“There you are!” Steve scoops him up, spinning Peter in his arms while Tony watches with a fond smile, his heart full at the sight of his boys.

“You found me!” Peter bursts into giggles as Steve peppers his face with kisses.

“Always will, bud. We'll always find you.”

Standing now in Peter’s bedroom, Steve gazes over Manhattan, the sunrise painting the skyline in warm summer hues. The city slowly awakens, but Peter’s room remains frozen in time—his toys neatly in place, untouched yet still there, just as they’ve always been.

“Where are you, bud?” Steve whispers, the words escaping like a quiet plea.

How he wishes this were just a simple game of hide and seek. But it’s been over two years since Paraguay, and they haven’t had a solid lead since.

Steve and Tony have scoured the globe, their team helping wherever possible. Rhodes searches South America when his government work allows; Sam and Clint cover North America; Tony and Natasha work Europe and the Middle East; Bruce focuses on Africa; and Steve combs through Asia. Tracking Hydra’s movements is as endless as it is. Every time they get close, the trail vanishes, one head of Hydra severed, only for another to sprout in its place.

Steve occasionally returns to the compound when urgent matters arise. Tony juggles running his company, with Pepper keeping it afloat. Holidays are nothing more than ordinary days of searching, scattered across continents, only seeing each other through brief team updates. Despite everything, they never stop.

Now, they’ve come home—just for their son’s eleventh birthday, even if it’s only to pause, to stand, and remember.

Steve senses a presence behind him and turns to find Tony leaning casually against the doorway. Their eyes lock, and for a moment, Steve swears he's seeing Tony for the first time again—just like that day on the helicarrier, after their first argument, when he realized his attraction to Tony was unlike anything he’d felt before. Even now, after everything they've been through, that feeling hasn’t faded, and it still aches, seeing the distance between them.

“Hey,” Tony greets, a smile ghosting his lips but never reaching his eyes.

Steve returns the smile, faint but there. “Hey.”

“You just got here?”

“Been at the compound since last night. You?”

“Yeah, just got in. Stayed at Malibu.”

Tony steps toward Peter’s closet. Steve follows, watching as Tony picks up one of Peter’s long-sleeve shirts, lifting it to his nose, breathing in. “He’s probably outgrown a lot of this by now.”

Steve’s gaze shifts to the shoes, thinking the same about them, the memories they always carry and both share, but neither voices aloud.

“What do you think he’s doing now?” Tony asks.

Steve hesitates, refusing to give in to darker thoughts. He grips onto hope, however fragile. “Celebrating his birthday. Eating cake. Playing with his friends.”

Tony grins, though his eyes cloud over. For a moment, they stand in silence, praying that Peter is doing just that—and if not, that he’s at least safe, unharmed.

Tony drifts toward the shelf, fingers grazing the edges of Peter’s awards—Math Whiz, Star Student, Kindness Award from kindergarten, Best in Science. A lump rises in Tony's throat, but he swallows hard, his breath coming sharp. His brilliant, kind baby, who should be in grade five by now, with nothing to worry about except school, friends, and soccer practice, instead caught up in a nightmare Tony swore he’d make Hydra pay for.

He turns back to Steve, who stands quietly, holding a Lego figure, the last toy he clung to before they lost him.

“You gonna bake his favorite?”

“You got ingredients here?”

“Up for a grocery run?”

“For you?” Steve’s smile returns. “Always.”

They walk side by side, settling into the familiar rhythm of their steps—almost like old times, almost like home. But as they reach the lounge, a figure waiting there stops them, Tony’s easy smile vanishing.

“Buck,” Steve says in surprise.

Tony’s eyes narrow. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

“Your AI let me in, said I could find you both here,” Bucky says. “Hope that’s alright.”

Tony’s expression darkens. He strides toward Bucky, ignoring Steve’s protests, and throws a punch that lands squarely on Bucky’s jaw.

“That’s for my parents.” Tony winds up for another strike, but Steve catches his arm, gently restraining him.

“If you,” Tony’s voice cracks, “If you hadn’t been there that day, my husband… my son would still…” The slip of still calling Steve his husband, the what-could’ve-beens stinging harder than the pain in his knuckles.

Bucky’s gaze stays fixed on the floor, his expression heavy with regret. “I’m sorry, Tony. I had no control over it… I’m sorry.”

Steve leans in, whispering softly in Tony’s ear. “Bucky’s on our side. He’s been tracking Hydra in East Asia.”

Bucky unzips his backpack and pulls out a broken piece of the Iron Man helmet—the one they never found. “Found this in an abandoned facility in Mongolia. By the time I got there, they’d already cleared out.”

Tony reaches for the broken piece, his fingers trembling.

“And this,” Bucky adds, pulling out a small notebook. “Octavia’s planner. She has an appointment in Berlin. We can track her down there.”

Tony steps back, eyes glued to the helmet in his hands, retreating toward the lab, leaving Steve and Bucky behind in the lounge.

“Thank you.” Steve lifts his hand for their handshake.

Bucky clasps it firmly. “Least I could do. It’s about time you both find your son.”

Steve sighs, glancing after Tony. He’s gained his best friend back, but at what cost, when he’s lost his son, his husband.

“Maybe a little heads-up next time?” Steve adds. “You know how my husband gets with you.”

“My bad,” Bucky chuckles. “Thought you two divorced? Still calling each other husbands?”

“Force of habit.” Steve flips through his planner, heading for the first aid kit.

“You’re not over him, Steve,” Bucky calls over.

Steve doesn't look up. “Never said I was.”

 

---

 

Steve steps into the lab, carrying an ice pack, bandages, and pain reliever. Tony's eyes stay glued to the monitor, searching for any scrap of data from the helmet's sensors that might offer a glimpse of his son.

Without a word, Steve takes Tony’s bruised hand, pressing the ice pack against it with careful hands. “You could’ve summoned your armor first before throwing a punch, you know.”

Tony snorts, his eyes finally dropping to his hand as Steve begins wrapping the bandage. “As if you’d let me beat up your precious best friend.”

“Nothing’s more precious than you and Peter,” Steve says, still focused on his task.

Tony bites his lip, pushing back the guilt coiling in his chest, guilt of tearing them apart. He forces his gaze away from Steve's steady hands—hands that have always held him together, even when he’s falling apart.

Once the bandage is secure, Steve asks, "Got anything?"

“It’s completely fried.” It’s a strange relief. Tony's desperate to know Peter's condition, but terrified of what he might find—every potential hurt magnified a hundredfold in his heart.

“It’s okay,” Steve’s fingers brush the back of Tony’s hand, “We’re closer than before. We’ll find him. We’ll have our son back.”

Tony forces a nod, swallowing the doubt, a part of him clinging to Steve’s words, believing in them despite everything.

Steve gently releases Tony's hand. “Don’t use this for a few days.”

“But—”

“You don’t want it to get worse. We’re heading to Germany tomorrow. I’ll be your hand.”

Tony hates it. Hates how even a divorce couldn't sever their bond. Despite the arguments, the distance—Steve’s still standing by him. Their connection, unspoken yet unbroken, persists—stronger than either of them dares to admit.

 

---

 

Around the bustling Potsdamer Platz in Berlin, Tony sips his coffee at an alfresco restaurant, the quiet clink of the cup hitting the saucer as his eyes lazily track the children playing in a nearby playground. Across from him, Steve mirrors the action, though he’s drinking tea—a strong one, judging by his faint grimace.

“Guy in green coat just handed Octavia a case,” Bucky’s voice crackles through the comms, his vantage point the rooftop of the Kaiser Wilhelm Church giving him a clear line of sight.

“She's leaving the church now," Natasha reports from her unseen position, somewhere inside.

“Oh, she made it out alive?” Tony says, rising from his chair. “Thought for sure she'd burst into flames by now.”

Bucky and Natasha chuckle, but Steve remains focused as he and Tony walk side by side, blending in effortlessly. Both in jackets and sunglasses, they move through the crowd without drawing a second glance. “We need to get that case.”

“She's heading for the subway,” Bucky updates.

“Could you two at least pretend you’re a couple?” Natasha sighs. “You’re walking like you don’t even know each other.”

“And pick up the pace. You’re losing her,” Bucky adds.

Tony hisses as Steve extends his hand, leaving him no choice but to grasp it. They race through the crowded square, closing the distance with Octavia just in time to slip into the subway before the doors slam shut. In the next car, Natasha sits poised, her cool gaze briefly meeting theirs.

“Remind me never to run with this guy again,” Tony says, breathless, collapsing into a seat.

Natasha suppresses a laugh, her attention shifting to the window.

“You alright?” Steve sits beside him.

Tony shoots him a look. “You think?”

Steve unzips his bag and hands Tony a bottle of water.

Tony takes it. “This is why we don’t run together. I’m on mile one, and you’ve already done five.”

Steve’s hand unconsciously moves to rub Tony’s back, the way he always does to comfort him—until they both notice and shift in their seats, trying to shake that slip in easy familiarity.

Settling into more comfortable positions, they glance toward the far end of the train car. Octavia is on the phone, completely oblivious. Tony discreetly pulls out his phone, hacking into her signal to listen in. But it’s just mundane chatter about beauty treatments she’s excited for on her next day off.

“jesus christ,” Tony mutters when the call ends. “Let’s just grab her and start asking questions.”

“She won’t talk. She’d pop a suicide pill before we get a word out of her.”

“With that vanity? I seriously doubt it.”

They both turn their attention to the passing scenery, letting the hum of the train fill the silence. As they roll past another station, Steve's expression softens, his attention drawn to a little boy sitting across from them with his two mothers. Without thinking, Steve drapes his arm around Tony’s shoulders, causing Tony’s brow to arch.

“Getting too comfortable now, Rogers?”

“Undercover,” Steve says, earning an eye roll from Tony.

Steve leans in, his breath warm against Tony’s ear, close enough to send a subtle shiver down his spine. “Remember when I told you I took Peter to Brooklyn when he was seven? Showed him Ma’s house?”

Tony hums, suppressing the flutter in his chest.

“We rode the subway. His first time. He had that same smile.” Steve nods toward the boy.

Tony glances over, seeing the echo of Peter’s adorable grin.

“Though Peter’s smile was even bigger than that,” Steve chuckles. “He was so excited, like you wouldn’t believe.”

A small grin spreads across Tony’s, and as he turns his head, their faces are just inches apart. “Do you still visit there?”

“I moved there. Well, most of my stuff is there. But with this search, I haven’t been back.”

“Kiss,” Natasha’s voice interjects through the comms.

“What?” Tony’s eyes widen.

“Octavia’s eyeing you two. Steve’s head is blocking your face, but a kiss would sell it. Public displays make people uncomfortable, remember? Kiss.”

“I—” Tony starts to protest, but Steve’s hand is already at the back of his neck, pulling him in. Their lips meet, and it feels like their first kiss all over again—the first since their goodbye on the tower landing pad, since they lost their son. They both taste of caffeine and memory, lips moving with the same rhythm they’ve always known—comfort, affection, love.

“Hate to interrupt,” Natasha says, and they pull apart, breathless. “But she stopped looking about thirty seconds ago.”

It only lasts a moment, but for Tony, it feels like forever—and somehow, still not long enough.

They stand, deliberately avoiding each other’s eyes, as they follow Octavia boarding the Intercity Express train heading out of the city. Tony closes in just enough to attach his device to her case, hacking it without ever touching it before she settles into her seat.

In their own seats, Tony tracks the progress on his phone.

“How are we?” Steve asks.

Tony glances down at his screen, resisting the urge to roll his eyes at the timing. “69 percent.”

Steve tries to hide a flush, both of them turning their gazes toward the window.

When the train screeches to a halt at the next station, Steve glances up, his world slowing to a crawl as the kid they’ve been searching for finally steps through the door.

Peter walks in, shadowed by two men, hovering close behind him. He doesn’t notice them, doesn’t pause to glance around; he simply takes a seat directly across from Octavia, his eyes fixed on the window, staring through as if the world outside were a distant blur.

Tony follows Steve’s gaze, his breath catching in his throat as Peter comes into view, perfectly within their line of sight.

“Hello, my darling,” Octavia coos, her voice dripping with faux sweetness. “How’s your birthday?”

Peter keeps his eyes on the fading sunset. “It was yesterday.”

Octavia pouts in mock sympathy. “At least you had the day off, thanks to me. Did you have fun? Got some ice cream?”

Peter finally shifts his gaze to her, but his expression remains disturbingly neutral—no irritation, no humor—nothing but a hollow smile slipping into place. “If that’s what you call fun.”

Tony watches, his chest tightening as his eyes trace the now unfamiliar features of his son. Peter’s lost his cute chubby cheeks, grown more handsome, a little taller, the best of him and Steve. Yet something feels off. Different. There’s an emptiness behind those eyes, a blankness that twists Tony’s gut. That smile, plastic and exaggerated, feels wrong in every way. Tony pushes up from his seat, every part of him aching with the urge to hold Peter in his arms again, but Steve grabs his arm, pulling him back.

“Tony.”

“I want my son back,” Tony says under his breath. “We can’t just let him walk away. I’m not losing him again.”

“This was supposed to be undercover. We’re sitting ducks. I don’t have my shield; you don’t have your suit. We need a plan.”

“I have a plan.” Tony taps his watch, the gauntlet materializing over his uninjured hand. “You said you’d be my hand. Then be my hand. We’re getting Peter back. Now.”

Steve exhales. He may lead the Avengers, but Tony—Tony always flips his world upside down. His eyes fall on a luggage case across the aisle, within arm’s reach. He borrows a baton from an elderly man, who looks on in confusion.

At the far end of the car, Octavia leans casually on her elbow, a sinister smile curling her lips. “See those two very good-looking men at your ten o’clock?”

Peter’s gaze flickers over for a moment, spotting the arguing pair.

“When they get here, kill them.”

Peter’s eyes shift back to the passing fields as his mind registers the command. His hands flex, and for a brief moment, an impulse surfaces—an instinct to resist. But it fades just as quickly, drowned beneath the thick, chemical fog suppressing his will and memories. Rarely, in the cracks, the serum in his genes fights back. The fog thins, and he remembers—who he is, who he was. And for a few fleeting moments, he fights before her poison reclaims him. But now, he’s no one—nothing but a puppet, a weapon bound by Hydra’s chains.

The two Hydra goons with them rise from their seats—Peter mentally dubs them Idiot One and Idiot Two. He could easily outrun them, but experience has taught him better. He’s been burned too many times before. As the men close in taking out the goons, Peter watches their reflections in the window, his spider-enhanced senses zooming in on every detail. The one with the gauntlet fires a quick blast, but Peter notices the injury restricting his movements. Easy target. The other, bulkier with a baton, drops Idiot Two with one hit—more of a challenge, but still nothing Peter couldn’t handle.

Halfway toward Peter, Tony’s phone buzzes. A notification flashes: Transfer complete.

Natasha’s voice cuts through their earpieces. “You both need to get off at the next station. There are Hydra agents all over the train. Bucky and I are on our way, but you can’t handle them all while protecting Peter.”

“We’re so close. He’s right there,” Tony says, his eyes glued to Peter, who hasn’t looked away from the window.

“We’ll get him,” Steve whispers, pulling Tony closer. “Just… not now.”

Tony’s fist slams into Steve’s chest, his eyes flaring with frustration as he realizes Steve won’t budge. “God, I’ve never hated you more than I do right now.”

The train grinds to a stop. Before stepping away, Tony throws one last look at Peter, etched with ache and longing.

Steve follows, pausing briefly at the door, caught off guard by Peter's eyes now staring back at him—cold and emotionless. Not the slightest flicker of recognition in his son's gaze. That blank stare, from the boy he raised, hits Steve harder than any punch, the image already burning into his mind, a memory already set to haunt him forever.

 

Chapter 5: Anchor

“We could’ve taken them all!”

“With your injured hand? And a baton? On a crowded train?”

“My suit was on its way!” Tony glances over his shoulder, Bucky and Natasha following behind. “We had backup!”

“If we’d gone after them, we’d have put everyone in danger. If we strike and fail, they’ll move Peter again. And we might never see him again for god knows what.”

“We wouldn’t fail! If we’d just tried, Peter would be with us right now!”

Bucky glances at Natasha. “Are they like this all the time?”

“Used to be, yeah. Lots of sexual tension," she says. Bucky chuckles as she continues, “When they had Peter, things got better. Calmer. God, those two were so in love. But since we lost him... it’s just this.”

“What was Peter like?”

Natasha’s expression softens, lost in memory. “Just the silliest, sweetest kid ever. He’s the baby of the group—our Iron baby, our little super soldier. I’m his Aunt Tasha. And you? He calls you—”

"Uncle Bucky," Bucky finishes with a faint grin.

“Yeah.”

The smile fades as Bucky watches Tony and Steve still arguing ahead. “Steve tells me stories about his son sometimes. He doesn’t even realize it. Just slips out when I give him updates on the search.” His voice lowers with guilt. “Steve should’ve been there with him. I shouldn’t have...”

Natasha’s hand settles gently on his arm, her smile soft. “You’re worth saving too, James.”

A flicker of warmth touches Bucky’s eyes, but their attention shifts as Steve comes to a stop, placing a gentle hand on Tony’s arm.

“We’ll get our son back, Tony. I promise.”

“Don’t.” Tony’s fist clenches against Steve’s chest. “Just don’t. I fucking hate that word. Fucking sick of it. And don’t even think about saying ‘language,’ or I swear I’m gonna lose it.” He yanks his arm free and walks ahead.

Natasha sighs, rushing after Tony, looping her arm through his as they disappear into the hotel lobby.

Bucky taps Steve’s shoulder as they follow, steps heavy with the weight of unsaid words.

In the lobby of the Adlon, the luxurious five-star hotel Tony and Natasha always use in Berlin, the familiar receptionist who always greets them hands over two key cards.

“Should be four, Mia,” Natasha says.

Mia’s smile drops. “It only lists your usual suites, Ms. Romanoff, Mr. Stark. I’m sorry, but we’re fully booked at the moment. We can’t add any more rooms.”

Tony’s expression hardens. “Excuse me? What? How does this hotel get fully booked?”

Mia pales, nervously wiping her palms on her skirt. “We deeply apologize, Mr. Stark. There’s a summit tomorrow. We didn’t receive the necessary updates to reserve extra rooms.”

“I told Pepper to handle this.” Tony pinches the bridge of his nose.

“She did, Sir,” Mia replies quickly. “Everything was confirmed as usual.”

Tony lets out an exasperated sigh. “Pepper, really.” He turns to leave. “I’m finding another hotel.”

Natasha steps in front of him, blocking his path. “Tony.” They stay here for a reason—the alcohol in his suite is already cleared. If Tony leaves, she’ll be forced to follow. He’s been sober for two years, and Natasha knows that one temptation could undo all that progress, especially with the state he’s in.

Steve smoothly picks up one of the key cards that Tony hasn’t taken, flashing his usual charming smile that makes Mia flustered for a moment. “Thank you. We’ll make it work.” He casually slings an arm over Tony’s shoulders.

Tony shoots him a sharp look. Steve adds, “I’ll take the couch.”

“And who says you’re staying with me?” Tony shrugs off Steve’s arm.

Steve glances over Bucky who’s already by Natasha’s side. “Roomies, right?” Bucky grins. “Is that what they call it nowadays?”

Tony rolls his eyes and snatches the card from Steve’s hand, striding off ahead.

 

 

---

 

 

Steve lingers by the indoor pool, swimming lap after lap, muscles straining as he tries to burn off the restless energy that keeps him awake. Each stroke an attempt to clear his mind, to push away the thoughts, but instead of finding peace, his focus sharpens into a plan—something concrete to infiltrate Hydra's hideouts, cut off every last head, and bring his son home.

His thoughts circle relentlessly back to Peter. He can still hear his boy’s laughter echoing in his ears, still see the chubby cheeks he loved to kiss, the bright smile that lit up every room, their last hug before he left him at the Quinjet, how tightly Peter clung to him. But then there’s the boy on the train. The one who stared back at him with hollow, unrecognizing eyes. Steve’s chest tightens, struggling to reconcile the two. His heart fights against it, refusing to accept what he already knows deep down—that Hydra has done something to his son.

Guilt still gnaws at his insides. This is his fault. For leaving Peter there, at the Quinjet, at the train. Tony was right. They shouldn’t have left. But even so, he can’t shake the feeling that following his gut and avoiding the fight on the train was the right call.

Just before midnight, Steve returns to the suite, seeing the room shrouded in darkness. He expects Tony to be asleep, but instead discovers him sitting on the carpeted floor, illuminated by the dim glow of moonlight and city lights filtering through the windows. Tony holds Peter's stuffed spider toy close, surrounded by scattered lego pieces, his gaze lost in the glittering skyline outside.

Steve settles quietly beside him, their shoulders almost touching.

“I wasn’t ready to let him go,” Tony says. "I thought we still had at least ten more years before he’d be out in the world.” His eyes drift down to the toys strewn across the floor. "Always kept these with me, so when Nat and I found him... he'd have something familiar to play with. But he's..." Tony's throat tightens. “Do you think he’ll still play with these?”

“He loves these to bits. He always will.”

Tony bites his lip, trying to keep it from trembling. “I know I shouldn't, but I always end up believing you.” A soft, bitter laugh escapes him. “It sucks.”

“Tony,” Steve says gently, brushing away a tear that slips down Tony's cheek. “It’s me. You don't have to hold back.”

As if his body had been waiting for permission, Tony’s defenses crumble. It’s uncanny how they’re still two sides of the same coin—each the only one who truly understands the other. Yet, somehow, also doomed to cause each other immeasurable pain.

Steve pulls him into his arms, holding him close as Tony’s tears soak into his shoulder, his body trembling with the the grief he’s carried for far too long.

In the vulnerable space between their brokenness, Steve kisses away Tony’s tears, their lips meeting again in desperate surrender. Clothes fall like whispers, leaving only the heat of their bare skin, eyes burning with desire.

Steve’s lips trace a familiar path, from Tony’s mouth to his neck, down to his chest, over his nipples, each kiss steeped in the memory of every time they’ve shared before. Their bodies move together, fitting perfectly, rediscovered like lost puzzle pieces, skin igniting beneath each touch.

Tony’s legs part, and Steve enters him with a rhythm that’s as familiar as their breathless need, forgetting the time spent apart, their hearts leading them through a night where nothing else matters but this shared pulse. Tony tightens around him, warm walls closing in, pulling Steve deeper until they both find blissful release.

In each other's arms, the world goes silent and they finally sleep—more peacefully than they have in a long time.

 

 

---

 

 

Tony opens his eyes, instinctively expecting to see Steve's familiar blue eyes beside him, but the space next to him is empty. It doesn’t surprise him—Steve always gets up early for his run—but a twinge of disappointment still pulls at him. He pushes it aside. They’re divorced now, after all, and last night… it was just another casual thing. One they've had countless times before their marriage. But it wasn't, not really—it wasn't just a fuck. They made love.

Sitting upright, Tony catches the soft murmur of Steve’s voice from the next room, talking to someone on the phone near the setup of devices and monitors Tony keeps in the living area of the presidential suite.

With a sigh, Tony gets out of bed and heads to the bathroom. After freshening up, he makes his way to the dining area where breakfast is already laid out. He picks up a cup of coffee, savoring the warmth and the silence, when Steve walks in, placing a soft kiss on Tony’s head before sitting beside him.

Tony almost chokes on his coffee, the gesture so familiar it drags him back to their old mornings together. He stares at Steve, who, unfazed, begins eating as if nothing unusual just happened.

Midway through breakfast, Tony clears his throat. Steve glances up from his newspaper.

“I’m just gonna throw this out there,” Tony says, setting his fork down. “We used protection, right? You did use one?”

Steve blinks at him for a beat before a faint wince creases his expression. “I… didn’t.”

“Oh.” Tony pauses, blinking. “Okay. Cool. Just... you know, we’re already divorced. Ring any bells?”

Steve casually returns to his paper. “You know that’s just a piece of paper to me. And from the way you were moaning last night, seems like it is for you too.”

Tony scoffs, catching the smirk tugging at Steve’s lips. He wants to argue, but the truth sticks in his throat. Last night was far better than he’s willing to admit, the best one he’s had in ages, where he didn’t fall asleep wrapped in sadness. As much as Tony despises it, Steve’s the only one who can make him feel like this, all nerve endings and calm, tangled together in the way only Steve manages to do.

Before long, Bucky and Natasha join them. While Steve and Bucky remain at the table, Natasha and Tony head to the living area, pulling up the hacked files.

“Want a morning after pill?” Natasha asks, her tone casual but laced with amusement.

Tony’s immediate denial's on the tip of his tongue.

“You’re both... calmer,” she observes. “Moving like your usual.”

“What usual? We’re always like this,” he says, avoiding her gaze.

“Always constant bickering, you mean. But now... you’re both moving like you did when you were still married.”

Tony’s fingers tap absently on the keyboard, his eyes fixed on the monitor. “No idea what you’re talking about.”

Natasha’s smirks. “Your call. I’m sure Peter will be thrilled he’s getting a sibling.”

Tony inhales deeply. Another kid—no, it shouldn’t even be a possibility. Last night never should’ve happened. Peter’s still his baby, his priority. He’s already missed so much of his son’s life, and the idea of having another child, especially post-divorce, of splitting his attention, of being pulled away when he should be giving Peter all of him, doesn’t sit right. The last thing he wants is for Peter to feel replaced. He can’t let that happen.

“On second thought… got one?”

“I don’t,” Natasha chuckles. “Don’t need it.”

Tony glares. “Then why ask?” He glances at Bucky, then back at her. “Wait, did you two—?”

“That’s none of your business.”

“You’re definitely screwing.”

Natasha just grins, ignoring him. “I don’t have one, but Pepper’s got you covered.” She moves over to Tony’s med kit, rummaging through it before pulling out a small box. “Aha.”

“Thank god for her.” Tony takes the pill, downing it with a swig of water.

 

 

---

 

 

“This definitely feels like old times.” Bruce's gaze sweeps the room as the entire team gathers for the first time in years. Steve coordinates, outlining plans while Sam, Bucky, and Rhodey listen intently. As Bruce's eyes land on Peter's lego pieces in the bedroom, his expression dims. He can almost see Peter, beaming as he pieced the blocks together at the compound. His gaze drifts to Tony and Steve on opposite sides of the hotel room, wondering what they’re both carrying beneath their calm facades.

“Oh, for sure,” Clint says, casually checking his arrows while lounging near the sofa. Noticing the untouched cushions and Steve's belongings in the bedroom, he leans toward Tony with a teasing grin. "You two banging again?"

Tony glares. “Shut up,” he says, lifting the tablet in his hand. “Want me to bang this on your head instead?” He pushes up from his seat, the tablet clattering onto the table as he walks toward the kitchen for a cold drink.

Clint chuckles. “Come on, Tony. It was just a joke.”

Natasha cuts Clint a look. “Not helping.”

Clint’s grin fades as guilt crosses his features. He follows Tony into the dining area, seeing Tony leaning against the table, staring blankly at the fridge’s reflective surface, sipping bottled water in silence.

“I’m sorry,” Clint says. “We're going to get your son back. Cap's plans—as always—sound solid, and we're all here.”

“But what if... what if we don’t? What if we fail again? I don’t think I can…” Tony’s breath shudders. “I can’t take it.”

Clint places a steady hand on Tony’s shoulder. “Then we’ll keep looking. We won’t stop. Not until he’s home with you and Cap.”

Tony taps Clint’s hand appreciatively. But even as they stand there, part of Tony can’t shake the doubt.

Back in the lounge, Bucky's eyes land on Tony's tablet resting on the table. “What's this?”

“It’s called a StarkPad," Sam answers with a smirk. “Welcome to the 21^st century.”

Bucky points him a glare. “I mean this list.”

"One of Hydra’s death lists," Natasha replies, crossing her arms. "Some of these deaths are recent, in the last few months. Could be members who turned on them. Hydra’s cleaning house. Most were ruled ‘natural causes.’"

Bucky’s eyes narrow as he taps the screen, but nothing happens. Sam and Natasha share a quiet chuckle, watching.

Tony and Clint steps over from the dining room. “Oh, for the love of—here, grandpa.” Tony says, laughter rippling through the group as he shows Bucky how to scroll.

Bucky’s fingers slide across the screen, but his expression darkens with every name that passes.

Sam watches closely. “Yeah, not liking that look. What’s going on?”

Steve steps closer, watching him carefully. “Bucky?”

Bucky lifts his head, his gaze heavy. “This isn’t just some death list. It’s an execution list. I’ve seen this before. I started this. It should’ve ended when I got out. But it started again last year.”

The room falls into a tense silence. Natasha snatches the tablet from Bucky’s hands, her eyes scanning it quickly. “Resumes... This is just six months after Paraguay.”

“Could be nothing. They wouldn’t,” Rhodey says, though his words did little to to break the tension.

A suffocating pressure builds in Tony's chest. Peter's hollow smile on the train flashes in his mind—the way Peter must've seen them. It's impossible not to; everyone on that train noticed when he and Steve took down those men, but Peter... Peter didn't even recognize them.

“No, no, no… Oh, god.” Tony’s world starts to close in on itself, his breaths come shallow, ragged. He bolts for the bathroom, barely hearing the concerned voices behind him, heart pounding in his ears. He slams the door, locking it with trembling hands before collapsing against the cold tile. Sweat seeps through his clothes as he gasps for air, but no breath feels deep enough. The room shrinks around him, his vision blurring, darkness consuming—until Steve kneels in front of him, firm hands gripping his own.

“Tony, breathe. Just breathe… follow my voice,” Steve’s tone is soothing, grounding.

“We failed him,” Tony rasps. “We failed… We failed to protect him. Our kid, our baby, Steve. He’s never gonna forgive us. He’s just a kid. He didn’t deserve that. He’s supposed to be safe. Safe with us. He wasn’t supposed to—he didn’t.”

“He didn’t,” Steve repeats. “Peter didn’t. It’s not him. Breathe, love.”

Tony nods, his breaths slowly evening out, the chaos in his chest easing as Steve’s presence anchors him and pulls him back.

Steve leans in, pressing a kiss to Tony’s temple. Tony clings to him, resting his head against Steve’s shoulder, his vision clearing enough to see the broken doorknob—Steve must’ve busted it to get inside.

Tony’s forehead rests against Steve’s, their breaths intertwining in the small space between them. Grateful for the man in front of him, Tony knows that same kindness runs through their son’s veins. It's still there; it wouldn't be lost.

“We’ll bring him home,” Steve says, low and sure. “We’ll bring our son back to us.”

 

Chapter 6: Noir

Atop the Reichstag Dome, Steve stares out the sprawling view of Berlin where the sunset washes the sky in rich purples and magentas. Below, the Unity Summit's cultural night hums with life, world leaders, philanthropists, and innovators arriving in elegant succession.

Almost a century has passed since Hydra first rose here, and even now, standing on this same ground, Steve can hardly fathom it. Back then, it was simple, a fight for justice. But now, it’s personal. Hydra didn’t just take lives. They took the most important person from them, and Steve’s sworn they will never rise again.

His eyes drift to the street, where Tony is stepping out of his McLaren Artura, impeccably dressed and ready for his undercover.

“Eyes on Rumlow,” Sam’s voice crackles through the comms, his team monitoring an abandoned castle, another secret hideout.

Steve’s gaze shifts as he spots another target, mingling among the summit’s elite. “Got Strauss in sight.”

“Someone better have eyes on that bitch,” Tony says, his smile flawless for the cameras as he mingle seamlessly into the crowd.

Bucky’s voice comes through from his position near the Spree River. “Octavia’s in motion.”

The summit is a front—deals are happening behind closed doors. Steve’s focus narrows to their main target: Strauss, a former Hydra scientist, who is here to sell Hydra out with critical intel on sleeper agents and hidden tech caches. Hydra won’t let him go without a fight, and neither will they. And who better to broker the deal than an Avenger with a promise of extradition.

“Mr. Strauss,” Tony greets smoothly after catching up with a few high-profile CEO's.

“Mr. Stark,” Strauss responds, his handshake too tight, his smile too thin.

On another shadowed part of the Dome, Peter perches in position, in a sleek black suit that molds to his frame, his mask half-pulled back as a lollipop dangles lazily from his mouth. In his hands, a modular sniper rifle rests, its size almost comically large against his small frame, but Peter doesn’t mind—he never does. Stealth and precision have always been his strengths.

The sooner he finishes this, the sooner he’ll have a day off, away from the hideout. And maybe, if he’s lucky, they’ll move him somewhere with better food. Weeks of Leberkäse have left him dreaming of anything else.

Peering through the rifle’s optic, Peter zeroes in on Strauss, weaving through the crowd. “Got eyes on the target,” he says into his comms, his voice devoid of the spark it once held. It’s just another day. Another mission.

But Strauss pauses, shaking hands with someone. Peter adjusts the sight, narrowing his focus on the other man—recognizing the figure with the gauntlet from the train.

“Tony Stark,” Peter says, almost without thinking. Stark isn’t his target, but if he interferes, Peter knows exactly what needs to be done.

Octavia didn’t provide any more intel on the pair from the train, but Rumlow’s briefing after it was clear enough. They’re dangerous. The Avengers—a so-called group of protectors, but in reality, hypocrites. He didn't ask any further questions, that part of him has been dulled. It’s just orders now. He’s just a weapon.

“Noir,” Octavia’s voice crackles in his ear. “Make it quick and get out.”

“Copy,” Peter replies, though his mission has just become harder. The crowd is thick, and Strauss keeps moving. Too many people. Too much movement. The hit needs to be clean. His spider-sense hums in the back of his mind, alert, focused. The shot has to be perfect. One chance. His fingers twitch, switching to the silenced handgun.

He exhales slowly, the control pressing down, and somewhere, buried deep beneath it all, a quiet longing for something else, something out of his reach.

“Peter.”

That voice. So familiar. For a brief second, recognition claws its way to the surface, but it's smothered just as quickly. His gaze snaps up. The other man from the train, now in a deep blue uniform.

Captain America.

Peter straightens, raising his gun, aiming it at the so-called hero. Steve stands still, his expression shaded with an emotion Peter can’t quite place.

“Take one step closer, and I won't hesitate.”

Below, in the crowd, Tony listens. It’s still Peter’s voice—still his kid—but that cold edge to it, the threat that doesn’t belong twists inside him.

“Bud,” Steve says, stepping forward, his shield lowering to the ground—a gesture of peace, showing he’s unarmed, harmless. “It's me. It's Dad.”

Peter’s heart stumbles, the lollipop cracks between his teeth, and he spits the stick to the side. No. This is a trick. It has to be part of their plan. “I never had parents.”

“You do. You do have parents,” Steve’s voice doesn’t waver, even as he steps closer. “Parents who love you more than you know. Tony and I—we’re your family. You were taken from us.”

Peter’s breath quickens. He knows better than to trust this. But his hand... his hand is shaking. His eyes dart to the side—Strauss is gone, slipped away in the crowd. He needs to focus. He needs to finish the mission. “You’re lying. You’re just here to distract me.”

“I’m only telling the truth.” Steve’s now only an arm away, sinking slowly to one knee, lowering himself to Peter’s level. There’s no anger in his face. Just that same look—something broken, something... aching. “We’re here to bring you home, Peter. Back to us.”

Across the river, Octavia’s breaths come quicker, nerves threading through her movements. She’s too late to realize she’s being tailed. Her hand darts for her gun, but a cold metal grip crushes her wrist before she can even blink. She gasps as the Winter Soldier slams her down by the neck, pinning her to the ground.

Octavia grins, blood staining her teeth, her tongue moves to crush the capsule—but Natasha’s faster. Her hand shoots forward, wrenching Octavia’s jaw open, prying the pill free.

Octavia’s voice cracks through the comms, desperate, vicious. “Noir, new target. Kill the Avengers. Kill every last one,” just as Natasha's fist crashes into her jaw, knocking her out cold.

Peter's eyes search Steve’s. There’s something in his eyes—something... true. Something Peter wants to believe. He wants to so badly, but the fog is too thick. The new order whirs through, and before Peter can think, the command registers, his finger squeezes the trigger.

Steve reacts on instinct, the bullet misses, and Steve disarms him in a blur of movement. Peter’s training kicks in, he shoves Steve back, his hand already reaching for another weapon.

Steve raises his shield just in time. Peter fires, bullets ricocheting off the vibranium with sharp, metallic clangs.

Below, panic erupts. The crowd scatters in all directions as gunshots echo through.

“Octavia’s down,” Bucky cuts in over the comms.

“We got Rumlow,” Rhodey adds.

“Strauss secured,” Clint reports.

“Yeah, well, we’ve got a mini Winter Soldier,” Tony says, already in the middle of suiting up, his own words stabbing through him.

Tony’s attention, his heart, is now fixed on the boy now swinging from the dome, landing with perfect precision just meters away.

Peter.

The mask is gone, revealing a face stripped bare, drained of warmth, of life. His eyes—those eyes Tony once knew so well, bright and full of hope—are cold now, unrecognizable.

"What have they done to my kid,” Tony says, not meant for anyone but himself. How could someone so small, so full of light, become this…

Peter moves toward him, firing more rounds, but they ping harmlessly off the suit. But the real impact, the gut-wrenching blow, comes with every step Peter takes toward him, each one shattering Tony a little more, deeper than any bullet ever could.

“Sir?” JARVIS prompts, but Tony can’t bring himself to answer. He’s frozen, staring at his son, coming at him like a stranger, worse than that, an assassin.

“No, we don’t do anything.” He just wants to pull Peter into his arms, to make him safe again.

“Restrain him, Tony,” Steve’s voice cuts in.

Peter switches tactics, hurling knives with deadly impact. Each blade strikes Tony’s suit, threatening to pierce through. But Tony doesn’t flinch, his mind stuck on Peter's smile, his laugh—the sound of a boy who loved him with his whole world.

“Tony!” Steve’s shout yanks Tony back to the present. “He won’t stop. He’s under Octavia’s control. We need to…” Steve’s voice breaks in a rare tremor. “Restrain him.”

“I’m not hurting our son, Steve.” He can’t. Not Peter.

“I know,” Steve says, his voice strained. “We save him.”

Steve lands on the opposite side of Peter, just in time to block a vicious strike. Each blow that follows is quicker, more lethal, and though Steve can keep up, there's a split second where his mind and body war with each other. Peter’s the one he swore to protect, never harm.

Peter's next attack grazes Steve's arm, a sharp edge slicing clean through his suit. Before Steve can react, Peter drives a blade into his left side, sinking it deep into muscle. Steve stumbles, pain erupts, but it’s not enough to make him strike back. Not against his own son.

Peter raises another knife, ready to strike again, but Tony finally moves. He steps between them, hands clamping down on Peter's wrist, forcing the knife from his grasp. But Peter’s other arm moves faster, driving another blade deep into Tony's armor, piercing through to his arm. Blood spills from the wound, but Tony stands firm.

Tony's mask dismantles, revealing his eyes—full of pain and a silent plea for his son to see them. He pulls Peter into his arms, holding him tight even as Peter thrashes, fighting to break free.

“I’m so sorry. We’re so sorry, baby. Dads’ so sorry.” With a trembling hand, Tony activates the taser, delivering a shock to Peter’s back. Peter goes limp, unconscious.

Tony’s suit opens from the middle, allowing him to cradle Peter fully, as if holding his baby again for the first time. Relief and heartbreak blur together, clouding his eyes as he meets Steve’s eyes.

“We got him,” Tony breathes with exhaustion, with hope. “We finally got him.”

Steve presses a hand to his bleeding side, but a small smile breaks through, a smile that speaks of reunion, of something lost being found.

For the first time in what feels like a lifetime, their family, fractured and worn, has a chance, the possibility of being whole again.

 

Chapter 7: Gray

Tony doesn’t let go. Even as the medics rush around them aboard the Quinjet, trying to work on both of them, he refuses to release Peter, as if letting go might mean losing him again. The medics stitch Tony’s arm, check their vitals, but his focus remains on Peter.

Tony’s fingers trace gentle patterns along his son’s face, over the cheekbones still soft with youth, his skin too pale. Each touch carries an unspoken apology, conveyed by lips pressed against Peter’s temple, his cheeks, as if it could heal the wounds time has has left behind. Every second an attempt to undo the past, an impossible effort to make up for all the moments Tony hadn’t been there to protect him.

When they arrive at the compound, Steve is rushed straight to the med bay, laid carefully into the regeneration cradle, Dr. Cho tending to the deep wound in his abdomen. Tony stays close, seated in a recliner, his gaze never straying from Peter. Steve’s gaze lingers on them, too.

“You do realize he could wake up any second and kill us all, right?” Natasha says, settling beside Tony.

“I know,” Tony says, eyes fixed on Peter’s still face. “And I don’t care.”

Natasha glances toward Steve, who gives her a faint, resigned expression, one that says, let him.

Bruce enters the room, addressing both Tony and Steve. “There’s a tracker in his arm. We need to remove it.”

Tony and Steve exchange a glance. Tony carefully lays Peter onto the bed, his hand never leaving Peter’s.

Bruce peels back Peter’s sleeve, revealing smooth skin, no scars, no visible trace of the horrors hidden beneath. But Tony knows. He knows the trauma that lingers, the pain Peter’s rapid healing can’t erase.

Bruce administers the anesthetic. Tony’s hand tightens around Peter’s, his composure cracking under everything they’ve endured.

Cho works quickly, making a small incision and extracting the tracker, closing the wound seamlessly, leaving no visible mark behind, another invisible scar in a life filled with them.

Afterward, Tony dresses Peter in new clothes. On the other side, Steve presses a soft kiss to Peter’s knuckles, lingering a moment longer.

Settling beside him on the bed, Tony runs his fingers through Peter’s now shoulder-length waves, placing a soft kiss on his forehead in a kiss that holds everything he can’t bring himself to say.

“You’re safe now, baby.”

 

 

---

 

 

Inside one of the compound’s holding cells, Rumlow spits out blood, the crimson stream dripping from his split lip. His swollen eye, courtesy of Rhodey’s hit in Berlin, throbs, but it’s nothing compared to the rest of his body. Every muscle screams from fresh bruises. Steve's relentless assault has left him a barely standing mess of blood and bruises.

“Get up,” Steve commands, his voice ice-cold. “I said, get up.”

Rumlow smirks, though the effort to rise sends fresh waves of agony through his battered limbs. He staggers, wobbling on shaky legs, but there’s still defiance in the way he straightens, a twisted glint in his eyes. “You should be thanking me, Rogers,” he says, his words punctuated by a wet cough. “I made your boy stronger. Better than the weak, helpless little thing you raised.”

Steve’s jaw clenches, his grip tightening as anger and heartbreak swirl, impossible to untangle. “He doesn’t need to be stronger. All he needs is to be loved.”

He grabs a fistful of Rumlow’s shirt, yanking him close. “You took that from him. You stole my son.” The fist that follows is not just a strike; it’s years of pain compressed into one vicious punch, landing with a sickening thud.

“You’ve hurt him. You made him—” But the words hang there, too painful to fully admit.

The boy Steve couldn’t protect, his innocent child twisted by the hands of monsters.

“What?” Rumlow laughs through gritted teeth. “Go on. Finish it. But don’t put all the blame on me.” He coughs, blood splattering onto the concrete floor. “I wasn’t the puppet master.”

The surge of rage blinds Steve, and every punch after is fuelled by more than anger—it’s failure, loss. His knuckles meet Rumlow’s broken body again and again in a brutal rhythm. He doesn’t stop, not until Sam and Bucky burst in, grabbing him just before the final blow could silence Rumlow for good.

Breathing hard, Steve yanks himself free from their grip and storms out.

“Didn’t know Cap had that in him,” Sam says. Bucky’s eyes remain fixed on the spot where Steve stood. He’s seen Steve fight battles no one could win, but this... this was different. The kind of fight you don’t walk away from whole.

 

 

---

 

 

On the cold floor of another cell, Octavia laughs, half her face swollen and bruised, her hands tightly bound behind her back, her body clearly in pain, but mocking laughter spills out anyway, mocking, triumphant.

Tony stands over her, unmoving. He hasn’t lay a single finger on her. Natasha had offered to be his hand, prepared to do whatever needed doing. But in his mind, he had already done far worse. He imagines pouring acid on her face, watching it eat away at the flesh that dared harm his son. But even that, wouldn’t be enough. Nothing could repay what she did to his kid.

“Thought for sure you’d be happy, Stark,” Octavia sneers, looking up at him, though they’re nearly swollen shut. “He’s more useful than all of you. Stronger. My spider pet did that. His genes—perfect for it.”

Tony’s hands tremble, his knuckles scream to strike, to feel the impact of bone on bone, but before he can act, Natasha’s punch lands. The crack of Octavia’s cheek hitting the floor is sickening, echoing in the small room like a gunshot.

Crouching down, Tony grabs her by the collar, yanking her close. “Tell me how to break it.”

Octavia laughs harder, her cackle grating against his nerves. “It can’t be broken,” she hisses through the pain, her eyes gleaming with psychotic delight. “I perfected it.”

Tony’s vision blurs—black, rage, suffocating. His hands move around her throat. He doesn’t feel her skin, doesn’t register the way she gasps for air; all he feels is the need—the need to make her pay, to take everything from her as she did to him.

“Tony,” Natasha says softly, but he doesn’t let go. “Tony,” she calls again, stronger this time, and finally, Tony pulls back. Slowly, too slowly, his hands release their grip.

Octavia gasps, wheezing on the floor, her breath ragged and desperate.

Tony rises. “Transfer her. I don’t want her anywhere near my son.”

 

 

---

 

 

Tony’s breath shudders as the cool water washes over his trembling hands. He could’ve ended it, killed her. Octavia deserved no mercy. But even that wouldn’t have broken the chains of control she’s had around his son. Killing her wouldn't have been justice—it would’ve been vengeance. But they’re not supposed to be those kinds of people.

He inhales deeply, trying to steady himself before stepping out of the bathroom into their old room at the compound. They never use this space anymore, yet both keep returning to it, as if it holds a piece of something neither of them can abandon, a version of themselves they can’t let go of, no matter how much they try.

Tony’s gaze lands on Steve, sitting at the edge of the bed, his broad shoulders slumped, his eyes vacant, fixed on the wall as if staring straight through it. He steps closer, drawn to the quiet despair in Steve’s posture, stopping just in front of him.

His hands move to Steve’s shoulders, fingers brushing over the tight muscles knotted beneath his skin. Slowly, they trace the tension, sliding upward, until his palms rest at Steve’s temples. Steve exhales, like the release of something he’s been holding too tightly for too long. His breathing syncs with Tony’s touch, the tension in his body loosening under the familiarity of it.

“Better?”

“Much.”

Tony leans forward, pressing his forehead gently against Steve’s, the space between them narrowing into something that feels home; quiet, shared breaths, grounding them both in the presence of each other. In the stillness, it’s as though the world outside, with all its chaos and pain, ceases to exist.

“Thank you,” Steve whispers.

Tony opens his eyes, gazing into Steve’s, those deep blue eyes flecked with green, they’re still the sea and the forest, vast and unyielding, the place where Tony always finds himself lost and anchored all at once.

In that moment, it’s too much to bear—the way Steve looks at him. There’s no pretense, no armor, no shield between them. It’s too much and not enough, the way Steve understands him without the need for words, everything Tony craves and fears, and before the words that have always failed him can surface, he closes the space between them, their lips meeting in a kiss that feels like a surrender, a way to say all the things neither of them can put into words.

Tony melts into it, sinking deeper, as if neither wants to come up for air. Steve’s hand slips to the back of Tony’s neck, pulling him closer, deepening the kiss until the world fades completely. His fingers trace the line of Tony’s spine, slipping beneath the waistband, brushing against Tony’s slick entrance, then sliding inside. A moan escapes Tony—soft, needy—and Steve drinks it in, intoxicated, grounding him in the sensation, in the closeness, in the warmth they’ve always found in each other.

“You’re so wet, love.” Steve withdraws his finger, only to hoist Tony into his arms, flipping him to the bed in one smooth motion. It’s instinctive, fluid, like all the times they’ve done this before. And yet, it still feels new, electric, as if it’s the first time, every time.

“Fuck me,” Tony breathes. They fumble with belts and buttons, clothes dropping to the floor in hurried motions. Tony’s legs fall open, and when Steve enters him, the sensation pulls a sharp gasp from his throat, his whole body tensing, but it’s not just the physical sensation that’s overwhelming. It’s the way Steve moves with him, like he knows Tony’s every fracture, every piece of him that has ever felt broken.

The room fills with their shared sounds—moans, gasps, breaths that stutter against the walls. Steve’s thrusts are deep, fast, steady, and everything in between, like a promise Tony can’t find the words for. Steve kisses him, like he can never get enough, like he’s trying to memorize the taste of Tony’s moans, trying to pull every whimper into himself, as if that could make Tony stay forever.

Warm walls tighten around Steve, pulling him in deeper, sending Tony over as ecstasy ripples through. The sensation drives Steve in even further, his hips jerking once more before he finds his own release, spilling deep inside Tony with a groan.

Steve's forehead rests against Tony’s neck, both of them panting. Steve almost says it. Those three words, heavy with meaning, but when their eyes meet, neither speaks.

“I need to get started on the antidote,” Tony says.

“Right.” But Steve doesn’t move, his body still pressed against Tony’s. Neither quite ready to let go.

“I’m gonna shower first.”

“Sure.”

Their eyes linger, holding the moment in suspension, and for that brief instant, everything else seems so far away, like they can afford to be selfish. Steve pulls out gently. Tony walks toward the bathroom, and Steve watches him.

Tony pauses at the door, glancing back with a teasing bite to his lip that doesn’t hide the tenderness in his eyes. “Join me?”

Steve smiles—a small, quiet thing that says more than words ever could. He follows Tony, unable to resist the pull of the man who’s always been more than everything to him.

 

 

---

 

 

Tony mutters a soft “Jesus” under his breath, leaning against the table at the lab. “What’s gotten into me.” He stares at the small pill in his palm, his mind a chaotic blur of reasons and excuses, before swallowing it with a quick gulp of water, the bitter taste lingering.

Two rounds of losing themselves in each other, the bedroom, the bathroom—no better than old habits, Steve’s breath hot against his neck, their bodies melding like they’ve done this a thousand times before, and they have. It always feels the same. Addictive. Destructive. They fuck like they’re trying to erase something, maybe each other, maybe themselves. It’s a distraction, a temporary fix for something broken. The release feels good, like always. But Steve... Steve is a drug Tony can’t quit, no matter how much damage it does.

This wasn’t supposed to happen again. Getting tangled up in Steve wasn’t part of the plan—or maybe it was, because Tony’s heart, reckless as ever, had begged for it. He’d asked for this. He’d practically thrown himself into Steve’s arms, knowing damn well what it would do to him.

Ex-husbands. That’s what they are. That’s all they should be. Or is that a lie he keeps telling himself because it’s easier than facing the truth. What even are they now? Casual? No. It’s never been casual. Not with Steve. Not with their shared history hanging over them like a shadow that won’t let go.

Exes, tangled in something that always feels inevitable. Always feels... unfinished.

Tony forces himself back to the cold comfort of his work. He has to, for his son. It’s the one thing that keeps him tethered to some version of himself that isn’t falling apart. He can’t afford to drown in another doomed entanglement, not now. But Peter's face flashes through his mind—those cold, distant eyes that don’t recognize him anymore. The hollow ache in his chest deepens. That look... God, it’s going to haunt him tonight, he already knows it.

“You okay?” Bruce glances up from his microscope on the other side of the lab.

“Yeah.” Tony’s voice sounds flat even to his own ears, but he doesn’t have the energy to fake anything better.

Bruce’s eyes soften, he doesn’t push. Instead, he steps closer. “You know the chemical is voice controlled. If we use Octavia’s voice and—”

“No.” Tony’s voice cuts through, meeting Bruce’s gaze, his stance rigid with an emotion that leaves no room for argument. “No, we’re not doing that. I’m not going to be my son’s handler, Bruce. He’s had enough of orders. We create the antidote, we free him from it. That’s it.”

Bruce doesn’t argue. He just nods, a faint, almost apologetic smile tugging as if to say I understand, even though Tony’s not sure anyone really could. Without another word, Bruce turns back to his work, leaving Tony with the thoughts he can’t outrun.

“Sir,” JARVIS chimes in. “Peter’s waking up.”

 

Chapter 8: Callous

Before Peter opens his eyes, the scent hits him. It’s clean, sterile—antiseptic. He can already picture the hideout, but something stronger cuts through. Food. Spices, rich, savory ingredients. That rules out the hideout; nothing ever smells this good there.

The bed beneath him is too soft, far too soft for the hideouts, as if his spine could melt into the mattress. Even the pillows cradle his head with a gentle, comforting softness, and they smell faintly of lavender—soothing.

His eyes flutter open, and the soft glow of a lamp greets him, casting delicate light across a room that stretches wider than expected. He’s not in a cage; he’s in a place that breathes, expansive and open, with doors leading to other spaces. For a brief, dizzying moment, everything feels familiar, and in the distance, Peter hears the sound of a child’s laughter—light, small.

"Daddy, I can bike now! Dadda taught me!"

Blurry faces drift in and out of his vision, happy and laughing, but they remain out of focus. Peter's breath hitches, chest tightening at the sound of their joy. A warmth tries to break through, but then the fog comes back, rolling in thick, drowning it all in gray.

“Where am I?”

“You’re home.”

Peter’s head snaps up, memories of Berlin rushing back, his muscles tensing. His gaze sweeps the room, searching for anything he can use as a weapon. But there’s nothing but toys, scattered across the floor—soft, harmless, useless.

“Stark.”

Tony flinches, like he’s been thrown a bucket of icy water. He won’t ever get used to his son calling him this way.

From different rooms, more people emerge, faces Peter only knew from grainy images and files, now real and right in front of him. They’re all staring, but Peter can’t read their expressions. There’s something in their eyes, like they want to approach him, but not to attack, and he can’t understand why.

“Come on, guys,” Tony says, trying to force a lightness into his tone. “We talked about this. Don’t make him feel like he’s a fish in a tank.”

But no one looks away.

“Peter,” Steve says, stepping forward.

Peter’s lips curl into a sneer. “Oh, you’re still alive.” The mockery is sharp, leaving Natasha, Clint, Bruce, and Sam visibly stunned. They weren’t prepared for this, for the cruelty that twists his words, the mockery in the eyes of a boy they once held dear.

Peter glances down at his hand, where an IV is taped to his skin. Without hesitation, he tears it out. Tony and Bruce’s protests are immediate, but they don’t register. Peter’s fingers are already working, nimble and sure, freeing the needle from the tube, flicking it toward them with calculated precision. It’s stopped mid-air, clinking softly against an invisible barrier. “I knew it.”

“It’s just temporary, bud,” Steve says.

“You still call me that?” Peter’s eyes scan the room, searching for a weakness. “You won’t for long.” He moves toward the bedside lamp, shattering the bulb with a single, swift strike, pressing the jagged edge against the barrier.

“Can he break through that?” Sam asks, throwing a nervous glance at Tony.

Tony’s eyes remain on Peter, watching his son’s sharp, calculating focus. “J?”

“30% damage detected. Reinforcing shield,” JARVIS responds.

Tony steps closer, closing the space between them until he's just inches away. “Peter.”

“I’m not Peter. The mission’s not over.”

Tony’s chest tightens, the broken bulb like a shard of glass twisting deeper inside him.

“Noir,” Tony says, each syllable cutting him open. “Arrêtez. S’il vous plaît.”

[Stop. Please.]

“Je vais m'échapper d'ici et je vais tuer chacun d'entre vous.”

[I’m gonna break out of here, and I’m gonna kill every single one of you.]

Tony’s gaze falls, Steve sighs. The room tenses, the air growing thick as Natasha, Clint, Bruce, and Sam exchange uneasy glances.

Peter’s grip on the broken bulb loosens, his gaze roaming over them, cold and assessing. “Barton. Romanoff. Banner. Stark. Rogers.”

His gaze shifts to Rhodey, Sam, and Bucky. “You three with them?”

“What? The Avengers? Nah,” Sam replies, shooting a quick glance at Rhodey and Bucky.

Bucky forces a smile. “Who’d wanna be part of that group, right?”

Rhodey shakes his head. “No. Not us.”

Peter’s gaze drops, catching on the colorful pieces scattered across the floor. “That’s fine. I’ll kill you three, too, once I’m done with them.”

Silence follows as the group exchanges wary glances, struggling to reconcile the venomous words with the child they’d once known, the one who used to play with those very toys. But Tony and Steve can’t tear their eyes away from the faint glow in Peter’s eyes, still there as he looks at the Legos, clinging to the hope that their son is still in there, somewhere, buried deep beneath the darkness.

 

 

---

 

 

“Quick of you three to throw us under the bus,” Natasha says, leaning back in her chair, a small smile at her lips as she surveys the table. Bucky sits silently beside her, while Sam and Rhodey sit across from them. Clint’s already gone, muttering something about needing to hug his kids after that unsettling encounter with Peter.

“I’ve handled plenty in the military,” Sam adds, as though still processing. He shakes his head, as if trying to dispel the memory. “But that? That’s the scariest introduction I’ve ever had. I never thought I’d hear a kid say something like that. Especially our little Peter.” He rubs his temples, the gesture more weary than pained. “Straight out of a horror movie. Seeing it up close? Different story.”

They glance over at Peter, sitting cross-legged on the floor, quietly assembling Lego blocks. He looks just like the kid they watched grow up—ordinary at first glance—just a kid with a head of unruly waves and a familiar concentration in his eyes, yet there’s something about him that’s anything but. They can’t help but wonder what’s really going on inside his head, especially Steve and Tony, who are living through this nightmare firsthand.

Bucky shifts in his seat, his expression darkening with the memories of his past as he watches Steve, who stares at Peter with deep worry. Peter still hasn’t touched the food near him.

“Gotta admit,” Bucky says, keeping his voice low, “seeing my past self in a kid this young... but not just any kid, Steve’s kid... It’s unnerving.”

An uncomfortable silence settles over them, weighing down the room until Tony and Bruce step in from the lab, noticing the still-untouched plate.

“Got bad news for you, kid,” Tony calls, snapping Peter’s attention to him. “Can’t take this one out,” he taps Bruce on the arm. “He’s the Hulk. Indestructible.”

Peter’s eyes lift, lingering on Tony. “Great. I can focus on the rest of you instead.” He picks up an Iron Man Lego figure, casually plucking off its head.

The group tries to stifle their laughs, and even Steve’s face softens into a smile.

“Well, good to know he still got my sass,” Tony says, standing near Steve. He steps toward the barrier, fiddling with some adjustments. If it was rigid before, now it moves fluidly, and Tony removes the plate, noticing how Peter’s eyes follow it. Knew it. He’s hungry.

“You wanna beat everyone of us?” Tony pulls out a chair at the dining table. “Take a seat.”

He moves to the microwave, warming up the plate and a bowl of soup. When he turns, Peter’s already pushing himself off the floor, and Steve finally breaks into a grin. The group at the table watches in quiet amazement.

The timer beeps, and Tony heads back to the table, where Peter now sits at the center, between Steve and Tony’s usual spots, his presence filling a space that had felt so achingly empty. Tony sits down, popping a blueberry into his mouth, his eyes never leaving Peter, who simply stares back, studying each of them with a calmness that borders on unsettling. He doesn’t want to order his son to eat—Peter’s had enough of that, and even Steve holds back, offering nothing but patience.

At last, Peter picks up the fork, but instead of eating, he drives it straight toward Tony’s hand. The barrier stops it, the prongs barely grazing the surface.

“I’m smarter than that, baby,” Tony says, watching as Steve hands Peter a fresh fork. “Come on, just give it a shot. Dadda made it for you.”

Peter’s gaze shifts to Steve then at the far end of the table, where the others sit in uneasy silence.

Tony catches the look and waves them off. “Alright, scoot. Dishes, whatever.”

Bucky, Natasha, Rhodey, and Sam start tidying up, with Bruce trailing behind, but Peter’s attention lingers on the stack of knives by the kitchen island.

Tony plucks a grape, eyes never leaving Peter. “You need your energy if you want to beat us.”

Steve finally speaks, “Octavia and Rumlow are gone. You’re free now. You don’t have to worry about them anymore.”

Peter’s gaze shifts to Steve, his expression disturbingly neutral, one Steve doubts he’ll ever get used to. “Mission isn’t done.” He looks down at the meal, and when he picks up the spoon, it feels like the smallest victory. “I never worried about them. I hope they’re dead.”

“One thing we can agree on,” Tony says under his breath, earning him a mock glare from Steve.

They watch as Peter takes his first sip of the chicken soup. Tony grins, and Steve’s smile softens as they notice the slight relaxation in Peter’s eyes—small but telling.

Peter moves on to the steak, already cut into neat, bite-sized pieces. It melts in his mouth, far better than anything he'd had in the hideouts. With each bite, there’s a subtle change—his shoulders loosen, his jaw unclenches. He works through the seasoned potatoes, the pasta—each mouthful lifting some invisible weight. And then, before he realizes it, he’s smiling, a small, almost shy curve of his lips. Steve and Tony see it, they glance at each other, but when Peter looks up, they quickly look away, pretending not to notice.

Steve slices the cheesecake on the table, passing a piece to Tony, then one to Peter, saving his own for later, as if savoring this moment more than the dessert.

As they eat, Tony can’t shake the feeling that they’re picking up a dinner they lost when they lost Peter—only now, it’s lunch. There’s still so much Tony wants, still so many pieces of Peter that feel out of reach, but for now, he’ll settle for this. As long as Peter’s here, safe with them.

“What’s your typical day like, Peter?” Steve asks.

Peter stays silent, prompting a loaded glance between Steve and Tony before Steve sighs. “Noir?”

“Train, shoot, study target movements, locations.”

“After your missions?”

“They give me a day off with the idiots.”

“Idiots?”

“Their goons,” Tony says.

“What do you do on your day off?” Steve continues.

Peter leans back in his seat, as if testing their reactions. He chews thoughtfully, legs drawn up onto the chair. “I go to the zoo. Or the aquarium. Museum. Or they give me art supplies.”

Tony’s throat tightens as Steve continues, trying to keep the conversation steady. “You draw?”

Peter nods. “And paint.”

Amidst it all, relief passes over Steve’s face, a spark of hope amidst the wreckage. “Good,” he says, as if grasping onto that small piece of Peter that hasn’t been taken away. Tony’s fingers move over his phone, adding art supplies to a cart—anything that might help, that could remind Peter of the life he had. He even makes a mental note to retrieve Peter’s paintings from Berlin, not sure if they’ll be a comfort or a curse.

“Who taught you to paint?” Steve asks.

"Dad—" Peter freezes, the word slips out before he can stop it, the first time he's said it, without even a memory of it.

Tony and Steve stop mid-breath.

Tony's hand instinctively reaches out, wanting to hold his son, forgetting the invisible wall between them.

“Tony,” Steve warns softly, and Tony remembers, pulling back, and forcing his emotions down with a steady breath, turning his gaze aside as he discreetly wipes away a stray tear.

Steve watches him, deciding to hold off on the questions before either of them cracks under the weight of the conversation. Together, they quietly observe Peter, who finishes his meal, Steve smiling in satisfaction that everything was cleared.

Peter takes a bite of cheesecake, letting the spoon rest on his tongue before speaking, “Your turn. How can I beat you all?”

Tony smirks, leaning his cheek into his hand, elbow propped on the table. “That’s easy. Capsicle?” He casts a playful glance at Steve before turning back to Peter. “You gotta go for his feet.”

“Hey,” Steve protests, though he’s grinning.

“Or,” Tony adds with a chuckle, “make him sit in front of a computer. He’ll fumble every time.”

Peter glances between them, observing the spark in their exchange, something he notices on couples, though he keeps that observation to himself.

Tony spots Nat walking past from the lounge. “Tasha?” he whispers to Peter, as though letting him in on a secret. “Puppy eyes. She used to cave when you gave her those. And Legolas?”

“Self checkout machines,” Steve chimes in.

Tony chuckles. “Yeah, that one’s yours too.” He leans back in his chair, crossing his arms. “Point Break? Don’t even bother—he’s halfway across the galaxy, isn’t he, hon?”

Steve nods. “He is.”

Peter doesn’t recognize the last two names, but he pieces together the gist. “And you?”

“Me? Oh, I’ve got none.” Tony’s grin is wide. “Because I am Iron Man,” he adds with a wink.

Steve shakes his head with a fond smile.

Some of those answers might be useful one way or another, but Peter isn’t fooled. He's observed enough to know where the cracks are, where to strike to make it hurt the most.

“If you’re so invincible… why didn’t you save me?”

The room stills. Peter’s gaze locks onto Tony’s, the humor drains from Tony’s face. Steve’s smile falters, the words settling between them like a storm cloud.

“Why didn’t you rescue me, Papa?”

Papa. Tony knows this isn’t his Peter; he’s always been Daddy to his son, never Papa, but the question lands like a punch, twisting the guilt he’s carried for years, guilt for not being enough, for failing. His old anger flares, that bitter resentment towards Steve for losing their son.

“Tony…” Steve reaches across the table, but Tony’s already on his feet, heading toward the lab.

Steve turns back to Peter, the boy’s expression smug, triumphant. Steve wants to be angry, but instead, all he feels is sorrow. The boy in front of him is callously indifferent, nothing like their Peter. The kind, sweet kid they raised would never say something like that. But this is still Peter. Their Peter, who wouldn’t have become this way if they’d just kept him safe.

“It wasn’t his fault. It was mine,” Steve says quietly, regret in every word.

Peter shrugs, his smile unbroken, devoid of remorse.

Steve sighs, knowing his words won’t change anything but needing to speak them anyway. “Leaving you in that Quinjet... it’s my greatest regret. I should’ve been there. I’m sorry I couldn’t protect you.”

Peter grin wavers, his chest tightening, though he doesn’t understand why.

“We’ve been looking for you for three years. I wish we could take it all back, those years, everything. I’m sorry we couldn’t be there for you when you needed us the most. I’m sorry we couldn’t rescue you sooner.”

Peter shoves his plate aside and returns to the scattered Legos, as if nothing had happened.

Steve watches him, wondering how their family became so broken, hoping somewhere along the way they’ll eventually reach their son.

 

Chapter 9: Lucid

It’s more than just joy when Tony discovers he’s pregnant all those years ago. It’s fear, a bone-deep, overwhelming one, of whether he can be the kind of parent his child deserves, of breaking the cycle his own parents had trapped him in, and not repeating their mistakes. But more than all that, it’s fear of the world itself—a world steeped in pain, darkness, and suffering, the kind he’s tried to shield others from, even as it relentlessly battered him. Even then, with his son just a tiny life inside him, the thought of that innocence being touched by the world's cruelty makes his chest clench with dread.

Now, standing alone in the lab, sealed in lockdown as he works on the antidote, his mind keeps drifting back to the dining table, where he'd watched helplessly as the same darkness clouded Peter’s once-bright eyes. The world had inflicted its worst on his son, the very pain he’d sworn to protect him from, and the worst part was, Tony hadn’t been there to stop it. He couldn’t stop it.

A drop lands on the glass sample, smearing the clean surface, and it’s only when he sees another fall that he realizes—it’s his own tears.

Two years sober, without any numbing agent, he’s forced to confront the ache, the loss. Sometimes, he wishes he could slip back into his old vice, just to escape the nightly descent into feeling like he's falling apart. Yet, a part of him clings to this pain, because it keeps him connected to the memories, every happy moment of raising Peter with Steve, the fragments of the family they once were.

“Work,” he says as he watches the trial on the monitor. “Work, please.”

But it doesn't. It fails.

Bruce’s voice filters through the call. “It’s only the third one, Tony. We’ll get there.”

JARVIS’ voice follows, “Captain Rogers is requesting your presence for dinner, sir.”

Bruce also asked for him to join, but he brushes them both off, diving back into his work, though his gaze drifts to the camera feed, catching a glimpse of Peter settling into a seat at the table. He notes, almost absently, how Peter’s posture seems to loosen slightly, a sign that he’s warming up to the team, if only a little.

An hour passes, the samples blur in front of him, and the quiet whirr of the lab door opening snaps him from his trance.

Tony doesn’t bother looking up. “You’ve got to be shitting me.” The override code for the lockdown is still set to their wedding day and Peter’s birthday, he makes a mental note to change it later.

“Your son asked for you,” Steve says, stepping inside.

Tony glances up. “Oh really? Let me guess, to torment me.”

“He kept looking at your seat. He’s still in there.”

“I know he’s in there.” Tony grip tightens on the edge of the table. “That’s exactly why I’m doing this.”

Steve’s eyes sweep the lab, on the empty coffee cups and scattered tools. “You need to eat. And sleep, please. Leave this for tomorrow.”

Tony doesn’t answer, but his hands tremble as they return to the work in front of him.

Steve moves closer, stepping behind Tony, his strong arms sliding gently around Tony’s waist, pulling him into the warmth of an embrace he’s learned Tony needs but rarely accepts.

Tony feels the warmth of Steve’s breath on his neck, a breath that somehow manages to reach past his defenses, sending a familiar tremor through him. He doesn’t resist, knowing it would be useless. Steve always knows; he’s always had this way of breaking through.

“I’m sorry,” Steve whispers.

“Don’t.”

But Steve feels the tension begin to drain from Tony’s shoulders, feels the subtle way Tony leans back, no matter how hard he tries to keep his pride intact.

Steve lets the silence settle, holding Tony as the walls between them weaken. It’s in this moment, where no words are needed, that they’re able to speak truths neither would dare otherwise. His lips brush lightly against Tony’s neck—a small gesture, but one that carries years of apologies he’s never fully voiced. “I don’t think I ever really apologized… for everything. To you. To us.”

Tony bites his lip, one hand covers over Steve’s as it rests on his waist. “You did. Every time you look at me with those eyes. I… I just couldn’t take it.” And even as he says it, Tony knows the apology could never fully mend the fractures, the parts of them shattered long ago.

“I’m sorry…” Steve repeats, each one followed by a gentle kiss against his neck. He takes Tony’s hand in his own, giving it a small tug. “Come on.”

Tony doesn’t argue. He lets himself be led. They pass by Peter’s transparent room, and Tony sees his kid curled up in a bean bag, eyes glued to an anime playing on the screen. Sam and Bucky are sprawled out on the chairs nearby, all of them wrapped in their own quiet little world.

As they sit to eat, Steve stays by his side, making sure Tony doesn’t feel alone. Steve idly bites into some fruit, while Tony moves through his meal with a distant look, the silence between them comfortable, natural. Each glance cast toward Peter both comforting and heartbreaking, Tony’s eyes linger, unwilling, or perhaps unable, to look away.

“He’s not going anywhere. We’ve got time,” Steve says.

Tony’s gaze shifts back to Steve. “Do we?” His fork clatters against the plate as he reaches for his glass, taking a sip of water to steady himself.

“I just…” Tony’s voice cracks. “I want to hold him. I want my baby back, Steve. He’s there, right there, but he’s also so far away and…” A tear rolls down his cheek, and he wipes it away with a frustrated swipe. “I want to tuck him in, hold him until he falls asleep… like we always used to.”

Steve presses his lips together, searching for words, but nothing seems right, that could offer comfort, none of them enough to bridge the unspoken grief between them. So he doesn’t speak, doesn’t try to fill the silence, instead he let his presence offer the only comfort he can. And somehow, that’s enough. Just being here, existing in each other's presence—is enough.

 

After dinner, when Sam and Bucky have long since retreated to their rooms, Steve and Tony stays in the dim light of the lounge. Across from them, their son emerges from the bathroom, his shoulder-length hair damp and clinging to his neck, droplets tracing down his skin. Through the cracked door, Steve glimpses the shower knob turned all the way to the coldest setting.

“You never liked cold showers,” Steve says, almost to himself, not expecting a response.

But Peter answers anyway, far too adult for an eleven-year-old. “Most of the hideouts didn’t have hot water. You get used to it.”

Each new information feels like a stab to their chests, another cruel reminder of the years stolen from them. Of how much their child had been forced to grow up—too soon, too alone.

Tony opens a drawer, retrieving a hairdryer. “You shouldn’t sleep with wet hair. You’ll wake up with a headache.”

“I’ve had before. I never did.”

Tony disables the barrier between them. Steve observing warily, while Tony steps closer despite the risk. “May I?” He pulls up a chair, offering Peter a chance to sit.

Peter stares at the chair, at Tony. Then, almost without realizing it, he finds himself sitting.

The soft hum of the hairdryer fills the room, Tony’s fingers gently combing through his damp hair.

Peter’s body remains still, though every instinct tells him to act, to grab the hairdryer and beat Tony with it. Yet, strangely, he doesn't. The only thing he feels is the warmth of Tony’s hand, the careful way his fingers move, massaging his scalp in a way that feels... safe. He can’t remember the last time someone was this gentle with him.

“Do you want a haircut?” Tony asks, his voice light, almost happy. “Your dad can give you one. Not me though, your other dad. Gives good haircuts. You’ll love it.” He glances at Steve, who watches from across the room with a soft, hopeful smile on his face.

“I guess… whatever.”

“Do you want it though?”

“I don’t know.”

Steve and Tony exchange a glance. Steve takes a step closer, his gaze steady but searching, seeing past Peter’s words.

“Peter,” Steve says. “Have they even let you choose anything for yourself?”

Peter falls silent, his answer catching in his throat. It’s as if his life has been a carefully constructed script written by others—the food, the clothes, even his so-called ‘days off.’ Every choice had been an illusion, every freedom. Only his art was truly his, the one place his mind could escape, where he could let go.

Understanding dawns between Steve and Tony. It isn’t just the chemicals. Peter’s agency has been stripped from him, piece by piece.

Tony finishes drying his hair, the hairdryer clicks off, plunging the room into heavy silence. Tony’s hand hovers just above his shoulder, unsure, aching to reach him. Steve crouches down, meeting Peter’s, his gaze steady and sincere, a warmth Peter scarcely remembers.

“You're free now. You can choose. You can shower with warm water, ask and choose for food you like, or even say no to a haircut if you don’t want one—whatever you need.”

Peter just stares, his mind warring with itself, his heart a clenched fist. “Am I?” he says, edged with a bitterness he can’t control. “Then why do I want to hurt you right now? Why does every part of me want to stab you in the eye, even though I know I shouldn’t?”

The sadness in Steve’s eyes deepens. Tony stands by, silent and helpless, watching the exchange unfold with the quiet pain of someone who doesn’t know how to fix what’s broken.

Peter glances between them, and for a brief moment, something stirs. An emotion, faint and fragile, tightens his chest, cutting through the fog, allowing him to see with painful clarity. He looks at Steve, but he doesn’t just see Steve. He sees Dad.

He blinks, and for one, disorienting moment, the compound around him becomes something else. He sees it as it was, a place of safety, warmth, and laughter. He remembers being small, arms thrown wide, running to Tony, to Daddy, feeling safe. He remembers that world. He remembers… home.

They have finally found him. Rescued him, at last.

For a heartbeat, Peter feels the overwhelming urge to to throw himself into their arms, to let himself believe that everything can be as it was, that it’s safe again. He wants to show them he’s here, he’s still here, that he’s still theirs. But the memory of what he’s done crashes against him, the shame rising he can’t hold back. He remembers the pain in his dad’s eyes when he stabbed him, hurting both of them, the stunned silence, Dad's apologies at the dining table, alongside his own callousness. Guilt swells, tangling with the rigid order that still grips him, holding him prisoner in his own mind. The urge to lash out, to hurt, simmers beneath his skin, but he fights it, reeling it back in.

Peter exhales shakily, and turns his back on them, heading toward the bed. But before he can get far, arms wrap around him from behind.

“We’re not angry at you, baby,” Tony’s voice trembles. “You’re the greatest thing we lost. And we’re here and and we’ll always be, we’re never letting go. I promise… I promise we’ll find a way to help you feel free again.”

Peter’s vision blurs, tears trail down his cheek, his hands trembling as he battles the urge to strike. Steve kneels in front of him, steadying Peter’s hands, pressing a kiss to his knuckles.

“We’ll always be here, waiting for you, bud. Always.”

Steve leans into a hug, enveloping Peter and Tony into an embrace like an unbreakable shield. The dam breaks. Peter sobs. He’s scooped up, carried to the bed, cradled between them. Tony holds him close, whispering soothing words, while Steve strokes his hair, until the sobs begin to quiet.

In those brief moments, before the fog thickens again, Peter feels them—the warmth, the tenderness, the love that holds him close like it did when he was eight, when he was safe. He feels the familiar press of kisses on his forehead, his cheek, the whispered ‘I love you’s,’ the soft murmur of comfort that only they can give.

And just before sleep takes him, Peter clings onto it, to the echoes of love that somehow feel both real and distant, slipping away even as he reaches for it.

 

Chapter 10: Choice

 

Tony stands on the second-floor balcony of the compound, letting the steam from his coffee swirl up into the cool morning air, a faint warmth against his face. His gaze tracks Peter as he runs alongside Sam and Bucky, though Peter's pace is noticeably quicker, effortlessly outpacing them, born of muscle memory rather than choice.

Tony and Steve had agreed on easing Peter back into a routine, a healthier, safer rhythm that didn’t hinge on survival instincts or combat skills. Physical exercise, yes—hoping it could help Peter feel control over his own body without needing it to hurt or be hurt. But weapons and guns? Never again. They were determined to leave that part of Peter somewhere far behind, to bury it so deep that maybe, one day, he could forget it too. And Tony wishes he could erase it altogether, sweep away those memories of brutality and fear, as if they had never touched his son.

They talk about taking Peter somewhere else, back to the city, back home, where he might remember what it is to feel ordinary, or as close to ordinary as he could get. School, friends, laughter—things that should belong to a kid. But Tony knows, deep down, that Peter will never fully be that kid again. Not after everything, not even after the antidote. Until then, until he finds that antidote, Peter remains here, suspended in a place of half-healing, half-waiting.

“The recovered items from Berlin are here,” Natasha says, stepping beside him.

Tony smiles, realizing he’s never properly thanked her—not just for this, but for all the ways she’s stood by him. She’s kept him sober, pulled him back from dark places after the divorce, after Paraguay. From pretending to be his assistant all those years ago to becoming his closest friend and one of the few people he truly trusts. She’s always had his back, and he has hers.

“Thanks, Nat,” he says, his voice softer than usual. “For everything.”

She scoffs lightly. “Please don’t get misty on me this early. Not before I’ve had my coffee.”

Tony chuckles. Her smile softens as she leans into him for a hug. “Not bad for being your partner for two years,” she says, pulling back. “But you know it’s not just me, right?”

Tony’s gaze follows hers, landing on Steve down on the track, who's running just ahead, laughing, keeping just out of reach as Peter tries to catch him.

“He’s never stopped checking in on you,” Natasha adds. “Always asking me to make sure you’re eating, sleeping, taking care of yourself.” A slight chuckle escapes her. “I swear, he’s worse than anyone’s mom.”

“And here I thought you joined my team willingly.”

“Oh, please. I was practically back to being your assistant. Like I’d volunteer for that.”

They laugh, and he feels the sincerity in her voice even beneath the jest. “I’m kidding,” Natasha adds. “I don’t mind the work, really. It’s worth it… seeing you find your light again, Tony.”

Tony smiles, though the sadness lingers at the corners. Last night replays in his mind, he sees his son there at last. It breaks them, watching Peter struggle, but holding him in that moment is more than enough. They’ve conveyed their love, let Peter know he wasn’t alone, that he was loved.

Steve’s laugh echoes across the track as Peter finally catches up to him, turning their run into an impromptu sparring session. Steve effortlessly blocks each move, catching his breath between them.

“I can do this all day, bud,” Steve says between laughs, though there’s a depth there that Tony can’t miss, a reassurance.

Sam and Bucky stop to watch, eventually stepping in to pull the kid back, while Tony shakes his head with a smile, wishing, hoping, that this—this laughter, this ease—might one day feel as natural to Peter as breathing.

 

Tony and Natasha head back inside, Tony makes a beeline for Peter’s room, where artworks rest across the floor like fragments of a shattered mind. He pauses, taking it all in. Strokes of black and white sweep across the canvases, jagged and intense, each one clawing for freedom trapped in darkness. And yet, woven through the chaos, vivid streaks of red and blue emerge—a stubborn resilience, a glimmer of hope that refuses to stay buried.

One piece draws him in, the city skyline in startling familiarity. It’s Peter’s view, the skyline from his room in the tower.

“Baby,” Tony breathes. His pride mingles with sorrow, a helpless ache as he takes in each brushstroke, each silent confession. This was Peter’s voice, speaking when words failed him, and Tony can feel it down to his bones.

A soft knock pulls him back, and he turns to find Pepper standing at the doorway, her gaze drifting over the paintings. She moves to his side, her hand finding his arm.

“Wow,” she says, rubbing his arm gently. “You okay?”

“Of course,” he says, though his voice strains.

Pepper’s lips quirk with a knowing look. “We’re here to deliver your art supplies. You had them sent to the tower.”

“You’re a lifesaver.”

“And I need you to sign a few things.”

“Ah.” He smiles, before they step out together toward the common area. There, Happy stands by the dining table, engaged in light conversation with the private chef as she carefully arranges the dishes.

“Boss,” Happy greets with a grin as soon as he spots them.

“Hap, stop flirting with my chefs. Can’t afford another one resigning ‘cause of you.”

“Boss, I’m just appreciating this masterpiece.” Happy gestures to the plate.

“Sure you are.” Tony moves toward the lounge, where he casually inspects the art supplies across the table.

The door to the common area opens, and in comes Bucky, Sam, Peter, and Steve. Happy and Pepper freeze, eyes fixed on Peter.

“Peter…” Pepper’s voice is soft, and before she can say more, Happy crosses the space and gives Peter a hug.

Steve and Tony tense, Sam and Bucky are ready to jump in if necessary, but to their surprise, Peter doesn’t react, he stands motionless, his expression blank even as Happy releases him.

“Oh, Peter,” Happy says. Steve watches closely, one shove from Peter could send Happy flying into the wall, but they all breathe a collective sigh of relief when Peter steps away, heading toward the lounge where art supplies are laid out. He doesn’t smile, but Tony catches the faint glimmer in his eyes.

“Are these…” Peter looks up at Tony. “All mine?”

Tony’s face softens, his grin gentle. “They are. All yours, baby.”

Peter’s fingers hover over the brushes before his hand wraps around a sharp chisel. With a swift movement, he drives it toward Tony, halting just shy of his chest as the invisible barrier holds it back.

“Oh my god!” Pepper’s hand flies to her mouth.

Happy’s eyes widen, disbelief written all over his face.

“Come on now, kid. We’ve got company,” Tony says, unbothered, gesturing toward them. “You might not remember, but that’s Pepper, my CEO, and Happy, our chauffeur.”

“Head of Security now, boss,” Happy corrects, though still shaken.

“My bad, forehead of security,” Tony says, drawing stifled laughs from Sam and Natasha, who watch with wary amusement from the dining table.

“Are you… are you alright?” Pepper says, her eyes darting nervously between Tony and Peter.

“Are you?” Tony rests a hand on her arm, steering her toward a seat. “Breakfast?”

“I don’t think I can eat after that.”

Meanwhile, Steve, silently observing, hands Peter a fresh shirt, resisting the urge to scold, knowing it would fall on deaf ears. Instead, he meets Peter’s gaze with a quiet intensity. “I know you’re in there. We’re not giving up on you. Not ever.”

Peter glares, but grudgingly slips on the shirt, his steps carrying him to the dining table. He sits in his usual spot between Tony and Steve, pausing as he stares at his empty plate. It’s strange, it’s never empty. There’s always something there, something he’ll just eat without thinking. But now, the table is lined with various dishes—some look appetizing, others less so.

“What do you want?” Tony asks.

Peter stays silent, aware of the others at the table, all trying to seem casual, pretending not to watch and listen.

“You get to choose now.” Steve adds.

Peter eyes the dishes, his brows knitting together as he deliberates each option. He even stands, leaning forward to get a better look at the plates further away.

“I…” Peter bites his lip, hesitating. “I want that,” he finally says, pointing to the bagels. “And that.” He motions to the cream cheese, then the omelette.

Tony grins, picking up the toasted bagel and spreading cream cheese over it. There’s a quiet satisfaction in his expression, glad to see Peter's preferences haven’t changed.

“You can also grab anything within your reach,” Steve reminds with a small, encouraging smile as he puts the omelette onto Peter’s plate. So Peter grabs some bacon and buttermilk pancakes.

As Peter starts eating, Tony watches him, his grin widening he has to cover it with his hand. He catches Steve smiling too, throwing him a quick wink, Tony stifles a chuckle, turning back to his acai bowl, savoring the small victory in silence.

 

 

Chapter 11: Cheeseburger

Notes:

Sorry its been so long since my last update, love and life happened.

Tony had spent the day in the city, signing paperwork Pepper needed and gathering his top scientists to brainstorm ideas for the antidote. Some were already running experiments with the data he and Bruce had compiled, all in an effort to expedite the process.

When he returns to the compound, he sees Peter and Steve in the common room, each focused on their own canvas. Steve’s guiding Peter through a new technique, showing him how to smudge the paint just right so the leaves on the trees look more natural. Tony stands in the doorway, soaking in the peaceful scene, even snapping a picture on his phone. He wishes he could do the same with his son again—take him back to the lab and teach him science like they used to.

Peter practically grew up in Tony’s lab at the tower. After kindergarten, the lab was also his playground. He built with blocks, played with Dum-E and Butterfingers, and often fell asleep with his head on Tony’s shoulder. But now, Tony’s critical work on the antidote leaves little room for Peter’s unpredictable flare-ups.

Steve glances over with a smile. Peter follows, turning his head toward Tony, though his eyes land on the bag in Tony’s hand.

“Brought cheeseburgers,” Tony says.

“Cheeseburger,” Peter echoes, his face lighting up without even realizing it.

Tony grins, setting the bag on the dining table.

“Wash your hands first,” Steve reminds him. Peter hurries to the sink, quickly drying his hands before snatching a cheeseburger and heading back to his canvas. Tony’s eyes follow Peter fondly, his every move with quiet affection.

“How’s the city?” Steve asks, sliding into a chair after washing his own hands.

A bittersweet smile crosses Tony’s. “The same. Alive, chaotic... home. I can’t wait for him to be back.”

“He will be, soon. Looks like he hasn’t forgotten his love for cheeseburgers.”

“Everyone loves cheeseburgers.”

“Not me.”

Tony chuckles. “Oh yeah, I forgot—you’ve got no taste.”

Steve laughs. “I still remember when you used to wake me up in the middle of the night for cheeseburgers when you were pregnant.”

“Hey, I was growing our super kid. Cheeseburgers made him strong.”

“I know,” Steve says softly, standing to press a kiss on Tony’s forehead. “And I’m thankful.”

Tony doesn’t quite know what they are anymore, but right now, while he sinks deeper into those blue depths, labels don’t matter as his heart do somersaults, feeling like they’re only picking up their old romance.

“Ugh,” Peter grimaces. “Don’t do that in front of me again. I’m losing my appetite.” He turns away with a slight shudder.

Tony chuckles, while Steve laughs as he sits back down.

“You know, he’s not supposed to say things like that until he’s a teenager,” Tony says. “He’s eleven, for chrissake.”

“Well, he’s already said things that won’t make sense no matter what age he is.”

“Fair point.” Tony sighs, taking a big, frustrated bite of his burger.

 

---

 

Days go by, with Tony spending his time in the lab at the tower working alongside Bruce and the other scientists. At the end of the day, he returns to the compound, while Bruce stays behind in the old Avengers quarters at the tower. Most nights, the compound is already asleep when Tony arrives, but Steve is always there, waiting for him to come home. They sit together while Tony eats his late dinner, sharing the details of their day. Tony talks about the progress on the antidote, venting his stress about it, while Steve recounts the rare moments he’s seen Peter smile—glimpses of their son, their Peter, shining through, not just the hardened Noir.

Tony always sleeps in his own room, while Steve stays on the sofa near Peter’s room in the common area, just in case. Tonight, the whole compound is silent, but a faint, soft sound pulls Tony from sleep—a small, fragile cry. His pulse quickens as he sits up, instinctively moving toward the dimly lit hallway.

Peter stands there, just beside the bed. Tony’s eyes scan the room, but Steve’s nowhere in sight.

“Daddy,” Peter says, eyes red and wet with tears streaming down his cheeks.

Tony’s heart lurches. He rushes over, dropping to his knees in front of Peter, pulling him into his arms. “Oh, baby,” he says, holding him close. “I’m here. Daddy’s here.” He pulls back just enough to see Peter’s tear-streaked face, gently wiping the wetness and stray locks of hair from his cheeks. “Oh my god, you… you remember me? You finally remember?”

Peter nods, and Tony’s chest tightens, his own tears welling up, pulling Peter in a fierce hug. “I missed you so much. Daddy missed you so much.”

“I don’t.”

The words are ice. Tony’s heart stops. He pulls back, searching Peter’s face. But there’s no warmth in those eyes—just a chilling, empty stare. His gaze shifts, catching the glint of something in Peter’s hand. A knife. He glances down the hallway. Steve lies motionless on the floor, blood pooling beneath him. Panic surges through Tony, but before he can move, a sharp, searing pain rips through his back, the blade plunging deep into his heart.

Tony gasps awake, drenched in cold sweat. He stumbles out of bed and makes his way to the bathroom. Collapsing by the toilet, his chest heaves as he retches, dinner forcing its way out.

A gentle hand rubs Tony's back, and when he turns, Steve is there, offering him a tissue. Tony takes it but immediately pulls Steve into a tight hug, unable to hold back the sobs that follow.

“It’s just a nightmare, love,” Steve says, his hand still soothing Tony’s back. “Do you wanna talk about it?”

Tony clings to the feel of Steve—warm, alive, his heartbeat steady against Tony’s—reminding himself Steve is still here. Catching his breath, he steps away and moves to the sink. He splashes his face with cold water, trying to ground himself, gargling before grabbing a towel. Dropping to the floor in front of Steve, he rubs his face with the towel, still trying to steady his breathing.

"It’s... it’s too much," Tony says. “You... you were dead on the floor. And Pete—no, Noir... stabbed me. Us. Both of us.” He buries his face in the towel. “Oh god, I can’t… I don’t… I don’t wanna sleep anymore.”

Steve stares at Tony for a beat before gently wrapping his arms around him, whispering softly into Tony’s ear. “It’s just a nightmare. It’s not real, and it’s never going to happen.”

But Tony’s body still shakes slightly.

“You know what will calm you.” Steve gently tugs Tony to his feet, guiding him to the sofa outside Peter’s transparent room, where Tony can clearly see Peter peacefully sleeping.

Tony sits down, pulling his legs up and wrapping his arms around them, eyes fixed on his son’s calm face.

Steve heads to the kitchen, glancing over his shoulder to see Tony finally starting to relax. A few minutes later, he returns, holding a cup in his hand.

Tony takes it. “Warm milk? What am I, twelve?”

“Sometimes you are.” Steve sits beside him, casually draping his arm over Tony’s shoulders.

Tony mockingly glares at Steve before leaning into him, sipping from the cup, humming softly. “Not bad.”

Steve scoffs with a smile.

Tony shifts his gaze back to Peter. “We’re close to the antidote.”

Steve’s eyes linger on Tony’s, noticing the sadness there. “I thought you’d be happier.”

“I thought so too.” Tony stares down at the cup in his hands. “But once those chemicals are out of his system… he’ll remember everything. Who he was and is. Remember how he used to dream of being like us? And now, after everything… it’s all going to clash. And that’s…” He pauses, throat tightening. “That’s a lot for an eleven-year-old. He’s not supposed to grow up this fast, even experience all of that. He’s still a kid.”

Steve listens silently as Tony continues, “I don’t even know if he’ll go back to being the kid we knew. Or if…” Tony brushes a hand on his mouth. “I just don’t want his mental state to get worse.”

“Then we’ll be there for him every step of the way. We’ll make sure he’s okay, like we always do.”

“What if he hates us? What if he doesn’t forgive us?”

“Tony.” Steve locks his gaze with Tony’s, his eyes reassuring. “He’s our Peter. You know how we raised him. He’s kind, silly, sassy, and most of all—good. And if he doesn’t forgive us right away, we’ve got a lifetime to make it up to him. Hating us? He’ll be a teenager in a few years. That might be inevitable.”

Tony lets out a weary sigh. “Yeah, well… after these last few weeks, it already feels like we’re dealing with a rebellious teen.”

Steve presses a gentle kiss to Tony’s temple. “I know we’re always worried about our kid, but you need to ease up a little. How about skipping the Sokovia rescue mission next week and staying here?”

“Yeah, maybe. I can work on some more samples.”

“No, not work. Just relax. Take a damn day off and relax, will you?”

“Whoa, Cap. Language.”

Steve chuckles. “Go golfing, watch a movie with Peter. Sleep. Anything but work.”

A small grin tugs at Tony’s. “Okay.” He takes another drink, purposefully letting the milk lather on his upper lip. “I love how you still take care of me.” Leaning in, he presses a quick kiss to Steve’s lips, leaving him with the matching milk mustache. Tony’s voice softens, tender and sincere. “Thank you.”

Steve’s smile widens. “Want to sleep here?”

“Nope.” Tony stands, placing the cup to the table. “You want your son scolding us again?”

Steve watches as Tony heads toward his room, his smile lingering as he relaxes back into sleep.

 

Chapter 12: Expired

 

As the Sokovia mission nears, Tony’s also close to finishing the antidote. They’re at 98 percent success, but it has to be perfect. At least 99.9 percent would give him some peace of mind, but until then, Tony’s nerves are shot. To cope, he stress-eats, and unfortunately for him, New York City is a melting pot of irresistible and best cuisines from all over the world. One call, and anything he craves is delivered straight to the tower.

“You okay?” Pepper asks, eyeing the spread of dishes on the table. She sits beside him in the dining area while he stares out at the bustling city below. She’s just back from a meeting, and Tony’s taking a break from the lab—one of many lately—whenever he can’t bear another simulation failure.

Tony’s gaze shifts to her. “Let’s see… uh, my son’s basically a mini Winter Soldier who can’t even look at me without wanting to kill me, and the antidote’s nowhere near perfect. So no, I’m not okay. I’m stress-eating, what about it?”

Pepper leans back slightly at the force of the words, but she also casually twirls his fork on a linguini, as if she’s long used to this side of him. “Okay, no need to bite my head off.”

“What if it doesn’t work? We don’t have a real test subject. It’s all just simulations.” Tony exhales, biting into a doughnut. “We can’t fail.”

“Why the rush? Didn’t Steve said you had time?”

“And what? Waste my son’s childhood? We’ve got, what, a few years before he hits puberty. So much has already been taken from him. I just want him to live and be free, enjoy being a kid.”

“Or you soaking up every moment of him being your kid before he grows up?”

Tony pauses, the words hitting harder than he expected. “Yeah... that too.”

Pepper reaches out, giving his hand a squeeze, but her phone interrupts with another alert from her packed schedule.

“Are you gonna eat all this alone? Can I take some?” she says, already grabbing a container from the dining table before Tony can answer. “You never stress-eat like this.”

“ That’s ‘cause I used to have alcohol. ”

“You only ate like this when you were pregnant with Peter.”

“I’m not pregnant.”

“I didn’t say you were.”

“I took the pill.”

Pepper’s smile widens. “Ah, so you and Steve are back together.”

“We’re not together.”

“Then what are you two?”

Tony avoids her gaze, shrugging as he takes a slow sip of his lemonade. It's a question he keeps asking himself and avoiding at the same time. 

Pepper grins, even more amused. “Okay, whatever you say, Boss.” She heads out with the container, leaving before Tony can get any more riled up.

 

 

---

 

 

Back at the lab, Tony can’t shake the earlier conversation. Even though he’s full, he keeps craving food. Ever since that nightmare and the first time he threw up, he’s had two more episodes, each time blaming it on a bad lunch.

Unable to take it anymore, Tony grabs his bag, the one where he’s kept the Plan B pill box, fingers fumbling as he checks the expiration date. He really should’ve checked this first.

“Oh god, please… please do not be expired.”

His hand tremble, squeezing his eyes shut, taking a deep breath, then forces himself to look.

Six months expired.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

“Fuck,” he says, inhaling sharply and exhaling through gritted teeth . “Okay, breathe. Breathe. Could be nothing, could be nothing.”

He pulls open the drawer, grabbing a fresh injection kit. His hand shakes, and he forces it steady as he carefully draws a small vial of blood. Taking it to the scanner, he watches as JARVIS begins analyzing the HCG levels.

The wait feels agonizing, but it's only a minute before the results ping back. Tony's stomach drops, his mouth going dry as the word stares back at him.

Positive.

“Boss.”

Tony snaps his head up to see Happy standing in the doorway of the lab.

“I’ll get the car ready,” Happy says, already turning to leave for the garage. Tony just nods, his mind still reeling to form words.

Happy pauses, his eyes narrowing with concern. “You okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Tony exhales, forcing a smile. “Yeah, yeah. I’m good.”

As soon as Happy is out of sight, Tony rushes to the bathroom. He barely makes it to the toilet before vomiting, all the food from earlier now swirling down as he flushes.

Tony splashes cold water on his face, gargling, carefully checking the mirror to make sure his eyes aren’t bloodshot before stepping out. His hand instinctively goes to the small bulge in his lower abdomen, only now noticing its presence.

“Don’t give Daddy a hard time, will you?”

 

 

---

 

 

Tony’s gaze drifts over the passing scenery as they drive upstate, Happy at the wheel. His hand rests gently on his slight swell, a surreal feeling settling in as he realizes he’s the only one who knows there’s a tiny life growing inside him. When he found out he was pregnant with Peter, it wasn’t like this—Steve had been there, they had discovered it together. Now, he still doesn’t know exactly how to feel, but there’s an instinctive part of him that knows, without a doubt, he’ll protect this little one, no matter what.

He had worried Peter might feel less loved with a sibling on the way, but now that concern feels unfounded. His love for his son hasn’t changed—it's as constant and strong as ever, it always will be, and he’ll make sure Peter always feels that love.

Beyond the antidote, Tony’s biggest problem now is his relationship with Steve. The idea of getting married again just because of this feels absurd, and he doubts Steve would agree to it either.

“Boss.”

Tony snaps out of his thoughts, catching Happy's eyes in the rearview mirror.

“We’re here.”

Tony glances outside, realizing they're already at the compound's main entrance. “Right. Thanks, Hap. Drive safe.”

He heads through the foyer into the common room, where the team’s already gathered mid-dinner, or at least some of them. Only Natasha and Bucky are there with Steve and Peter.

Peter catches his eye first, only to quickly look back down at his plate. A pang hits Tony, missing the days when Peter would light up and rush over to greet him. Natasha tosses her casual greeting his way, while Bucky, a polite nod.

Steve stands, reaching for an extra plate. Back when they were still together, Steve would have given him a quick peck and a hug. Now, all Tony gets is a smile. Not that Tony can blame him. He’s already blamed Steve for so much, but the divorce—that was Tony’s doing. He tore apart the last bit of good they had.

“You’re home early,” Natasha says with a hint of surprise, as Steve hands Tony the plate and they both slide into their seats.

“Wrapped up quicker than expected. Where’s everyone else? Mission still on?”

“Still is,” Steve says. “They’ll all be here tomorrow morning,”

Tony nods, his gaze shifting back to Peter. “Hey, how’s your day?”

“Boring,” Peter says without looking up. Tony smiles faintly, at least he got an answer. Some days, Peter doesn’t even bother, or worse, he greets Tony with a stab of his fork, like it’s become his version of ‘Hey, Dad. It was good.’

Just as Tony’s about to refocus on his plate, Peter, gripping a steak knife lunges it toward Tony’s direction. In the past, Tony always brushed it off, trusting the barrier would stop the attack, but this time, instinct kicks in. Tony jolts from his seat, knocking over a glass, the sharp clatter echoing as it hits the floor.

Tony’s heart pounds in his chest, breath quick and shallow. Natasha and Steve react instantly—Natasha to check on Tony, while Steve zeroes in on Peter, who sits surprised for the first time that Tony actually reacted.

“I’ve got it,” Bucky says calmly, already reaching for a broom.

“Peter,” Steve says, ready to reprimand.

But Peter just smiles in that cold, detached smirk.

Steve turns to Tony. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Tony says, though his voice is shaky. They had already failed to save Peter once. What if he can’t protect this little one, either. “I… I’m gonna—” he trails off, unable to finish the thought. Without another word, he rushes out of the common room and heads outside, while Steve, Bucky, and Natasha worried glances follow him.

 

---

 

The McLaren W1 roars across the asphalt, devouring the track around the compound, music pounding from the speakers. Tony grips the wheel, circling the course again and again. This is how he unwinds, how he finds calm. It’s either this or getting his hands greasy under a hood, or disappearing into some project in the lab. To some, it might seem eccentric or extravagant, but for Tony, it’s just routine. It’s his normal.

Outside the front entrance, Steve leans against a post, watching the car whip around the track in a blur of motion.

“Feels like I’m watching an F1 race already,” Bucky says, stepping up beside him.

“You watch F1?” Steve asks, not tearing his eyes from the car.

“Natasha got me into it. Said she used to catch the races with Tony when they were in Monaco.”

Steve smiles. Almost nine years of marriage to Tony had taught him all the ins and outs of his ex-husband’s quirks and passions—racing included. He’d been there, standing trackside, during Tony’s annual pilgrimage to Monaco, supporting his hobby. Just like Tony had always been there for him during the simpler things Steve enjoyed, even when it meant hopping on Steve’s bike despite his aversion to it.

“Your ex-husband’s a badass,” Bucky says with a smirk.

Steve chuckles. “He’s even better on the real track.”

Bucky gives Steve’s shoulder a tap before heading inside.

Once Tony feels calm enough, he slows down to a stop, stepping out, only to find Steve waiting there.

Their eyes meet, and Steve watches him closely; Tony can see the concern there. The truth teeters on the tip of Tony’s tongue, but he can’t bring himself to say it. He breaks the gaze, brushing past Steve without a word, slipping inside in silence.

After a shower, Tony falls asleep surprisingly fast, only to wake up at 4 a.m. with his stomach growling. He curses under his breath; among the many downsides of being pregnant, waking up in the middle of the night—or far too early in the morning—is one of the things he despises most.

He steps out to the dim hallway, seeing Peter peacefully sleeping, Steve on the sofa. The kitchen island and dining table are spotless, not a crumb in sight. There’s nothing within easy reach except the fruit on the counter. His chef doesn’t arrive until 5, meaning he’s stuck waiting for another hour.

He rummages through the fridge, pulling out ingredients he barely knows how to use. For all his years with a husband who cooks, he can’t seem to remember a thing other than how to fry eggs. But eggs’ the last thing he wants right now. What he really craves is miles away in the city: cookies, of all things at this ungodly hour. He sighs, knowing if he doesn’t watch his sweet tooth, he’s bound to end up with more than just cravings to worry about.

“You’re up early.”

Tony flinches, nearly letting the fridge door slip from his hand. “jesus christ!” He spins around to find Steve, standing there quietly, watching him with a half-smile. “Don’t scare me like that.”

Steve's smile deepens as he steps closer, peeking into the fridge beside Tony. “What do you want? I’ll cook.”

“Cookies. Levain.”

Steve raises a brow. “Well, you’re four hours early.” He glances back into the fridge. “How about French toast?”

“I guess.” Tony steps back, letting Steve gather the ingredients.

As Steve sets the pan on the stove, Tony sits on the kitchen island, watching him.

Steve glances up, his expression softening with concern. “Are you really okay?”

Tony meets Steve's gaze, feeling his heart race, gathering his courage before finally saying, “J, secure the kitchen.”

Steve's brow furrows as the kitchen becomes soundproof.

Tony takes a deep breath. “ I’m pregnant.”

Steve opens his mouth, then closes it, staring at Tony as the revelation sink in. “What?”

“What do you mean ‘what’? You did this! You didn’t use protection! And that fucking...” Tony’s voice drops to a frustrated whisper, “Plan B box was apparently expired.”

“I didn’t mean that—I mean, why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

“I just found out yesterday!”

Steve blinks, still processing. “We can’t leave you here alone for the mission.”

Tony leans back in his chair. “Oh please, I’m pregnant, not incapacitated , and I’m Iron Man; I can handle anything.”

“Okay, Iron Man, ” Steve counters, crossing his arms. “Except you panicked last night. You’ll be here all weekend, alone with our son—your weakness. And every time, you freeze around him. You can’t fight him.”

Tony scoffs. “I won’t fight him. There’s a difference. As if you could either .”

Steve exhales, his gaze drifting down to Tony’s stomach. Slowly, he closes the space between them. “Can I?”

Tony stands, giving a small nod, his breath catching as Steve gently lifts his shirt, fingers tracing the faint curve of his abdomen.

A soft laugh escapes Steve, and Tony’s smile widens.

“I’m guessing eight—nine weeks? Berlin?” Steve asks.

Tony shrugs. “Probably. I haven’t had an ultrasound yet.”

“I’ll come with you,” Steve says. “I’ll be here, every step of the way, Tony. Always. Just like before.”

Tony’s heart swells, their foreheads pressing together, soaking in the warmth of Steve’s care. No matter how chaotic their lives have been, no matter how difficult Tony can be, Steve has always been gentle with him, and Tony treasures that more than words can express.

"I’ll be fine, we’ll be fine," Tony says softly. "We’ll all be here and safe when you come back from the mission."

Steve nods, but the concern in his eyes lingers, even as he hopes Tony’s words are true.

 

Notes:

The pregnancy is just a part of this story and the main plot won't revolve around it.

Chapter 13: Antidote

 

Tony isn't great at taking days off. Usually, an hour is all it takes before he’s back in the lab, tinkering with something. But this weekend, with everyone away, Steve puts his foot down, restricting Tony from entering the lab. JARVIS, under strict orders, only allows Tony in for less than ten minutes at a time, and Tony can't believe how his own AI always follows Steve’s commands, even though it's his own AI.

So, Tony watches. His son runs laps on the track while Tony snacks on—this time something healthier his chef made, keeping an eye on Peter. Back then, one of his favorite things was spending time with Peter, who he can cuddle up with while watching cartoons or old movies. Noir? Not as much. Every question Tony asks is met with either a short yes or no or a glance that makes Tony wonder if the kid’s plotting something.

Tony hates to admit it, but he’s a little jealous of how Steve gets Peter to be so calm and focused during art time—not unnervingly calm, just... attentive. Tony had thought about trying the same approach, but the idea fizzled out. He’s not that creative unless it involves designing a weapon or a device—then he’s all in.

While lounging on the couch, Tony has already taken two naps, Steve’s comforting scent still lingering in the cushions, making it easy for him to relax. But now, he's bored out of his mind. Suddenly, a thought strikes him—something he had neglected to check while working on the antidote. He gets up, heading to his lab, and returns with an item in hand.

“This was on your wrist in Berlin,” Tony says, holding it out. Peter doesn't even look his way, eyes still fixed on the TV from his spot on the bean bag, casually eating potato chips.

“You used it to swing, right? Greatest tensile strength I’ve ever seen,” Tony continues, gauging for a reaction.

Peter finally glances over his shoulder. “I made it.”

Tony’s brow lifts . “You did? How?”

“Octavia’s lab has a ton of scrap tools. I needed something to move faster through the cities we’re in. She let me work on it.”

“That’s impressive,” Tony says, pride softening his features. His little engineer had created this. He pulls up a hologram, studying the device more closely.

“Sir,” JARVIS warns.

“Come on, J, I’m just trying out something.” Tony starts pulling up ideas, his mind already racing. He turns to Peter. “You know, there’s a lot more you can do with this. It’s not just for swinging.”

Peter tilts his head, intrigued now, his full focus shifting to Tony, making Tony smile. “Really?”

“Yeah,” Tony says, showing him a few modifications he came up with in just a few minutes.

“Wow,” Peter says, eyes widening, and Tony’s grin stretches wider. It’s the first he’s seen Peter like this even under the subjugation.

“How bout you come up with some ideas too, and let’s see if we can make it work?” Tony pulls up another hologram, guiding Peter through the motions, showing him how to gesture and sketch in the air, the glow of the display casting soft light on their focused faces.

Time slips by unnoticed, and before they realize it, it’s already dinner time, Steve calling over, giving updates on the mission.

Later, after dinner, Peter heads back to his room, leaving Tony at the dining table, still on a video call with Steve.

“You’re happy,” Steve observes.

“I thought I’d be bored out of my mind, but we’re actually making progress,” Tony says, sounding almost giddy.

“Yeah, Jarvis filled me in,” Steve says, grinning.

Tony rolls his eyes. “J, snitches get stitches!”

Steve chuckles. “You feeling okay? Don’t feel sick?”

Tony shakes his head. Steve’s scent lingering on the cushions has been grounding him, comforting in a way he’d never admit out loud. He figures he might just sleep there tonight, but there’s no chance he’s saying that either.

“That’s good. Just call if you need anything,” Steve says.

“And what, you’ll come rushing over?”

“I will.”

Tony laughs, but it fades as Clint’s voice breaks through. “Sorry to interrupt ‘Babe time,’ but we’ve got new intel, Cap.”

“I’ll be there,” Steve replies, standing up.

“Be careful,” Tony says, softer now.

“You too. Call me if anything comes up.”

Tony wants to say those three words, and it feels like Steve’s hesitating too, both of them caught in the pause. But the moment slips away, unspoken, as the call ends.

Lying on the sofa, Tony watches Peter, already settled in bed. Freshly showered, hair still damp, Peter’s drying it himself. Tony wants to take over, but with everyone gone now, it's better to keep things safe.

After, with Peter on the bed, knowing Peter’s still awake, Tony asks, “What do you call it, your device?”

“Do I need to name it?”

“Of course. It’s your creation. Like my AI—he’s called JARVIS, a tribute to our butler, Jarvis, who was also my friend. Everything we build in the tower has a name.”

There’s a pause before Peter finally answers, “Web shooter, because, it shoots webs. My webs. Je suis l'araignée noire, après tout.” [I'm black spider, after all.]

Tony stays quiet as Peter drifts to sleep. It’s almost uncanny, he thinks, how Peter’s favorite thing is tied to the very creature that bit him. Maybe, in some way, it’s always meant to be.

 

 

---

 

 

Tony's eyes flutter open, not just from JARVIS's voice but from the cold creeping through his skin even with the blanket draped over him.

“Sir,” JARVIS says.

Tony hums, his gaze adjusting to the dimly lit surroundings. The red LED lights on the floor glow faintly, the kind reserved for emergencies. “Shit,” he says, fully awake now, gaze drifting to the digital clock that says thirty past three. “What happened?”

“There’s been an outage for the past fifteen minutes, Sir. The entire New York grid has failed.”

“Any word on when it’ll be back?” Tony’s already moving toward Peter’s room. 

“They estimate about an hour. Our generators are powering the compound, but not enough to activate the shield, Sir.”

“Where’s Peter?” Tony’s breathing becomes shallow, heart pounding in his ears, the only sound louder than JARVIS. His hand instinctively presses against his small bump. "Do you see him anywhere?”

“No, Sir.”

Tony stops in his tracks, making sure he’s not dreaming, hoping this isn’t another nightmare, but right now he hopes that’s all it is. He can’t lose Peter, not again. And he can’t risk any danger to the baby either. He rushes to his lab, heading straight for his suit. “Call… call Steve for me.”

“Captain Rogers is still on the mission, Sir.”

“I don’t care. Call him.” The suit assembles around Tony in seconds, encasing him in its protection. Tony scans the area, but there's no sign of Peter.

A sharp pain stabs his lower back, and even without a medical degree, he knows it's a warning, his body’s reacting to the stress spiralling out of control, and Tony wishes he could just calm down. But his nerves are frayed, and the anxiety meds he’s on are off-limits now, dangerous for the baby.

Tony slips the antidote into his armor, fingers trembling. Whether it’s perfect or not, he doesn’t have the luxury of waiting. He needs it to work now.

Steve’s voice crackles through the line. “Tony.”

“There’s…” Tony’s breath hitches. “There’s been an outage. Peter’s not here. I can’t find him.”

“Shit,” Steve says, explosions rumbling in the distance. “Do you have your armor on? Just breathe, love. Breathe.”

“I can’t breathe!” Tony gasps, panic seizing his chest.

“Sir, please try to calm down,” Jarvis interjects. “Your blood pressure is rising. I’ve already alerted emergency services.”

Tony forces his breath to steady, fighting the suffocating fear. “I need to find Peter.”

“He’s not going anywhere,” Steve reminds him. “Remember his mission? He’s probably in the weapons room by now. Right now, he’s Noir. Don’t freeze. If you have to fight him, you do it.”

“Easy for you to say.” Tony heads to the foyer, eyes scanning frantically.

“Just… be careful,” Steve urges, voice tight with worry.

Before Tony can respond, Jarvis’s alert sounds in his earpiece—blades whistling toward his back. Tony spins just in time, his armor deflecting each knife with a sharp clang.

Across the room, Peter stands among a stash of weapons, one of Natasha’s lethal daggers in his grip, looking every bit the assassin he’s been forced to become.

“Noir, how bout we just talk this out, huh?” Tony calls out, keeping his voice even despite the searing pain now spreading from his back to his abdomen.

“Don’t go near him!” Steve says.

“I have to. I’ve got the antidote. This is our chance.”

“Didn’t you say it’s not yet perfect?”

“I know. But it'll work. It has to.” Tony steps forward, forcing himself to ignore the tightening pain in his belly. “I’ll call you back later.”

“Tony—!” Tony deliberately ends the call, unwilling to let Steve hear the whimper that escapes him. The pain intensifies, curling deep in his core, making him want to fold in on himself, but he pushes through. He has to save Peter.

“How long until emergency services, J?” Tony grits out.

“Three minutes out, Sir.”

“Tell them—“ Tony pauses, the pain sharp enough to steal his breath. “Tell them I'm having a miscarriage.”

“A specialist is also en route, Sir.”

Peter closes in on him now, and Tony, drained of energy, doesn’t bother to deflect. He waits for Peter to strike, knowing it’s coming. And when it does, Peter’s blade pierces Tony’s chest, the tip grazing his skin. Blood oozes out, but Tony uses the moment to grab Peter by the neck, pulling him in tight. He fumbles for the antidote, spraying the red and blue dust directly into Peter’s face.

“Please work,” Tony says.

Peter’s irises dilate, his expression twisting—fear, pain, shame, all flooding in at once.

“Daddy,” Peter chokes out, tears welling up in his eyes.

Tony laughs, the sound broken as tears spill down his face. His suit opens at the middle, and finally, he pulls Peter close, holding him tight.

Peter clings to him, sobbing, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay. I got you.” Tony presses soft kisses into Peter’s hair. “It’s not your fault, baby. Not your fault. I’m okay. Daddy’s okay.”

Peter pulls back, eyes wide with alarm. “You’re bleeding.” His trembling hands fly to Tony’s chest, trying to staunch the flow, but panic surges as his gaze drops to the growing pool of blood beneath Tony.

At that moment, the emergency services arrive, flashing lights flood the room as emergency services rush in. The power flickers back to life, but Tony barely registers it. His vision sways, blurs, and before he can make sense of the chaos around him, the darkness closes in, dragging him under.

 

Chapter 14: Home

 

As the new day dawns, sunlight spilling through the compound, Peter feels as if he’s breathing life anew.

It’s as though he’s been living behind a veil, and now everything comes into sharp focus—each memory since his kidnapping, the cherished moments from his childhood, the ones that stand out rush back, vivid and clear.

He sees his younger self, riding a bike along the tracks, his Dadda’s quiet patience, his Daddy’s easy laughter, the warmth of the team around him.

Every sunset over the city, every playdate with friends, every ordinary, beautiful piece of his life, they all feel real again, reminding him of who he was—of what he once had.

But the darkness never escapes. He sees what he's done, each violent act flashing like a strobe—every weapon hurled, every shot fired. The faces of the people he never wanted to hurt, especially the ones he thought he’d protect above all—his parents, and now... his unborn sibling.

Peter's fingers tremble as guilt courses through him. Clenching his fists, he forces himself to stay steady.

Daddy will be okay. The baby will be okay.

He hears the medical bay doors slide open, and a doctor steps out.

“Is he okay?” Peter asks.

“He’s stable now. The baby is, too, Mr. Stark-Rogers.”

Peter exhales, though it’s tangled with something else—the sound of that name. His name. Peter Stark-Rogers. It feels foreign, almost like it belongs to someone else; a part of him wondering if he's even that person anymore.

“Is your father around?”

“He’s…” Peter trails off, unsure.

JARVIS fills the silence. “He’s en route back to the compound, young master.”

Peter gives a small smile. “Thanks, J.” He shifts his attention back to the doctor. “Can we move him to his room instead?” The thought of his dad waking up in the sterile medical bay, Daddy always hated it there. The doctor agrees, suggesting Peter wait in Tony's room.

Before heading there, Peter pauses in the lounge, taking a moment. It feels so familiar and yet, there's a distance between him and the space, like he’s an observer in his own life.

“Hi, J.”

“Welcome back, young master.”

“I really should’ve listened to your warning on the Quinjet.”

“You’ve never been one to take my advice when hungry, Peter.”

Peter laughs, wiping away a tear that slips down his cheek.

He continues down the hall, pausing outside his old room. The door is slightly ajar, revealing a space frozen in time, except for the scattered artwork on the floor—fragments of himself left behind in the places he once wished he could escape from. The stars over Paraguay, the sunsets from Mongolia, the shimmering auroras in Alaska, Patagonia’s towering mountains, the moon glowing above Berlin, and New York’s skyline from the tower—each piece beautiful, all in contrast to the darkness that chained him, captured in his noir paintings.

Opening his closet, he runs his fingers over the clothes that used to fit him, now too small, too tight—a version of himself that feels so distant, almost unfamiliar, hanging beside the newer ones, suspended between past and present, between who he was and who he’s become. He slips into a fresh long-sleeved shirt before heading to Tony’s room.

When he reaches the room, he pauses at the doorway, watching the slow rise and fall of his Daddy’s chest as he sleeps, the rhythmic sound comforting. His eyes drift to the bedside table. There, resting against the lamp, is the stuffed spider toy he thought he’d lost as a child, and beside it, his scarf. A warmth spreads through him, the kind that aches, as if he can feel his dad holding onto those things when he wasn’t there, as if he could feel his dad missing him, needing those little pieces of him to hold on to.

Peter watches him for a moment, his heart swelling with both relief and a sadness he can’t fully express. His father’s words echo in his mind, It’s okay. I got you. It’s not your fault, baby. Not your fault. I’m okay. Daddy’s okay. The words wrap around him, filling the hollow spaces inside.

His dads never gave up on him, they found a way to save him.

Peter bites his lip, trying to stop the tears, but they come anyway, silently spilling down his face. He wipes them away and climbs into bed beside Tony, hugging him close. Tony stirs just enough to pull Peter into a gentle embrace, breathing him in.

“I’m sorry, Daddy,” Peter whispers.

“Shhh,” Tony says, his eyes barely open. “Not your fault. You’re here now. Safe.” A tear rolls down Tony’s cheek, and Peter reaches up, gently wiping it away.

“The baby’s safe too, Daddy.”

Tony smiles through the tears, pressing a kiss to Peter's forehead, his hold tightening as they settle into sleep, together again.

 

 

---

 

 

When Steve bursts into Tony’s room, he’s still in his deep blue combat gear, heart pounding with a need stronger than any mission he’s ever faced. He had left the team back in Sokovia to handle the aftermath, flying back the moment Tony ended the call. He couldn’t stay away any longer. He needed to see them, to know—really know—that his family is okay. Now, seeing the love of his life safe, along with their babies, their son back with them—no longer held by the shield, no longer held captive by a cause that tore them apart.

Relief floods Steve’s chest, and for the first time in hours, he lets himself breathe.

Peter stirs from sleep, Tony too, and Peter’s eyes widen. “Dad.”

The word strikes Steve like a melody he’s been aching to hear. “Bud.”

He moves forward, his arms opening on reflex. When Peter steps into the embrace, Steve holds him tightly, lifting him off.

“You’re finally here,” Steve breathes against Peter’s hair. “You’re back to us.”

Tony watches, his gaze soft and glassy.

“I’m sorry,” Peter sobs, grip tight around Steve’s. “I’m so sorry I hurt you and Daddy and the baby.”

“That wasn’t you, Peter. None of it was you. None of this is your fault. We’re just—” Steve’s voice falters, a crack in the strong front he’s held for so long. “We’re just glad you’re back. That’s all that matters.”

Steve glances at Tony, moving closer, pressing a soft kiss on Tony’s forehead, his hand finding its place at the side of Tony’s neck, then moving lower to rest on the curve of Tony’s stomach, their child, tucked away beneath layers of love and protection.

“You okay?” Steve asks, his gaze never leaving Tony’s.

Tony nods with a smile. “We are.”

Together, they hold Peter, their arms wrapping around him as if they could somehow make up for all the time lost, all the heartache endured. In that moment, nothing else matters. The world is still, silent, except for the steady beat of not just three, but four hearts—finally, fully, home.

 

Chapter 15: Reunion

The rest of the team arrives from Sokovia an hour after Steve, all weary and exhausted. As Steve and Peter enter the lounge, the soft hum of conversation dies down. All eyes drift toward them—Steve holding Peter's hand, while Peter lingers shyly behind him, half-hidden by Steve's frame.

Natasha, Sam, and Bucky, already seated, exchange knowing smiles. Rhodey and Bruce walk in from the common area.

“How’s Tony?” Rhodey asks.

Steve smiles, though the weight of everything still sits in his eyes. “He’s okay. The baby, too. They’re both fine, just need some rest.”

Rhodey nods, the team visibly relieved.

Bruce grins. “Looks like you’ve got a shadow, Cap.”

Steve chuckles, his thumb brushing reassuring circles on Peter’s arm as Peter clutches the back of Steve’s shirt.

“Hi…” Peter mumbles, eyes fixed on the floor, too nervous, too ashamed to meet anyone's gaze.

Natasha chuckles. Sam, Rhodey, Bruce, and Bucky share easy smiles—warm, welcoming, full of understanding. No one here is angry. No one here blames him.

Natasha rises first, her eyes soft. “We all missed you Iron baby.”

Peter’s chest tightens at the nickname, something he isn’t sure he still deserves. That’s Daddy’s, a hero’s name and he’s no hero. He risks a glance up, Steve’s hand presses firmly against his back, as if saying it’s okay.

“Aunt Tasha.”

Natasha’s smile widens, hugging him. One by one, Sam, Rhodey, and Bruce follow, their hugs warm, each one saying we’re here without a word. And then there’s Bucky.

“Finally nice to meet you, Peter.”

Instead of shaking Bucky’s hand, Peter throws his arms around him for a hug.

“Uncle Bucky.”

Bucky freezes for a heartbeat, but then his grin spreads, his eyes shining with unshed tears as the words sink in—he’s an uncle to his best friend’s kid.

“Oh, our little super soldier’s back,” Clint teases from the doorway.

“Uncle Clint,” Peter beams. Clint hugs him over with a laugh, but Peter’s attention soon shifts to the two teenagers trailing behind Clint, their eyes scanning the room warily.

“These are Wanda and Pietro,” Clint introduces. “Our enhanced rescue twins from Sokovia.”

Peter’s eyes narrow slightly, studying them. There’s a vague sense of déjà vu, like he’s brushing against a half-forgotten memory. The twins eye him with the same guarded curiosity, as if they've crossed paths before but can’t place when.

“Alright, let’s get some breakfast so I can finally get some sleep,” Rhodey says, the group now turning to the common area.

“I’m gonna grab some for Tony,” Steve adds casually.

Wanda’s head snaps toward him. “Tony? Tony Stark is here?”

“He is part of your group?” Pietro adds.

Steve looks at them curiously, and Peter senses the tension rippling through the room as everything falls into an uneasy silence.

“He is,” Clint answers calmly.

Wanda’s eyes darken, her fingers already crackling with scarlet energy. But it’s not just magic. It’s pain. Grief. A need for justice. “Stark killed our parents.”

Before anyone can react, Pietro vanishes in a blur, but Peter’s faster, his senses five steps ahead. In an instant, Peter intercept him mid-run, his enhanced strength slamming Pietro back toward Wanda. They collide with the wall, both stumbling from the impact. The whole exchange happens in the blink of an eye, leaving the team frozen in shock.

Peter’s chest heaves, but his voice, when he speaks, is ice—controlled, simmering with something darker like the assassin he once was. “You wanna touch my Dad, you deal with me.”

The team stares, caught between wondering if this is still Peter, or Noir—no, it’s both, fused. They stay with him. Steve’s hand finds Peter’s shoulder, grounding him, though the tension in Peter’s body refuses to ease.

Wanda and Pietro scramble to their feet, their eyes with disbelief, and maybe even a flicker of respect. That this kid—someone who don’t even look like could hurt a fly—could stop Pietro mid-run. But there’s still anger in their gaze. They don’t dare look away from Peter, as though he’s the danger they hadn’t accounted for.

Steve steps forward. “We welcome you both here in peace. Keep acting like a threat, and we might have to reconsider. Or... stay. No harm, no threats. Build something new here. I know it’s not my place, but Stark Industries... under its old management, some things happened. Things even Tony’s not proud of.”

“And I take responsibility for it,” Tony says, carrying the weight of old regrets.

“Daddy!” Peter’s defenses crumble as he rushes to Tony’s side, arms wrapped around his waist, like he’s willing to fight the world to keep him safe.

“You’re not even supposed to be standing,” Steve says with exasperation going over Tony.

Tony gives a small smile, his arms around Peter. “Had to say my piece.” His gaze shifts to Wanda and Pietro, sincerity in his eyes. “I’m sorry for everything. I’ll do whatever I can to make it right for both of you.”

For a moment, there is only silence. Wanda and Pietro exchange a glance, the kind that speaks of shared pain and a fragile thread of forgiveness. Wanda finally nods. “We’re sorry too. We acted without thinking.”

Pietro’s gaze locks onto Peter, his eyes narrowing as if the memory finally clicks into place. “Wait... You. Noir? Is that you?”

“I’m not Noir anymore,” Peter says. Tony’s lips curl into a quiet smile, while Steve’s expression mirrors a similar warmth, both watching Peter reclaim his identity with unspoken pride.

Wanda’s face lights up with unexpected fondness. “Chubby cheeks, don’t you remember us?”

Confusion clouds Peter’s face, searching his memory, but all he can do is shake his head slowly.

Pietro steps closer. “Remember two years ago? Octavia brought you to Sokovia. She needed Strucker’s input, I think.” He hesitates, his expression softening with something close to sympathy. “You’d just been bitten by her spider. Every night, you cried yourself to sleep.” He glances at Wanda, the corner of his mouth lifting in a sad smile. “Wanda had to conjure made up voices of your parents just to calm you down.”

The story lands heavy, the image of Peter—young, scared, and hurting—gripping the hearts of those who love him most. Steve’s jaw tightens, as though wanting go back in time, shield Peter from that pain, while Tony’s eyes linger on Peter, feeling every bit of the quiet pain their kid must’ve endured.

Peter’s eyes widen slowly as the memory stirs, fragments of foggy images piecing together, two teenagers who once comforted him in the cold, dark corners of Sokovia. “No way... Speedy Socks and Pretty Witch?”

A soft chuckle escapes Wanda, followed by Pietro’s more amused grin. Peter’s arms loosen around Tony’s, and he glances up at his dad, who smiles at him before stepping forward to hug the two siblings.

The rest of the team exchanges surprised, amused glances at the unexpected reunion, but there’s something unspoken between Steve and Tony as they exchange a glance, a sadness there, feeling as if they’ve only scratched the surface of everything Peter’s been through.

 

---

 

While the rest of the team gathers for breakfast in the common room, the Stark and Stripes family shares their meal in Tony’s room. Steve insists that Tony stay in bed, under strict orders for bed rest—at least a week or two. It’s hard enough to keep Tony still, but eventually Steve’s resolve, the calm steadiness in his gaze, finally softens the edge of Tony’s resistance.

In the hush of the room, with the faint murmur of the tv playing in the background, they sit together—a small table between them, breakfast laid out , Tony spreads cream cheese over a bagel, his hands moving with the familiar rhythm of an old routine, just the way Peter used to like it, and places it on Peter’s plate.

Peter stares at it, now remembering all the times he craved this simple dish in every hideout before being chemically subjugated. He takes a small bite, and as soon as the taste touches his tongue, a tightness grips his throat. Tears well up, and he swallows, fighting the tremor crawling up his chest. He’s shed more tears today than he has in the entire past year. He doesn’t want them to see. Doesn’t want them to worry. But of course, they notice—his parents always do.

Peter’s gaze meets his Dad’s. Steve’s soft smile reaches him, full of understanding, full of quiet reassurance.

“It’s okay,” Steve says.

That simple phrase breaks something in Peter. A tear slips free, and before he can stop it, Tony, sitting closest, wraps his arms around him, holding him, placing a gentle kiss on his head.

“We’re here,” Tony whispers. “We’re so sorry we couldn’t protect you from it. We’re sorry you had to go through all that.”

Peter’s chest tightens at that, at the rawness in his Dad’s voice. Steve’s hand is on his shoulder now, grounding him, as he speaks with the same quiet strength. “You don’t have to carry it by yourself. When you’re ready, you can talk to us. We’ll listen. We’re always here .”

Peter nods, his throat too tight to speak. When he finally does, his voice is hoarse. “Don’t make me cry more.”

They chuckle softly. Steve leans in, pressing a kiss to Peter’s temple, followed by Tony.

In that moment, Peter feels seen, understood, and for the first time in a long while, not alone.

 

Chapter 16: Beautiful Boy

During Tony’s bedrest, his son rarely leaves his side. Peter’s there, whether watching movie marathons that blur one into the next or just sitting with him in a silence so comfortable that words seem unnecessary.

At night, Peter sleeps into the space between Tony and Steve, bridging the divide neither of them has dared to close. As Tony lies there, feeling the warmth of his son beside him, Peter’s here—really here, a tangible reassurance that fills him with gratitude so strong it’s almost painful. But beneath that gratitude, there’s a lingering regret, a wound that whispers he should have done more to have kept their son safe. It’s a regret Tony knows won’t disappear, a silent shadow he shares with Steve, a guilt neither of them can fully silence, even as they tell themselves they’ll learn to forgive the past they couldn’t change.

More than that, he hasn’t told Peter the truth. They haven’t told him. Perhaps because they, too, don’t fully understand it.

They’re divorced, yes—technically, officially—but there’s something more between them, something unresolved, fragile, and impossible to define. Tony feels it in every glance that passes between him and Steve, a tension that’s there in the way they move around each other, in the way they exchange soft kisses or touch, in ways that seem too gentle, too familiar. It’s always there, and Tony can't help but wonder if it’s all just for Peter, the baby. Or maybe—for them.

In these quiet moments, Tony’s fears that Peter sense the gap, the unspoken distance they both dance around, the cracks that are too faint to name but too present to ignore. Peter still sees them as whole, still sees them as the family they once were, even as Tony struggles to remember what it means now, to be both together and apart, bound by love yet fractured by time.

Tony always watches as Steve and Peter continue their routine of painting, the soft brushstrokes filling the air with a rhythm that feels steady and soothing, yet there’s an undercurrent in Peter’s movements—a subtle heaviness in the way his hand hovers, the way his shoulders slightly tense, in the fleeting moments his gaze sometimes drifts, faraway, as if he’s momentarily lost in a place he refuses to share. Tony’s chest tightens every time he sees it—the fleeting heaviness that Peter tries so hard to mask.

Peter still refuses to talk about it. It hangs between them like a shadow neither Tony nor Steve dare chase away. They have a child therapist stopping by the compound, but even she walks away empty-handed, leaving with a gentle warning not to force what isn’t ready to be opened. Tony wonders if it’s better this way, leaving it unspoken, as though untouched silence could heal what’s buried deep. But a part of him knows better. Some things don’t disappear just because they’re ignored. They fester. They grow.

Now, as Peter dangles from Bucky’s metal arm, laughter bubbling as he trades jokes with Pietro and Wanda across the field, Tony sits quietly on the second-floor balcony of the compound, his gaze lingering on Peter’s carefree smile, the kind of smile Tony longs to see more often. The kind that reminds him Peter is still just a kid, a kid who deserves so much more than what life has handed him.

Steve, Sam, Natasha, and Bruce are with him, but Tony’s attention drifts in and out of their conversation. No matter what they’re talking about, his mind keeps returning to his son, the topic shifting to school. Stability. Normalcy. They both want that for their son—a life with routine, a life where Peter can just be a kid again, not a boy haunted by his past. But opposing opinions settle in, as always, Tony and Steve want the same thing, but they can never seem to agree on how to get there.

“He’d be better off at Dalton,” Tony says, eyes following Peter now riding a bike, the wind catching his hair. It’s easy to imagine his son there, surrounded by the friends who’ve held onto him. Every now and then, Johnny and Kate’s voicemails still come in, asking about Peter. They care about him. He needs that. “Being with friends who know him, who can support him.”

Steve’s quiet for a moment. “How about somewhere new,” his voice is gentle, but it hits Tony like a crack in his armor. “Dalton has too many memories, Tony. People there already have their opinions about him. A fresh start could give him control over his story. Maybe help him feel like himself again.”

“You just don’t want him going to school with a bunch of trust fund kids.” The words sharper than Tony intends, a defense against the ache of Steve’s logic making too much sense.

Steve sighs. Tony continues, “FYI, those trust-fund kids are the kindest there is.”

“Really?” Bruce asks. “What happened to you?” It’s a playful jab, but there's real curiosity there. Sam and Natasha stifle their laughs, but only the old pain rises to the surface, the one Tony thought he'd buried.

Howard happened, that’s what, Tony thinks, but the bitter words lodge in his throat. Instead, he punches Bruce’s arm.

“Ow,” Bruce says, rubbing the spot. “That was a genuine question.”

Laughter follows, but Tony barely hears it. He’s too caught in the way Steve’s gaze softens—too aware of the way Steve always sees through him. For a moment, Tony thinks Steve might reach out, bridge the space between them, the quiet comfort of a hand that could squeeze his own, a gesture that could say all the things Tony can’t. But Steve hesitates, his fingers twitching, and the moment slips away.

Sam’s voice cuts through the silence. “In trauma therapy,” he starts, “we talk a lot about creating safe environments for healing. You both have good points. His best friends at Dalton could be the support he needs. But maybe a new school could represent something more—a clean slate, somewhere he doesn’t have to carry his past. But... at the end of the day, you’ve gotta ask Peter what he wants.”

The silence returns, Tony meets Steve’s eyes, seeing the same doubt he knows is mirrored in his own. There’s no resolution in the glance they exchange, only a shared uncertainty that neither can put into words.

 

 

---

 

 

Across the dinner table, Steve and Tony exchange a brief glance, the kind of look they’ve shared many times before, neither quite ready to be the first to break the easy banter of the evening. By the time most of the dishes are cleared and it’s just the three of them left at the table,  Tony clears his throat, feigning nonchalance. “Hey sweetheart, are you getting bored around here? Wanna head back to the city for a bit? Maybe even go back to school, see your friends?”

Peter stops stirring his ice cream, the spoon pausing midair.

Peter’s voice is small, almost hesitant. “Do I have to?” He doesn’t look up, eyes trained on the half-melted swirl in the glass cup. “Can’t I just learn here? You can keep teaching me math and science, and Dad with art.”

Tony smiles faintly. “Yeah, we do, but school isn’t just about classes. You’d get to have more fun, join sports, hang out with kids your age.” He leans forward, trying to catch Peter’s gaze. “Don’t you miss your best friends?”

Peter’s fingers tighten around the spoon, his gaze still fixed on the ice cream. “I run on the track here, that’s a sport. And… I have friends here. Wanda and Pietro... and the Uncle's and Aunt Nat.”

There’s a moment of silence. Steve looks over at Tony, then speaks up, his voice steady and gentle. “It’s just in school, you’d have more than just the track, Pete. You’d get to try different things.”

Tony nods. “And you’d learn a lot more too. Like…”

“History,” Steve supplies.

Tony scrunches up in disbelief. “History? Really?” He shifts his gaze back to Peter’s. “Point is, it’s more fun at school, baby. There’s a whole lot more to do out there. You can’t stay cooped up here all the time. It’s... not good for you.”

There’s a lingering pause, and Tony’s fingers tap a restless rhythm against the table. Steve looks at him, silently urging patience.

Peter finally looks up. “Why?”

“Because we said so,” Tony blurts out.

“Tony,” Steve warns.

“What? I’m running out of reasons.”

“The point of this is to let him choose.”

Peter’s lips quirk upward in a smile. “Dads, I can hear both of you, you know.”

A beat of silence stretches between them, Tony and Steve exchange a glance, this one longer, and when they break eye contact, they seem to settle into a shared understanding.

“Okay,” Tony finally says in quiet surrender. “It’s okay not to go if you don’t want to.”

Peter’s eyes narrow slightly. “Is that reverse psychology?”

Tony rolls his eyes, letting out an exaggerated sigh, but there’s relief when Peter’s giggle breaks through, a sound Tony and Steve have missed, one that feels like a brief breath of fresh air.

“It’s not reverse psychology,” Tony says. “If you don’t want to, it’s really okay. We'll figure out another way.”

Peter bites his lip, fingers tracing the edge of his cup. “I do… want to. I just… don’t know if… or how… how I’ll fit in.”

“You don’t have to fit in,” Steve says, steady and warm. “You just have to be yourself. That’s enough, and always will be.”

Peter smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “But who am I?” His gaze falls, the brief light dims, almost as if he’s afraid of the answer. “I don’t know who I am anymore.”

Tony’s heart clenches, forcing a smile, even though his throat burns. “You’re Peter,” he says. “Our brilliant and beautiful boy. Our everything.”

Peter’s eyes gloss over with an emotion that lingers just beneath the surface.

“You get to choose, Peter,” Steve says. “Whoever you want to be—it’s yours.”

Peter nods, a genuine smile finally reaching his eyes. Tony watches that spark, holding on to the hope it brings, even as uncertainty twists inside him.

“Do you want to go back to Dalton?” Tony asks. “Johnny and Kate are still there—”

“No.” The smile vanishes as quickly as it came. The abruptness startles Tony inwardly, like a door slamming shut in the middle of a conversation.

Peter’s voice drops, almost pleading. “Can we not tell them I’m back yet? And everyone…”

Tony exchanges a look with Steve, an unspoken understanding there, a silent promise to be what their son needs.

“Of course, sweetheart.”

 

Chapter 17: Run, boy, run

Notes:

Sorry for the slow update, been really busy.

Running's supposed to ease Peter’s mind. It’s part of his routine now ever since he regained his agency, ever since he found his way back to his family that never gave up on him. Steve never fails to ask Peter if he wants to join, and Peter agrees, as if the habit tethers him to something familiar. But no matter how fast he runs, the rhythm of his feet striking the ground can’t silence the echoes that trail too closely behind him like ghosts he can’t outrun.

The hideouts. The training. The chains that stripped him of freedom.

It’s like shadow breathing down his neck, and though he never lets it show, there are moments when every breath feels like a fight to stay in the present. He wants to be the version of himself that can run and feel the wind on his face without the memories dragging behind him. But it remains. The cold, the harsh edge of fear, the sharp bark of orders, the demands that break him down until all that’s left are scars hidden beneath the surface.

Sometimes, it feels like he’s running from something that always keeps pace.

Pietro stands at the sidelines, hands clapping, watching instead of joining in. It’s not that he doesn’t want to participate, it’s that running at their pace feels like crawling to him. “Come on, spider, keep up.”

Pietro means it as encouragement, but the words lands wrong, twisting into something else. Something darker. Rumlow’s voice follows like a taunt that digs deep under Peter’s skin.

That the best you can do? Do 200 pushups or you don’t eat today. Maybe that’s why Rogers left you in the Quinjet, huh? You’re useless. Weak.

They’re better off leaving you alone. You’re not good enough. You’re not strong enough. Fucking loser.

The memory so visceral that it drags Peter under before he even realizes it. He pushes harder, his legs burning as the world becomes a blur. He sprints, blindly, leaving Sam, Bucky, and Steve behind.

“Peter!” Steve’s voice is distant, drowned by the blood rushing in Peter’s ears. Pietro catches up in a blink, reaching out to stop him. But Peter reacts before he even thinks—his hands shove Pietro away with more force than intended, sending the speedster stumbling back.

Steve’s the only one who manages to catch up. The only one who knows how to reach him in moments like these. He doesn’t grab or yank; instead, he meets each thrash with steady hands.

“Peter,” Steve says, his voice gentle, cutting through the noise.

Peter’s breaths come in sharp, frantic bursts. “I’m weak… I’m not good enough. I’m not strong enough. I’m a fucking loser.” His voice is hollow, his eyes lost, staring at something far away—at someone far away.

Steve feels something inside him crack, a sharp, splintering ache. Hearing those words from his son isn’t just painful, it’s shattering. He swallows the rush of anger and guilt, letting his grip become an anchor instead.

“Dad’s here, Pete.”

It’s not a command, not an order—just a reminder, simple and true. And in that moment, Steve isn’t Captain America; he’s just Dad, standing firm, ready to catch Peter if he crumbles.

“You’re safe now,” Steve repeats softly. “You’re not weak. You’re enough. You’ve always been enough.”

Slowly, the haze lifts, reality sinking in like a breath of air after drowning. “Dad?” Peter says, tears gathering like storm clouds. “I can’t escape… I can’t...”

Steve pulls Peter into his arms, holding him close like he did when Peter was little and his fears were just monsters under the bed. Steve wraps him up, solid and protective. “I’ve got you. You’re safe. You’re here now.”

Peter’s sobs come quietly at first, then louder, and Steve just holds him, grounding him in the present, in safety.

 

 

---

 

Tony’s heard it all. Those words of abuse from Peter's lips like broken glass, each one cutting deeper. Tony has always vowed to protect Peter from every kind of hurt, to never let Peter feel like he was anything less than worthy, loved, and safe. Yet here they are, and the failure presses down, the suffocating guilt.

As Peter crumbles, sobbing into Steve’s shoulder, Tony stands frozen. His instincts screamed at him to cross the distance, to hold Peter himself, but he stayed rooted in place, letting the grief consume him quietly.

He can't let Peter see him fall apart too, not when Peter is trying so hard to shield him. Peter always smiles around him, always hides the cracks, afraid to worry him—and that knowledge slices through Tony even more.

He slips away to the lab, placing a trembling palm to his stomach, barely holding it together. He has to. For Peter. For the baby. The tiny life growing inside him the only one keeping him from breaking completely. But even as he leans against the cool surface of the workbench, the walls around him feel like they’re closing in, and he fights to steady his breath, to silence the sob building in his throat. He needs to be strong—has to be—but in this moment, he feels anything but.

The door slides opens, and Steve enters with Peter in his arms. Steve’s gaze finds Tony’s, knowing—seeing right through the mask Tony tries so hard to wear.

“Not you too,” Steve says. He moves towards Tony and wraps an arm around him, pulling him close. Peter, caught between them, leans against Tony.

Tony feels the tightness in his chest worsen, a mix of gratitude and sorrow twisting together. Steve’s always been their anchor, the one who keeps them steady. Tony’s heart aches knowing Steve has to carry them both like this, but he has no words left—only a deep, unspoken apology as he leans into the embrace, hoping it’s enough to keep them all from breaking.

Chapter 18: Brand New Day

Christmas always holds a certain magic, but this year, it feels like a special gift. For the first time in years, Steve and Tony find themselves celebrating without the shadow of loss weighing down their hearts. Their son—Peter is home, finally home to the two people who mean everything to him.

The first snow falls outside, quiet and gentle, dusting the world in white. There is laughter in the air, warmth from the crackling fire, and for a moment, it feels like everything’s in place. Tony laughs with Rhodey and Bruce, while Steve shares a quiet conversation with Bucky and Sam. Natasha and Clint are caught up in their usual banter. And over by the couch, Wanda and Pietro sit beside Peter, their attention to the Christmas movie playing on the screen.

But Peter's mind is elsewhere.

The snow outside is too pure, stirring memories that don’t belong here in this warmth. It brings him back to a time he’d rather forget—when white isn’t white but stained with crimson, stark against the snow, the first he ever spilled, the first time he watches life leave another person because of his doing.

He doesn’t flinch then, not when the brain matter splatters across the ground, not when the snow turns red around him like some macabre canvas. But now... now, it's all he can see.

At that time, he felt nothing. Just an empty space where guilt should live. But afterward—when the fog briefly lifts—it hits him all at once. Every life he had taken. Every loss he had caused.

“Shouldn’t I be in jail?” he blurts out at dinner, an unfiltered confession that turns the room cold.

Steve’s gaze meets his. “What you did—that’s not who you are. You weren’t in control.”

The certainty in his dad’s voice should be enough to quiet the storm inside, to smooth over the jagged edges of Peter’s guilt. In some ways, it does. He holds on to those words, replaying them like a mantra, even when his chest tightens under everything he can’t forget.

Uncle Bucky tells him the same thing, and so does Aunt Tasha. Everyone tells him it isn’t his fault, that the blood staining his hands isn’t truly his. But he still did it. And no matter how many reassurances they give, no matter how much they try to absolve him, the guilt clings to him like second skin.

Now, as they walk toward the skating rink near the compound’s small winter festival, the distant sounds of laughter and chatter feel worlds away. Peter walks beside Bucky, his uncle’s arm draped over his shoulder. The cold air bites at his skin, but the chill inside him runs deeper.

“Uncle Bucky…”

Bucky’s head tilts, his attention shifting from the lights ahead to Peter’s. “Yeah, kid?”

“Can you still remember your first kill?”

Bucky’s breath stills, his steps slowing. He doesn’t answer right away as they continue walking. “I remember,” he says. “I remember every single one.”

“Me too.”

“It’s not your—”

“I know… But how do we forget? I want to forget.”

The soft murmur of the team carries from the distance—Wanda and Pietro’s laughter, Tony’s easy banter with Rhodey, Steve’s low voice steady beside Sam and Natasha, but it feels far removed from this moment.

“We don’t forget, Peter. We can’t. But we learn to live with it. We learn to let go of the pieces that try to keep us stuck in the past… and we keep moving forward.”

Peter’s eyes stay fixed on the ground, and Bucky’s hand comes to rest on his back. When Peter looks up, Bucky’s smile is there—gentle, not forcing away the darkness but offering a light.

 

 

---

 

 

The control room door hisses open, slicing through the dead of night. Natasha steps through first, Sam close behind. The guards hesitate at her low request to take their break. A subtle exchange passes between them—curiosity, suspicion—but they say nothing. They simply obey.

“We’re secure,” Natasha says into the mic.

Sam exhales, slow and measured, though it does little to loosen the knot coiling tighter in his gut. His gaze drifts beyond the holding cells. They shouldn’t be here. Peter shouldn’t be here. This is a breach of trust, a betrayal to the boy’s parents, yet it is Peter’s plea that echoes in his mind.

Let me do this.

Sam had refused. Flat-out. The idea alone had been enough to summon an image of Tony’s fury, of Steve’s disappointment at the thought of their child anywhere near such monsters. More than that, it was the thought of Peter—of reopening wounds, of unearthing scars that should have been left untouched. But Peter hadn’t let it go. He had gone to Natasha. To Bucky, and their quiet insistence had chipped away at Sam’s resolve.

It’s the only way to face those ghosts and finally be free, they insist, their own haunted pasts bleeding into the present.

Now, standing here, doubt still claws at Sam’s throat. Peter is still so young. Too young. But he is not a child to be protected from ghosts. He carries them. Wears their weight like armor. And if this is what he needs—to look them in the eye, to choose how his story with them ends—then Sam will not stand in his way. Even if it terrifies him.

Bucky stands near the far wall, a statue of quiet menace, his presence a warning before words are ever spoken. Inside the cell, Rumlow shifts, letting out a grunt—fresh bruises mottling his skin, the price of bouncing between the worst prisons in the country. In the adjacent cell, Octavia curls on her narrow bed, her face turned away, the dim light catching on the cuts lining her lips, the bruises shadowing her cheekbones.

Rumlow smirks, his gaze flicking to Bucky with the lazy amusement of a man who has nothing left to lose. “Missed us already?”

“Don’t flatter yourself. This is your last night before you’re both locked in isolation.”

Octavia lifts her head. “What? What do you mean?”

Bucky steps forward, letting the light catch in the hard planes of his face, his expression unreadable—except for his eyes, which hold no patience for mercy. His voice drops, colder. Darker. “I mean any wrong words, and maybe I don’t hesitate.”

A thud lands beside him. No warning. No sound before impact.

Peter.

He straightens from where he’s landed, his stance firm, unshaken. But his eyes—his eyes betray him, hollow with a wildfire contained only by sheer force of will.

Octavia lights up, rising from her cot, her expression shifting into something desperate. “Oh, my darling. My precious darling. Are you here to free us?”

Rumlow’s sneer cuts through. “Knew you’d come back wanting to see us. We missed you too, Noir.”

Bucky’s fingers twitch. The urge to shut that voice down before it can sink into Peter’s skin, claws at his control.

In the control room, Natasha’s breath goes thin.

And Sam—Sam is already halfway to the door, debating whether to turn back before it’s too late. But then Peter speaks.

“Why?” Peter's voice is level, eerily calm. “Why did you do it? Why kidnap me?”

“Here I was hoping you’d be here to thank me.”

Bucky exhales sharply, patience fraying. “Just answer the damn question.”

“Why?” Peter repeats, sharper this time.

Rumlow leans in, his smirk curling at the edges. “It’s just business, boy. Hydra’s in ruins, and you landed right at my feet. Perfect timing.” He tilts his head, eyes glittering with something sickly satisfied. “We needed a new Winter Soldier. A replacement.”

“I was a kid.”

Rumlow scoffs. “A sheltered, wimpy kid.” His gaze drags over Peter, assessing, measuring, like a craftsman evaluating his work. “Look at you now—stronger than ever. That’s more than your genes.”

A slow, eerie voice joins in. “You got mine to thank.” Octavia’s smile is tender, but the way her head tilts, the way her gaze drinks Peter in—it’s possession, not affection. “Thank my pet, Pet.”

Peter stills.

The breath catches in his throat, but he won’t let it show. Won’t let them taste the ruin they left in him. He won’t give them that satisfaction. His nails bite into his palms, his pulse roaring in his ears.

It isn’t just the childhood they stole from him. It isn’t just the scars Hydra carved into his skin.

It’s the way they broke everything. His parents. His home. His place in the world.

Peter is their everything.

And he—he is what they almost lost.

“Peter,” Bucky says, low and careful, already reaching for him, already regretting this.

“Get him out of there,” Sam orders in Bucky’s earpiece.

Peter’s breath shudders, but when he speaks, his voice is steady.

“You both destroyed my life.”

Peter lifts his chin. His eyes gleam—not with tears, but with something unreadable, something sharp enough to cut.

“My parents.”

Rumlow grins, like it’s something to be proud of.

Bucky moves before he can think, his fist twisting in Rumlow’s collar, yanking him forward with a violence that barely holds itself back.

But Peter’s voice stops him.

“I’m no pet.”

Bucky’s grip loosens.

“I’m no puppet.”

Rumlow watches him now. Not gloating. Not amused

“I’m no Winter Soldier.”

Peter exhales, a final breath, like shaking off a shadow. His next words are iron, final.

“I’m not Noir.”

Silence. Rumlow stills.

“I'm Peter Stark-Rogers. And this isn’t the end for me.” Peter steps back, gaze steady. “But for you two? Enjoy prison food for the rest of your miserable lives.”

And with that, he turns.

He doesn’t look back.

Bucky releases Rumlow like he’s nothing and follows his nephew out. Rumlow’s stare is dark, burning holes into their backs.

“Hey!” Octavia yells. “What do you mean isolation!”

Bucky doesn’t pause. “Under the middle of the ocean, nutcase.”

The door locks behind them.

Outside, Peter stands staring up at the night sky, at the few stars peeking through the gray clouds, and the bright, unwavering moon.

Bucky taps his shoulder in a quiet reassurance. A well done.

Peter exhales, and finally, the tension loosens. The weight lifts.

Natasha reaches him first, pulling him into a fierce hug. “We’re so proud of you.”

Sam clasps a hand on his shoulder, warmth in his eyes. “Well done, kid.”

Peter closes his eyes. The night air brushes cool against his skin, and something inside him—something that’s been locked tight for so long—finally, finally breathes.

For the first time, he believes it. His father’s words. His own strength.

He is his own person.

And his story is his to write.

 

They walk back toward the compound, but before they can reach the doors—Tony and Steve burst outside.

Tony, frantic, while Steve’s concern is quieter, but no less heavy.

Tony reaches Peter first, wrapping him in an almost crushing embrace, as if reassuring himself that he’s real, that he’s here. When he finally pulls back, his hands cup Peter’s face, scanning for injuries, for any sign of pain. “Are you okay?”

Peter swallows past the lump in his throat and nods, eyes bright, almost shimmering. “I'm okay.”

Tony exhales sharply—something between relief and frustration—before whirling on the three. “Your babysitting privileges? Revoked. Forever.”

Bucky, Sam, and Natasha exchange glances, offering their most apologetic looks.

“It’s not their fault, Dad,” Peter says.

Tony sighs, brushing a thumb over Peter’s cheek before pressing a kiss to his temple, like he’s grounding himself in the proof that Peter is here. Safe. Whole. He keeps an arm wrapped around him as they head inside, and Steve lingers behind, turning to the three with a stern, disapproving look, but touched with something softer. He can’t help but ask, “How did it go?”

Bucky grins, his eyes suspiciously bright. Natasha smiles, quiet and knowing.

It’s Sam who answers, voice steady with something close to reverence.

“Your Peter's back.” A pause, thick with meaning. “The Peter you two are always proud of.”

 

 

---

 

 

As the New Year dawns, Peter finds himself ready to turn a new page. Seated in his father’s chair at the compound—a relic that feels part barber’s chair, part throne, Peter stares at his reflection, his hair, which has grown past his shoulders, always tied in a half bun. He releases a slow, steadying breath, as if he can feel each strand, each memory.

Steve steps beside him, draping the barber gown over Peter’s shoulders. “Ready?”

Peter nods with a small but determined smile. Steve’s grin mirrors his, eyes full of unspoken pride, and they both catch Tony’s eye in the background. Tony’s watching quietly, arms folded, a faint smile betraying the emotions brimming just beneath.

Sam and Bucky exchange looks, their usual banter easing the air as Steve gently turns Peter’s chair away from the mirror, giving him one last moment of mystery before the reveal.

Throughout the cut, Peter keeps his eyes on his game console, though his focus drifts to the warm voices around him. The guys take turns spinning tales, and Peter’s mind is somewhere between the past and the present, letting each snip of his hair shed a little of the weight.

When Steve finally stops, the room quiets, and as the chair turns, Peter barely recognizes himself. His once long waves are now a clean, boyish cut, but it’s more than that—it feels as if he’s shed a layer of himself, a small but certain step forward.

“Thanks, Dad,” Peter says, leaning into Steve’s embrace.

“You’re always welcome, bud.”

“So handsome, little spider,” Wanda says, pulling a laugh from Peter that feels light.

He moves through the room, accepting hugs, feeling the team’s pride around him. Tony wraps his arms around him, and Peter leans into it, surrounded by proud smiles and the warmth of new beginnings.

 

 

Chapter 19: Homecoming

With the doctor’s all-clear for Tony to return to his normal routine and Peter starting school next week, the city awaits them, home calling them back to the tower.

Tony slides into his McLaren convertible, his signature red glasses perched on his nose. Peter climbs into the passenger seat, securing his seatbelt.

“Daddy, is it safe for you to drive?” Peter asks, trying to keep his worry from showing.

Tony’s hand froze over the temp controls for just a second before he let out a small huff of breath. “Of course it is. I even drove in the Grand Prix while I was pregnant with you.”

“Really? Dad allowed that?” Peter throws a quick glance at Steve, who's mounting his Ducati beside them.

“Uh, no, he didn’t. Your Uncle Rhodey swore.”

Peter laughs, shaking his head. He hadn’t realized how much he missed moments like these—his dad’s mischief, the warmth of these simple stories that seemed to make everything feel normal.

“Still heard that,” Steve calls out, fastening his helmet. He revs the throttle, making the bike roar.

“Show off,” Tony says. “We’re gonna race your dad. Who’s your bet on?”

Peter studies them thoughtfully, weighing the odds. The car could easily outpace the bike, but he had also seen his father push that Ducati to impossible speeds. For a moment, Tony watches the gears turning in Peter’s mind and he almost wants to say it doesn’t matter, it’s all in good fun, the question was part of the game, a small way to keep things light.

“Supercar, right?” Tony prompts, grinning.

“Not a race,” Steve calls over his shoulder. “Just drive safe.”

“Always no fun, old man.”

Peter giggles, caught between them. He waves goodbye to Natasha, Bucky, and Sam, who’s already given him plenty of hugs, while Pietro and Wanda are already out of the compound, opting to stay with Clint, where Tony is funding their studies with scholarships.

As they roll forward, Tony takes the lead, but Steve closes the gap effortlessly. Every so often, Steve edges ahead, even maneuvering between trucks with that maddening coolness that makes Tony’s chest tighten, recalling the reckless stunts Steve used to pull when Tony’s in the bike with him, stunts that always seemed to stop Tony’s heart for just a second too long.

When they approach the city, crossing the Brooklyn Bridge, Tony catches the look in Peter’s eyes, hesitant edges softening into something bright. It’s a look Tony’s been waiting to see, one that holds hope, wonder, a sense of rediscovery. 

The city’s energy surrounds them, the ambiance, the crowds, the towering buildings, the breeze that plays with Peter’s hair. And for a moment, it’s as if Peter is seeing all of it for the first time, untouched by memories that still haunt his sleep.

Tony drinks it in, holds onto this moment where the world feels new again, where the the past loosens its grip. He knows it’s not permanent, he’s not naive enough to believe that, but still, he lets himself savor it, this fleeting glimpse of homecoming. The two people who matter most to him are here, and the city’s alive around them, a chaotic beauty that pulses with the promise of something better.

 

---

 

As they near the Tower, Peter’s gaze lingers on the letters of his name etched there—Stark. It’s more than just a building, more than just a home. It held his childhood laughter, memories he could almost hear if he closed his eyes.

The playground comes into view, its familiar slide and swings now coated in layers of time and distance. He used to run there, chasing the fading sunlight with his best friends, his heart light and carefree. But the lightness isn’t there now. A knot tightens in Peter’s chest, pulling with a dull ache that spreads. The smile he had unconsciously worn falters, the memories too heavy.

Beside him, his dad doesn’t say a word. There’s no need for explanations. He feels the squeeze of his father’s hand—a silent promise that he’s here, that he sees the shadow of sadness in Peter’s eyes. When Peter glances up, his dad offers a small, gentle smile, and in that smile is understanding and the warmth of an unwavering presence.

The car glides into its designated car elevator leading to Tony’s private garage. Peter expects his other dad to be right behind them, but when the elevator doors close, it’s just him and Tony. The space is wide enough for both the bike and the car, making the emptiness more noticeable. It's both of his parents' garage, so why is Dad not here.

Peter glances at Tony, concern creeping into his voice. “Where’s Dad? He was just behind us.”

Tony opens his mouth, but no words come out at first. He catches himself and quickly offers, “Probably picking up something, baby. He’ll be right behind us.”

Peter’s brow furrows briefly, but he lets it go as the elevator reaches their penthouse. The doors open, revealing Pepper, Happy, Dum-E, and Butterfingers, waiting with balloons and silent confetti. They’re careful to avoid anything that could trigger Peter, those sounds banned for his sake.

“Welcome back, Peter,” they say warmly, and even Dum-E and Butterfingers raise their mechanical arms in cheerful imitation, drawing a small, genuine laugh from Peter as he covers his mouth.

“Thank you,” he replies shyly as Pepper pulls him into a hug. “Oh, sweetie, we missed you.”

Happy steps up next. “We’re so happy you’re back, kid,” giving Peter a hug, Peter leans into it, smiling a little brighter, with so much warmth than the cold one before.

As Peter quietly engages with Dum-E and Butterfingers, there’s warmth in the way he smiles at their responsive gestures—Dum-E’s mechanical arm mimics a wave, while Butterfingers offers a cautious nudge, and Peter responds with an amused chuckle, patting their metallic frames in silent appreciation.

The elevator doors finally slide open, and Steve steps into the room, he heads straight for Tony, who’s been glancing at the elevator with thinly veiled impatience. When Steve reaches his side, Tony leans in, lowering his voice to a frustrated whisper.

“Where have you been? I told you to park in the garage.”

“Yeah, you did,” Steve whispers in restrained exasperation. “But you didn’t update it in the protocol. Jarvis wouldn’t let me in.”

Tony lets out a sharp scoff. Instead of calling out for JARVIS, he pulls up a hover monitor, his fingers moving over the controls, correcting the oversight himself. Peter can’t know. Not yet. He isn’t ready to face what telling Peter would mean—not just for him, but for all of them.

Peter glances at both of them, his smile full of innocence. “Dad! What did you pick up? Daddy said you got something.”

“I…” Steve hesitates. He had faced battlefields, disasters, and every kind of threat imaginable, but nothing quite prepared him for the stakes of this lie they were balancing so precariously on the tip of Peter’s curiosity.

Tony feels the urge to nudge him, to push him into saying something—anything.

Luckily, Pepper steps in at the perfect moment. “We made dinner. Come on, let's eat.”

 

---

 

The dinner goes better than expected. Tony and Steve manage to keep up the charade, although is it really a charade when all the smiles are genuine, the stolen glances linger a moment too long, and when their fingers intertwine it’s as if pulled together by memory rather than intent. The solace of that touch like a whisper of something unforgotten, something once lost but never fully gone.

Peter doesn’t seem to notice the undercurrents, too absorbed in the happiness to suspect that anything between them could be amiss. He laughs, talks, blissfully unaware of the hidden fracture.

Every time Tony’s hand slips into Steve’s, Pepper and Happy exchange a knowing glance, a shared uncertainty about whether the two are finding their way back to each other or simply holding on to the past. They dare not ask, though. Tony’s orders were clear, keep everything as it was, like before. But in the spaces between words and glances, they wonder if even the ex-couple believes that’s still possible.

Later, Tony and Steve tuck Peter into bed. The routine like muscle memory, a reminder of how things once were and how time continues to slip forward despite their efforts to hold on.

“Are you sure you don’t want Dads to sleep with you anymore?” Tony asks, as if trying to hold on to the remnants of his boy’s childhood, not yet ready to let it slip away.

“Daddy, I’m not a baby anymore. There’s a new baby now.” Peter’s hand rests on the curve of Tony’s stomach, looking up with a maturity that feels out of place in someone so young. “And you and Dad should sleep together without me there.”

Tony smiles, his expression flickering between pride and a quiet ache. For a moment, he’s silent. But in the end, he just nods, gently smoothing a hand over Peter’s hair.

“Alright, kid. But if you ever change your mind…”

“I won’t,” Peter says with a sleepy grin, closing his eyes. “Goodnight, Dads.”

Steve bends down, placing a kiss on Peter’s head, and Tony does the same, pressing his lips to Peter’s cheek. As they pull away, Tony lingers by the door, watching Peter settle in. There’s a weight in his chest, a feeling not quite grief but something close to it, something that speaks of endings and beginnings and everything in between.

 

---

 

Steve leans against the kitchen island, his hands resting on its cool surface. Tony stands on the opposite side, drinking a glass of water, staring down as if the ripples in the liquid might provide answers. Neither of them wants to be the first to break the silence, both caught in the web of words they can’t seem to untangle.

When they finally speak, their voices collide.

“I should go—”

“You should—”

The pause turns into something suffocating.

Tony takes a breath, steadying his voice with forced casualness. “Yeah, okay. Cool. We’ll… we’ll see you in the morning.”

Steve doesn’t move, his eyes steady on Tony’s, the unflinching intensity in there asking the question Tony can’t seem to answer. “I can stay, Tony. If you want me to… Do you want me to?”

“I…” Tony’s lips part, but the words don’t come. They hover, heavy, unformed, in the space between them.

Steve waits, hoping, needing to hear it. To be wanted—just once, to be held onto instead of always being the one trying to keep things from slipping away. But Tony’s silence feels like an answer in itself, and Steve’s resolve falters. His eyes drop, the fight draining from his voice.

“I’ll be here first light.”

The words feel final, a resignation wrapped in something quieter, something breaking. Steve steps forward, and Tony doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe, as Steve closes the distance between them. There’s a moment when the world feels like its holding its breath, waiting for something to shift. Then Steve’s hand gently rubs the curve of Tony’s stomach, leaning down, pressing a gentle kiss there, a goodnight kiss to their child.

When he pulls away, the space between them feels colder, emptier. Tony doesn’t stop him as he leaves.

And Steve doesn’t look back.

 

 

---

 

 

As the door clicks shut, Peter listens, waiting for the muffled footsteps of his parents to fade down the hallway. Only then does he sit upright in bed, turning on his bedside lamp. The warm light casts familiar shadows, but his room feels like a stranger’s. His awards gleam dully on the shelves and the toys on the shelves like relics of a different life.

His gaze lingers on the bedside drawer, where he hesitates before slowly reaching out. He opens it, revealing his old phone lying at the bottom. Tony had mentioned that Peter’s best friends still check in, asking if he’s back. Tony had insisted that Johnny leave the voicemails on Peter’s phone instead, so Peter would have them when he returned.

For a long moment, Peter just stares at the phone, reluctant to touch it, as if the small object holds too many pieces of a past he isn’t ready to face. His breath stills for a moment before he finally reaches for it, the screen lighting up his face, forcing his eyes to squint against the sudden brightness.

The lock screen is still the same—a photo of him and his parents from when he was seven, all smiles on a vacation in Cancun. Steve is holding him with that easy strength, his other arm slung around Tony. And Tony, laughing at some forgotten joke, is leaning into Steve, like the three of them were the center of their own universe. Peter almost feels the warmth of that day, the sunlight, the sand underfoot, all that love, that sense of safety.

Unlocking the phone, the wallpaper shifts to another memory. A selfie—Peter, Johnny, and Kate, their eight-year-old faces frozen in a moment of carefree, wacky joy. He stares at it, his chest tightening, it was a time when everything felt simple, when their world was bright and the future was something they ran toward without hesitation. Now, looking at it, all he feels is the distance between then and now—how much has changed without him even realizing it.

He slides into the voicemail section and sees the twenty-nine voicemails there, one for each month he’s been gone, each message a piece of time that his best friends left for him, moments he wasn’t there to witness or respond to. He shouldn’t listen to them—he’s not ready. But that logic doesn’t stop his finger from trembling above the first one. A lump forming in his throat, before he presses play.

“Petey!” Johnny’s voice bursts through, all bright and lively, the same as always, the Johnny he remembers, and Peter’s breath catches. He hits pause instantly, but the sound lingers. It’s like Johnny’s right there, alive in this fragment of the past, and for a second, Peter can almost fool himself into thinking none of the time apart ever happened. He plays it again.

“We made all those paper stars and gave them to your Dad. They can wish on them, and maybe they’ll be able to find you soon. Miss you already. Come back, okay?”

Peter’s eyes shift to the jar on his bedside table, the one filled with folded stars, promises made with too much faith and too little certainty. He should stop—shut this down before it breaks him further—but he clicks on the next message, and then another. Their stories flood in, filling the quiet room with echoes of a life he once knew. Johnny’s exasperated rants about his classmates and his sister, Johnny and Kate’s bickering over trivial things, each of them calling him over to tattle when they disagree, sharing the latest gossip about their teachers as if he were still part of those moments, still there to share in their daily dramas and laughter.

“Hey…” Johnny says, his voice quieter now. A sadness Peter isn’t used to hearing. “It’s been two years.”

“Hey, Peter,” Kate’s light voice follows. “Johnny wins the Math Relay for the Olympiad. Can you believe that? When he always used to copy your assignments.”

“I didn’t copy! I just wanted to make sure I got it right!”

Peter chuckles. He can almost see their faces—the irritation in Johnny’s eyes, the smile Kate would wear just to needle him. For a moment, he’s back there with them, hearing their laughter, feeling the chaos of their small arguments, the warmth of being in the center of something real.

“I wish you’re here with us,” Johnny says. “We hope you’re okay. I… we miss you.”

The tear falls before Peter realizes it. He closes his eyes and lets their voices wash over him, carrying him back to a time when he wasn’t just a memory haunting his own life.

 

Chapter 20: Middle School

True enough, Steve’s already there every first light. By the time Tony wakes up, Steve’s finished his morning run and settled into the rhythm of their old routine creating an illusion of comfort that leaves no room for suspicion.

On Peter’s first day of seventh grade, Steve has prepared a special lunch box for him—a healthy, meticulously arranged meal, despite having a chef who could easily handle it.

At the dining table, Tony sits with his elbow pressed against the polished surface, fingers absently tracing patterns into the gloss. He’s staring out at the sunrise, but his mind is somewhere else entirely, entangled in thoughts far from the luxury of their kitchen. Peter’s still on his room, taking his time in the shower like a reluctant child who knows what’s coming.

“What if no one sits with him at lunch? God, middle school’s the worst.”

Steve sets down his glass of orange juice, meeting Tony’s worried gaze, offering reassurance the only way he knows how—certainty. “I’m sure he’ll be fine. Didn’t you say Midtown’s a school for gifted kids? ”

“Yeah, but still, gifted or not, Middle schoolers are monsters. They’re mean and pick on each other, and Peter’s… They’re just so damn immature.”

Steve doesn’t respond right away. He knows Tony’s not just talking about ‘middle schoolers’ in general. This is Tony’s fear speaking, his helplessness in the face of a world he can’t control, and the vulnerability of a boy he wants to protect but knows he can’t shield from everything.

For Steve, the memory of middle school, or just school in particular, is still a dark corner he wouldn’t willingly revisit, a time defined by frailty and the loneliness of always being the odd one out. Even now, the ghost of it lingers in the quiet moments, in the faces of boys who saw weakness as a target. If not for Bucky, who had always been there to stand beside him, Steve doesn’t know if he would’ve made it through at all. It was a different time, a harsher time, and he hopes that things are better now, that kids aren’t as cruel, and that his son won’t have to carry the same weight.

“Is it really too late to bring him back to private school?” Tony asks. “I just… Johnny and Kate can support him.”

“Those kids are wonderful, but we also need to respect our son’s request.”

“Fine, fine.”

“What were you like in middle school anyway?” Steve asks, curiosity tempered by something else, maybe a quiet hope to find common ground.

Tony avoids his gaze, shame shadowing his features. He takes a slow breath, as if he’s gathering the courage to confront the messes he once made. “I was… popular, so…”

Steve doesn’t hide his grimace. “Oh, god,” he says, already forming a mental image of a brash, arrogant Tony Stark, the kid who hid behind bravado and recklessness.

“Yeah, well,” Tony says with a forced laugh. “I was immature, okay? We picked on the kids who looked sickly or different, like it was some kind of sport.”

“I was that sickly kid.”

Tony winces with regret. He knew that. It’s in history books, and more than that, in the stories his father used to tell, the admiration that always lingered there. Steve is every inch the opposite of what Tony had once been. Two people who’ve come from opposite worlds—one born into wealth, the other forged by struggle, their lives shaped by different wounds and regrets, and yet somehow, they’ve ended up here—to this table, this uncharted territory of trying to do right by their son who had already endured so much, making a better world from their pasts that haunt them.

“I’m sorry,” he says. He doesn’t try to explain, doesn’t deflect with humor. It’s an apology with no pretense, no armor to hide behind. And Steve wonders if that sorry is for this moment or for everything—of the pain neither of them knows how to fully heal.

For a moment, neither of them says anything. Silence stretches, heavy but not empty, as if some understanding passes between them without words. It’s not absolution, and it doesn’t make their wounds disappear, but it feels like the start of something honest—a bridge built, however fragile, over the gulf of their pasts.

“Good Morning!”

The voice instantly lifts the quiet of the kitchen. Peter approaches, the sunlight almost reflecting in the easy joy he wears on his face. Steve and Tony both turn, their expressions unconsciously softening. Peter leans in to greet them, placing a quick peck on each of their cheeks.

“Ready for school?” Steve says, watching Peter settle in.

“Yeah,” Peter exhales, the simple affirmation carrying a quiet resolve.

A shared, subtle relief crosses Steve’s and Tony’s faces, mirroring each other in a way neither of them fully recognizes. Tony gently sets a perfectly arranged Eggs Benedict on Peter’s plate.

“Alright, kiddo, dig in. You’re gonna need that fuel.”

 

---

 

“This feels like dropping you off on your first day of kindergarten, baby,” Tony says.

Steve is behind the wheel, eyes focused on the road, but there’s a telltale twitch at the corner of his lips that betrays a grin. Beside him, Tony sits in the passenger seat, turning occasionally to glance at Peter in the back, who’s trying to mask his nervous energy with a facade of casual indifference. They’re in an SUV, a Honda CR-V, the latest model—inconspicuous in its plainness, chosen deliberately to blend in, like any other upper-middle-class family on a routine school drop-off.

Peter wishes his dad would stop calling him baby already. He’s not a baby anymore, hasn’t been for a long time, but there’s also a part of him that still enjoys the familiarity of his dad’s affection, the way it makes him feel cherished, even when it embarrasses him.

Tony glances over at Steve, eyes bright with nostalgia. “You wouldn’t let go of your Dadda’s shirt that day. We thought your hand had fused to it. Ripped it right off when he finally put you down. Good thing we had an extra shirt in the car.”

Peter doesn't even want to know why they had an extra shirt in the car that day.

Steve chuckles. “Yeah, I remember that.”

“Half the parents got a good look at your dad’s torso,” Tony adds, smirking. “They ogled him. Couldn’t stop staring. Ain’t that right, hon? Enjoyed it?”

Steve’s laughs. “What? No, love. It was freezing.”

Peter almost rolls his eyes at their teasing, but there’s something in the way his dads share a look, something that reminds him of how they’ve weathered everything together. Even after losing him for a while, they're still here, stronger than ever. Despite himself, Peter feels a quiet gladness for what they've built, for the love that endured.

The school looms closer, and Peter feels his nerves creeping back in, no matter how hard he tries to keep it off his face. Finally, he lets it slip out, “Please don’t lurk around, don’t pick me up later, and please don’t worry.”

Tony shoots an incredulous glance at Steve, as if saying Are you even hearing this?

Steve just chuckles under his breath.

“We don’t lurk,” Tony responds with defensive annoyance.

Peter rolls his eyes. “Oh, please, Daddy. You’ve got nothing better to do all day.”

Tony opens his mouth, a retort half-formed, but the worry underneath all his bluster tightens his throat. He wants to say something that doesn’t sound overprotective. He’s not worried about Peter’s quick wit, though he’s worried about the wrong eyes catching the sharpness in his son’s gaze, the defiance in his spine.

When they pull into the school’s parking lot, Steve picks a spot further out, a space where they can linger just a moment longer, unnoticed by the morning rush. They all step out, all in their coats against the winter chill, Steve slipping on his sunglasses while Tony adjusts his own.

“We won’t do any of that,” Steve says. “But that’s no way to talk to your dad.”

Peter looks up, momentarily disarmed. Then, with a guilty smile, he wraps his arms around Tony. “I’m sorry,” he says, carrying all of how much all of this means to him.

Tony’s arms tighten around Peter for a moment longer, before he closes his eyes and breathes in the scent of Peter’s shampoo, still the overly sweet one that smells of nostalgia, memories of simpler days when Peter’s worries were nothing more than scraped knees and lost toys. He doesn’t want to let go, but he knows he has to, so he releases Peter with a squeeze and a lingering touch on his back, like an unspoken promise to always be there.

Steve rests his hand on Peter’s shoulder, conveying more than words ever could. When Peter finally steps back, he catches their eyes—Tony’s desperate tenderness and Steve’s quiet resolve—and there’s a brief, shared look that holds all the fears and hopes neither of them can bear to voice.

“Please don’t worry,” Peter says again, softer and more vulnerable. “I love you both.”

Tony grins, unsteady, trying to mask the emotions welling up behind it. Steve smiles, and there’s a glimmer of something deeper, of relief; it’s been a long time since they’ve heard those words after three years. Peter throws his arms around them for a hug.

“We love you so much,” Tony says against Peter’s hair before Peter pulls back and walks away, waving at them.

They stay there, side by side, watching as Peter disappears into the sea of students. The morning air is cold, but there’s warmth in the space between them, a shared understanding that no matter how far Peter goes, a part of them will always be right here, waiting for him to come home.

 

---

 

Steve and Tony’s next stop is the hospital.

Tony could’ve gone to the med bay—less hassle, fewer prying eyes. But his specialist couldn’t make it, and for once, nothing urgent yanks him back to the tower. A slow afternoon in the lab has its pull, sure, but he doesn’t mind this errand, not with Steve by his side.

He doesn’t say it, but feels it, the kind of steadfast support Tony used to count on without question. A support once taken for granted, now parsed in moments like this. It takes him back to when Peter was still growing inside him—when Steve’s hand never left his back, when the silence between them was the kind that made space, not distance.

Even now, after everything, the steadiness remains. Familiar. A little bruised. But still there.

The checkup goes smoothly. They listen to the steady rhythm of a tiny, growing heart. Steve’s face softens at the sound, and Tony catches it—the subtle shift in his features, like something sacred just passed through him. He doesn’t speak. Neither does Tony. The quiet says enough.

They decide to hold off on learning the baby’s gender—a choice to share with Peter, a small family moment to hold onto.

Outside, Steve pockets the prescription.

“I’ll grab these from the pharmacy.”

“Thanks.”

Steve half-turns, already assuming they’ll part ways. Parking’s on the other side. It’s part of their routine—has been, since they figured out how to exist like this. Parallel paths, never quite intersecting. Apart, but not entirely. But Tony lingers.

“I’ll head to the car in a sec. Washroom’s this way.”

Steve nods. There’s a beat of silence. Then another.

Tony’s voice cuts through it. Casual. Too casual. “You got somewhere to be after this?”

“Not really. Paperwork. Finalizing Buck’s pardon.”

Tony glances at him. “Government shit?”

“Yeah.” Steve exhales. “Government shit.”

Tony huffs a laugh—no bitterness, no armor. Just breath and memory. And Steve—Steve feels something loosen in his chest. The sound hits like muscle memory: a time when banter meant warmth, not a wall. When Tony laughed like this and Steve could believe, for a second, that maybe they weren’t broken beyond repair.

A breath. A pause. Enough space for doubt to seep in. But Tony steps into it anyway.

“You wanna…” He hesitates, not sure what the rules are anymore. He only knows what he wants. A simple wish, stupid in its softness: Don’t go. Not anymore. “You wanna grab lunch?”

Steve stops walking. Tony passes him before realizing, and when he turns, Steve is standing there, looking at him.

“Like a date?”

Tony’s heart kicks. He presses his lips together, swallows down the too-eager yes threatening to break loose. “Bell Book?”

Steve’s eyes drop—not out of reluctance, but memory. That restaurant—too early for dinner, but never too late for what it used to mean.

His smile starts small. The kind you forget you remember. The kind that used to make Tony’s stomach dip, stupid and hopeful. When Steve looks up again, the light in his eyes is something Tony hasn’t seen in a long time. A quiet light that filters in when you think the day’s already lost.

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

Tony turns toward the washroom, the ghost of that smile still tugging at his mouth.

And for a moment, the ache between them feels just a little less sharp.

 

---

 

Later, weaving through the hospital corridors, Tony slides on a face mask, ditching his usual red-tinted glasses. Anonymity is easier when you want to keep joy to yourself. He walks quickly, but his mind stays behind—still replaying the moment Steve said yes.

He turns a corner—and collides with someone. Firm but careful hands catch his arms.

“I’m so sorry. Are you alright?”

Tony freezes. That voice.

He looks up into bemused eyes and a white coat.

The man tilts his head. “Tony?”

“Stephen?”

For a beat, neither moves. The present pauses, giving room for a memory Tony didn’t ask for: the gala. The ache of that night rushes back—not in words, but in the way his chest had felt too hollow in a crowded room, the numb drag of his drink, and how he’d kept laughing too loudly, like volume could cover grief. Pepper had practically demanded he attend for the stakeholders, to show he’s ‘still managing.’ He hadn’t really been. Natasha wasn’t there that night to keep him in line, and with Pepper lost in investor chatter, he’d downed one drink, everything blurring in between, and then... Strange.

Stephen recovers first, reaching forward for a brief hug.

“What are you doing here? I thought you’re in Metro General?”

“I still work there. Special cases bring me here sometimes.” Stephen’s eyes shift, widening slightly as they take in Tony more fully. “You’re… pregnant.”

Tony’s hand falls, instinctively. “Ah, yeah. Just had a check-up.”

Stephen’s lips quirk into a teasing grin. “Is it mine?”

“That’s—Strange, really? That’s ages ago. Don’t flatter yourself.”

“I’m kidding,” Strange smiles, though his hand lingers on Tony’s elbow just a beat longer than it should. “You’re glowing, Tony. Congratulations.”

That’s when Steve finally steps to Tony’s side, and Tony feels an odd relief, like he's been saved from something he hadn’t realized he needed rescuing from.

“I got the medicine,” Steve says, his arm sliding around Tony’s waist, the touch claiming, protective.

“Thanks, honey.” Tony’s smile is warm but slightly strained. He clears his throat, feeling the weight of introductions he’s not sure he wants to make. “Oh, this is Dr. Strange. Stephen, this is Steve—my… uh, my ex-husband.”

Stephen’s hand extends, his voice polite yet with an unmistakable edge. “Captain.”

Steve’s handshake is firm, almost challenging. “Doctor.”

“It’s good to see you, Tony,” Stephen says, almost resigned, nodding to Steve as he turns to leave. “Captain.”

As Strange’s figure fades down the hall, Tony can feel Steve’s gaze on him, sharp, knowing. Measuring more than Tony knows how to explain.

The silence in the car is different from the hospital’s. It’s not clean nor clinical. It fills the space between them like smoke, stinging the back of Tony’s throat.

When Steve drives past the street for Bell Book, something in Tony’s chest twists. He waits. Hopes. But there’s no turn. No music. No date.

Of course not.

“Okay,” Tony says at last, voice too loud in the quiet. “What? Just say it.”

“I heard all of that.”

A humorless laugh escapes Tony. “And you just decide to stand by and watch.” He sighs, feeling an odd impulse to explain. "We’re divorced. I got a drink, and I was… empty. It didn’t mean anything." He can barely recall the night, just fragments—a splitting headache, the hollow ache of regret in the cold light of morning. Even then, even in the haze, his heart hadn’t been there; it was somewhere else entirely. It was still with Steve.

He risks a glance at Steve and finds it there, hurt edged with something close to betrayal. And in that look, Tony feels a prick of shame. It feels wrong, almost absurd, but he can't help it. Divorce papers might claim to sever them, yet a few lines of ink can't truly break the bond that ties their souls together.

“I’m sorry,” Tony says, though he knows the words are just air. They won’t mend this, won’t rewind the ache, and maybe nothing ever will. But it’s not like he doesn’t understand why he gave in to that comfort, the distraction from the flaring jealousy that had crept in when he learned about this woman helping Steve in Asia. Worst part is she isn’t just anyone—she’s his godmother’s niece, Aunt Peggy’s own blood, someone Tony’s known personally from his visits to SHIELD grounds as a kid.

The car rolls to a stop in the garage, and they step out of the car, the silence between them still gnawing like a parasite. Tony watches Steve head for his bike, slipping the helmet into his grip, and something inside Tony snaps.

“It wasn’t just me,” he calls after him. “You did it too. So why are you acting like this?”

Steve pauses, turning to face Tony. “What are you talking about?”

“Sharon.”

Tony searches Steve’s face, watching for the slightest crack in his calm, and when he sees it—almost too brief to be real, it feels like a slap, still he presses on, almost desperately, “Tell me nothing happened between you two.”

The silence stretches, and Tony realizes he’s not even sure what he wants. Part of him aches for Steve to deny it, as if that would somehow absolve him, but another part braces for the confession, dreading the stab of betrayal he’ll feel.

Steve’s eyes drop, just for a fraction of a moment, enough for guilt to ghost across his face before he shields it again.

Tony laughs, but it’s broken, wounded. “I knew it.” His fists clench with the urge to hit something, just to release the roiling anger and hurt. Instead, he turns on his heel and steps into the elevator, leaving Steve alone with the silence they can’t escape.

Chapter 21: Not Peter

As soon as Peter approaches Midtown Middle School, the carefully constructed facade he’s held together all morning begins to fade. The smile that always feel real with his dads, the warmth and laughter he shares with them, slips away. It’s genuine when he’s wrapped in their love, but deep down, he wears that smile for their sake, especially for Tony. They don’t need another reason to worry, so he gives them the carefree joy he knows they need to see, even if it means holding his fears alone.

He meets Principal Margaret Collins, who’s already waiting for him. She’s the only one here who knows who he really is, who knows his real name—Peter Stark-Rogers, the son of two of the world’s most respected Avengers. But his parents gave him the chance to shed that identity, to live as Peter Parker, an ordinary kid from California who just happened to move to New York for his dads’ new work.

It’s an attempt to protect him from relentless expectation, no ties to the towering legacies of his fathers, but as he look at the principal, he can’t help but feel like she’s still looking through him, seeing everything he’s trying to keep hidden beneath that name, the part of him that’s never truly been allowed to be a kid.

“Mr. Stark-Rogers,” she says in a welcoming smile.

“That’s my Dads’, Mrs. Collins.” Peter glances over his shoulder, scanning for any curious ears that might have overheard.

“Oh, of course, Peter. Sorry about that. Come on, I’m sure you’ll settle in just fine.”

As they walk down the hallway, she points out various buildings, the one for elementary school, the high school wing, the field where students gather. The school is vast, a small world within itself, and Peter nods absentmindedly, his brain already ticking like clockwork, trained by years of discipline and necessity, already cataloging each spot, each possible exit, each place he could disappear into if he had to, mapping out his environment even as he tries to play the part of a normal kid. It never stopped—that assassin within, the one that knows how to stay hidden in plain sight, keeps whispering reminders of who he really is, what he’s capable of.

They finally reach his classroom, where Principal Collins introduces him to the sea of curious eyes.

“Hi, I’m Peter Parker,” he says, as effortless as any alias he’s worn before, this one just another mask to wear. “Nice to meet you all.”

The room fall silent, the other students stare at him, as if waiting for him to offer more, to reveal something of himself. That’s the unspoken rule for new kids—share a piece of who you are. But Peter doesn’t care. He meets their eyes briefly, something hollow settling behind his gaze, before turning away and heading to the seat he had specifically requested—a spot by the window, where he could settle into the background.

Class resumes, but he can feel their curiosity, their attempts to dissect him with fleeting glances. He doesn’t meet anyone’s eyes, doesn’t force a smile. Instead, he keeps his focus on the window, letting the blur of the outside world become a distraction from the discomfort prickling under his skin.

 

---

 

Words buzz like static in Peter’s ears—distant, meaningless, a smear of lectures and half-heard voices. He blinks hard against sleep, but his pen keeps moving—mindless scribbles that mimicked attention, lines pretending to be thought. Before he realized, the final bell had rung and the room began to empty.

He takes the quiet route home. The one nobody else bothers with. No chatter, no footsteps trailing behind. He tells himself he prefers it. He needs the silence, the space. But he doesn’t name what he’s really avoiding.

Halfway home, he stops. Closes his eyes. The lunch box.

“Shit.”

The guilt spreads through, sharp and hot. His dad had woken early to make it. He hadn’t even touched it.

He’d spent lunch with his head down on the table, hoodie up like a barricade. Didn’t speak. Didn’t lift his head. He didn’t want conversation. Didn’t want introductions.

Now, his feet shift before he tells them to. He moves on instinct, turning around, retracing steps he told himself he wouldn’t take again.

He climbs the walls of a rooftop near Dalton. The one with the clean line of sight to the front gates. He shouldn’t be here. Told himself that again and again. But he stayed. Let the city breeze tug at his sleeves as he opens the lunch his dad had made. Cold now. Still good.

He ate slowly, watching students leave in twos and threes. Laughing, nudging, alive in ways he no longer allows himself to be.

He tells himself he’s wasting time. That this is nothing. But it isn’t. His chest tightens with quiet, aching hope. He’s waiting for a glimpse—for them. His old friends. People who used to know him best.

Each bite tastes like something lost. By sunset, they never come.

A sigh escapes. Just a soft, resigned exhale. He turns, leaps to a side street, and lands beside a sleek black Rolls-Royce.

Happy jumps, mid-bite of a hotdog, one hand jerking toward his holster. “Peter! Don’t sneak up on me like that!” he says, half-guilty as he hides the gun behind his jacket. “I— I was just grabbing—”

“Save it.” Peter moves past him.

“No, really. I just got here.”

Peter throws him a look—flat, unimpressed. “You’re a terrible liar.”

He slides into the back seat, closing the door before Happy can respond.

In the front, Happy’s still catching his breath. “Peter—”

“Saw you from midtown. Two more tails, two blocks back.”

Happy’s voice softens. “Boss just wants to be cautious.”

Peter stares out the window. Something flickers behind his eyes, not anger. Not quite. Something heavier. Sadder. Because part of him knows—his dad doesn’t mean to smother him. That it comes from fear, from grief, from a desperate need to keep him safe.

“I know.”

But knowing doesn’t make it easier.

 

---

 

Joining the school mid-year felt like stepping into a play already halfway through, where everyone had already found their rhythm, a rhythm he hadn’t learned yet—whispers between friends, shared jokes he didn’t get, notebooks already scribbled full of things he hadn’t been taught, and it’s clear from the start that his new classmates are ahead in the curriculum.

Mrs. Everett talked about algebra with a kind of ease that made him feel behind, even if he could catch up. Probably. Maybe. But he didn’t want to. Not really.

Instead, Peter’s gaze drifted out the window to the tower. His other dad was away on a mission, off saving the world. So last night, it had just been him and Tony, sitting across from each other at the dinner table. Tony asked how school went. Peter smiled. That performative kind of smile. The one that said I’m fine even when everything inside him was folding in on itself.

On the video call with Steve, he repeated the act. He said the same thing. Said it was okay. Said he made a friend in Science class. Another lie. He didn’t even look at his lab partner, let alone talk to her. Didn’t know her name. Didn’t want to. He finished the work before she had a chance to speak. Hoodie up. Head down. Let the silence do the talking.

He hadn’t mentioned the security detail either. How their eyes followed him. How it made him feel like something fragile. Or dangerous. Or both. Not a student. A liability. A risk in sneakers.

But if pretending kept Tony from pacing, if it meant his parents could sleep through the night, then fine. If it made it easier for the people he loved, he’d allow it.

“New kid.”

Peter snaps his head toward Mrs. Everett, blinking away his zoning out.

“Are we boring you?” she asks, raising an eyebrow and offering a thin smile that holds more of a challenge.

“No, ma’am.”

“What’s your name?”

“Peter.”

“Okay, Peter,” she taps her pen against the whiteboard. “How about you try solving this one for us?”

Peter’s heart slams against his chest, feeling the shift in the room as eyes turn toward him. It’s like standing on a stage without wanting the spotlight.

So much for blending in the background.

He stands, and the problem on the board seems to pulse under his gaze, three consecutive integers needing to be found, their product leading to a single number. It’s a simple equation to set up, a straightforward concept he could solve in his sleep.

“New boy’s toast,” someone whispers, a snicker escaping into the heavy silence.

Peter takes the marker Mrs. Everett hands him, avoiding looking at the faces watching him, the mocking smirks and wary stares. He begins, setting up the equation with a steady hand, his voice quiet but clear as he explains each step. His mind is sharp, focused—this is familiar, something he can control. He can almost hear Tony’s voice guiding him through equations in the lab. Numbers were their language, unchanging and safe. In numbers, there’s no judgment, only logic.

By the time he reaches the final step, the answer clicks into place as naturally as breathing, the only sound being the marker’s soft clink as Peter sets it back on the tray. Mrs. Everett’s studies the board, then nods, expression softening into something like approval.

“Impressive, Peter.”

There’s a moment of silence, and Peter finally risks a glance at his classmates. Some look annoyed, others indifferent, a few genuinely surprised. But there isn’t much time to dwell on it, the bell rings, signalling lunch.

The students begin to file out, and Peter finally lets out a breath.

 

---

 

Standing by the edge of the cafeteria, Peter’s fingers tighten around his lunchbox. A part of him wishes he didn’t have it at all—then he could just toss the cafeteria’s bland food and retreat to a quiet corner somewhere, away from all of this. But he can’t. Because Tony made it. His dad—who never cooks, who doesn’t even like being in the kitchen—got up early and packed something just for him, and leaving it untouched feels like betraying more than just a meal.

"Eat at the cafeteria with your classmates. Not on the rooftop," Tony had told him, like it wasn’t a big deal. And before Peter could deny it, Tony had pulled him into a hug, a kiss on his head, and turned away, off to the Royce.

Peter scans the room, almost hoping one of them might look back. They don’t. A bitter part of him tells himself he doesn’t care, that it doesn’t matter. That he’s fine on his own. But it does. Of course it does. He still wants to be seen. Still wants to be wanted.

And he wonders—just for a moment—if things would be easier if going back to Dalton, to his best friends, would have made things easier. But then again, it could be so much worse—being with friends who expect him to be the same, even though he’s not. Not anymore.

He walks to an empty table. Steve’s words echo in his mind—You don’t have to fit in. Just be you. They’re meant to be comforting, but he can’t help but feel like he’s losing touch with the answer, each day adding another layer of uncertainty.

As soon as he opens it, the delicious aroma wafts up—sweet soy, a hint of sesame, warm rice. A few kids glance over. Peter smiles despite himself, seeing the cute apple shapes and heart-shaped eggs arranged neatly. Like something from when he was five. Like Tony had tried, not just to feed him, but to remember who he was.

Peter took a bite. Familiar flavors bloomed on his tongue—sweet, savory, tender. He didn’t realize how hungry he was until the food reminded him he didn’t have to be on guard.

That’s when they slid into the seats around him. The curly-haired girl across from him raises a brow at the meal, amused. The broad-shouldered boy next to her grins, and the boy who had snickered earlier in class, now plopping down beside him.

“Don’t tell me you’re here to steal my lunch. Cause that’s just lame.”

If this is some kind of joke, he’s not playing the victim. He’s not gonna back down if they’re going to mess with him, but he also can't afford to get into a fight, end up in detention, or be sent to the principal’s office on his second day.

The girl smirks. “Relax, new kid. We’re not that desperate.”

They laugh—not mean, not sharp. Just… real. And something inside Peter, something clenched and hidden, begins to loosen.

“I’m MJ,” the girl introduces herself, leaning back with an air of nonchalance. Recognition flickers—she’s his lab partner. Right. The sarcasm makes sense now.

“Ned,” says the heavy-set boy, who offers a friendly smile and a wave.

“Flash,” the last boy says, leaning in. “Listen, that problem in the board earlier. How did you solve it?”

Peter’s eyebrows lift slightly as he studies them, trying to gauge their intentions. “Well… first you—”

“I’m not asking how you solved it,” Flash interrupts. His eyes are intense, but not mocking. “I’m asking how you solved it so fast.”

It clicks, and Peter feels his guard lower. He’s been waiting for the other shoe to drop, but instead, he sees the look of someone searching for an answer, not a fight.

“You’re Academics.”

“We could really use someone like you on the Olympiad, Peter,” Ned adds, his tone warm. Like they’re already teammates. Like he belongs, and they see it.

“We need someone who’s actually good at math,” MJ says, as if it’s a fact, not a compliment.

“You’re here to recruit me.” Peter smiles in realization, though there’s disappointment underneath. It wasn’t about me. Just what I can do. “How convenient.”

“With how fast you solved that, maybe we can finally beat Dalton’s,” Flash says, his expression shifting as he looks at MJ. “I’m sick of seeing that smug smirk on Johnny Storm.”

Johnny’s name echoes like a pulse in Peter’s ears, his smile fades, the memory of a familiar laugh and that same infuriatingly confident smirk rushes in—vivid, uninvited.

“Half our grade likes that smirk, Flash. We love seeing it,” MJ says with a grin.

“Yeah, that’s why I want to run it through dirt.”

Their banter fades into the background, leaving Peter with the phantom echoes of laughter and a memory that lingers too close for comfort. And for a moment, he feels like he’s on the edge of something—something he can’t quite name, but can’t seem to forget.

 

---

 

Since that lunchtime conversation, something has shifted. It’s not obvious but Peter notices it in the smallest ways.

They sit closer on the bleachers during PE now. Not saying anything, but close enough that the air doesn’t feel so cold. In Science, MJ fires off questions at him before he even lifts his hood, testing him on his knowledge, like she assumes he knows the answer. Flash pulls up chairs beside him between classes, tossing out math questions with a strange kind of ease, like it’s normal. And Ned—Ned just talks, like they’ve been friends this whole time. Recapping who got detention, about some inside joke from last period, catching him up on things he was sure no one thought he missed.

He doesn’t want this.

At least, that’s what he tells himself. He walks the long way to class. Eats lunch behind the auditorium some days. He keeps his earbuds in even when they’re not playing anything to ward people off.

But still—they keep showing up. Like mushrooms after rain. Uninvited. Persistent. Alive.

He keeps reminding himself not to let it mean anything. Because in his mind, this sudden attention is a transaction. It’s not friendship. It’s recruitment. A slow campaign to pull him into the Olympiad.

They want his brain, not him. They want what he can do, not who he is.

But it slips at dinner. He’s halfway through telling his dad about his day when the words tumble out, in the way things do when your guard slips and someone is actually listening. His dad lights up, hopeful in a way that stings, at the mention of classmates, of invitations, of maybe joining something academic.

“They’re not my friends,” Peter says, sharper than he meant to. “People don’t just… want you. They want what you can do. What you can give them. That’s all anyone ever wants.”

Tony goes quiet. And even though his dad doesn’t say anything, Peter can feel it—that heartbreak, sitting in the space between them.

Peter keeps his eyes on his plate, because if he looks up, he might have to admit something else entirely. Something closer to the truth. That a part of him wants to believe they mean it.

“Honey…”

Peter clenches his jaw. He doesn’t look up.

“Fury didn’t recruit us thinking we’d all become friends,” Tony starts. “God, no. We're a disaster waiting to happen. A ticking time bomb. Least that’s what your Uncle Bruce dubbed us.” Tony chuckles, a dry sound full of memory. “We didn’t even like each other half the time.”

Peter bites the inside of his cheek.

“But that didn’t mean nothing good came out of it. We kept showing up for each other, even when it was a mess. We didn’t set out looking for friendship. But we found it. Somewhere between the arguments and the aliens, the explosions. We found each other.”

Peter’s eyes drift to the photo on the wall—The Avengers, caught mid-laugh, someone’s hand blurry from motion, someone else looking in the wrong direction. Messy. Human. Family.

And maybe… maybe that’s how it starts. Maybe friendship doesn’t need a clean beginning.

Maybe it doesn’t start when someone means it—maybe it begins when they stay, even after you try to push them out.

 

---

 

“I’m in.”

The three freeze mid-stretch during PE. Flash’s jaw drops open before he breaks into a loud clap. MJ’s grin widens. And Ned—of course Ned—throws his whole body into a hug that nearly knocks Peter back a step.

Peter braces for discomfort. For the usual prickle under his skin, but it doesn’t come. His shoulders settle. His lips quicks upward—and then, he smiles. Genuine, unforced.

Maybe he didn’t make the wrong call after all.

The whistle blows. The class assembles. The gym dims, and a familiar logo flickers on-screen. Captain America appears—Dad, a decade younger, in that vintage suit that hasn’t seen daylight in years. Peter can barely stand to watch; his hand covers his face, almost in a full facepalm, pride and embarrassment warming his cheeks.

He must’ve been a baby when this was filmed. He remembers Tony teasing Steve about these clips when he was little, laughing that he sounded like a motivational poster.

Steve’s words fill the gym, meant to rally, to inspire. But all Peter can feel is the weight of history, his fathers larger-than-life legacies woven into his life in ways he’s sure he’ll choose not to carry.

MJ leans, whispering to them. “You know who Peter reminded me of when he introduced himself in class?”

Flash gives her a curious glance, while Peter keeps his gaze fixed on the screen, willing himself to remain expressionless, every muscle held just so. Don’t say Steve Rogers. Don’t say Tony Stark.

It’s Ned who bites. “Who?”

MJ’s mouth points to the hero on the screen.

He feels it then—that prickle. Eyes shifting toward him, measuring resemblance.

Ned grins. “Oh yeah! Even the hair—dude, you could totally pass for a younger Cap.”

Peter catches the flicker in Flash’s eyes, something close to suspicion, a tilt of the head that says wait a second—before it vanishes into a smirk.

“Right,” Flash drawls. “Just with brown eyes and the emo vibe.”

Laughter ripples, casual, harmless.

“I get that a lot. Never met him, though.” The lie sits sour on his tongue.

The video ends, and they break into pairs for drills. Ned pairs with Peter, while Flash goes with Abe, MJ with Betty.

Peter focuses on pacing himself, tamping down his strength even though his body wants to push harder, to surpass limits as he once did, shaped by years of relentless training.

As MJ counts Betty’s sit-ups, she turns to Peter. “Where are you from anyway? I’m from Queens, but we moved to Brooklyn last year.”

Ned chime in with his own Queens roots. Flash adds Brooklyn too. Then all eyes shift to Peter.

“We’re from Malibu. We just moved to Brooklyn.”

“Nice,” Ned says. “You subway, or your folks pick you up?”

And just like that, he’s drowning.

Small talk shouldn’t be lethal, but it is—because every answer is a minefield.

He hasn't prepared for this. He was supposed to be a ghost, the one who stays invisible and unapproachable, slipping under the radar unnoticed. No past. No stories. No follow-up questions. Now, his plan is bleeding out, one casual interaction at a time.

“I take the subway.” It’s fine. They won’t ask more.

“Cool,” Flash says. “We could all go together later.”

Peter stomach drops. He nods, barely, tries to cage the pounding in his chest, but MJ’s next question makes the effort pointless.

“Where in Brooklyn?”

A trapdoor opens under him. He can’t remember the street name. His dad told him the street when they visited so many years ago, but it's like trying to catch smoke in his hands.

Mercifully, their coach whistle sounds. They all huddle as he gives his final talk, then head to the locker room. Seizing the moment, Peter pulls out his phone, typing a quick message.

Dad, what street is grandma’s house in Brooklyn?

After changing into his clothes, he checks his phone for a reply.

Hicks Street in Brooklyn Heights. Are you going there after your class?

Just asking. Thanks, Dad.

As they step outside and start walking toward the subway, the city greets Peter with its usual chaos—honking cars, voices overlapping, the rhythm of a world always in motion, a familiar chaos that seems to echo the noise within him.

It’s not just the city that wraps around him; it’s the memory of old routines, of walking these streets with his dads, his best friends, the rush of people, the distant roar of the trains below, a reminder that life keeps moving, even if he feels like he’s paused in place.

He wonders about Johnny and Kate. It isn’t even a question anymore. Just a dull pulse beneath the surface, like bruised skin that still hurts when pressed.

And fate, with its cruel sense of timing, doesn’t miss an opportunity. They pass a café near Dalton, and Peter slows. His eyes snag on a scene that doesn’t belong to him anymore.

Johnny and Kate.

Stepping out into the sunlight. Laughing, as though the world has only ever been kind, unaware of how their joy lands like a blow.

Johnny's laugh hits first—easy, effortless—once magnetic, the kind that used to draw Peter in before he even realized he was listening.

And Kate. Still smiling the way she always did, and for a breath, Peter doesn’t recognize them. Not this version. Not this moment. They are no longer his to recognize.

They’re not ghosts. They’re something worse. They’re still alive—just no longer in his world.

“Peter.”

The sound of his name snaps him back, and he forces his eyes away. His new friends are waiting ahead, one of them frowning in question. Peter moves to catch up, though something in him refuses to follow.

 

At Queens, Ned insists on a sandwich place he hasn’t stopped raving about. Peter sits with them. Smiles. Eats. Nods at jokes. But every bite tastes like paper. Every laugh rings around him, not through him, because part of him is still back there, outside that café, watching something he lost.

He’s here—but not. Stranded in a limbo between the warmth of old laughter, the shape of friendships that knew him, and the ache of not belonging here or there. Stuck between who he is now and the boy who believed some friendships were forever.

He wants to explain. To walk back, step into that light, and say, I’m here. I made it back.

But guilt is fluent in silence. And longing has no grammar.

Even if he went, even if he spoke, what could he say that wouldn’t betray the choice that left them behind?

What mask could he wear that wouldn’t crack?

 

 

---

 

 

“Peter.”

The name slices through the noise like an invisible thread pulled tight.

Johnny’s breath hitches. He turns instinctively. His gaze finds the group standing just beyond the curb. Flash, MJ, Ned—he knows them. Midtown’s Olympiad team. He doesn’t need the jackets to recognize them. He’s competed against them, laughed with them once or twice, smirked at Flash’s jabs, tossed a few back. But there’s someone else.

That boy.

He’s angled away, shadowed. Light brown hair, ruffled at the nape like he’s been running his hands through it.

Johnny’s brow creases. The ache in his chest sudden, uninvited.

Turn around, he thinks. He takes a step forward before he realizes he’s moved, something electric curling in his gut, memory rising like a tide—

Kate’s hand grabs his arm. “Wait, where are you going?”

“They called him Peter.”

“What? Johnny, no. You can’t do this every time you hear his name. It’s not him.”

“He has light brown hair.” He hates how small it sounds. Like a child grasping at a dream, a threadbare hope that’s been clutched too often.

“So?” Kate throws him a look, part disbelief, part worry. “So what? If Peter were back, don’t you think we’d know? He’d tell us. He’d come to us. You think he just transferred to Midtown? Without a word?”

Reality stabs at him. Of course not. She’s right. That’s not Peter. That’s not his Peter.

Their Peter would never do that.

“No.”

Kate watches him for a moment, her gaze softer now. Then she flags down a taxi. “Come on. Help me pick out a new bow.”

Johnny lingers a second longer, eyes still fixed on the back of the boy whose name cracked open the past.

A stranger. Or a ghost.

But either way—

Not Peter.

He turns away.

But the ache still follows.

 

---

 

 

When they reach Brooklyn, Flash peels away first, Peter watches him disappear down the block, then quietly begins counting the street signs in his head. One more. Just get to MJ’s. Then he can turn back. Lose himself in the subway noise.

“You know Johnny Storm?”

The question lands like a stone. Heavy, unexpected.

“What?” Peter glances at her. “No.”

A beat.

“Right. Just… the way you looked at him. Earlier. At the cafeteria too. When Flash brought him up.”

Peter’s stomach twists. Had it been that obvious? “I don’t know him.” It tastes wrong, like something he wished he could swallow back down.

MJ shrugs. “It’s okay. Half the school has a crush on him.”

“Including you?”

She grins. “Only in grade five. His smile had, like, superpowers.”

Peter tries to laugh. Or smile. Or even fake a smirk. But something inside feels bruised. Hollow. This should be a light conversation, and yet—it aches.

“You do this thing,” MJ studies him. “You get quieter. Like you kind of disappear into some other world.”

He tenses. She sees too much. Is she like this with everyone? Or just him?

She tilts her head. “And no,” she adds, before he even opens his mouth. “You’re making that face. Like I like you or something. I’ve seen it before. The answer’s no. I’m just like this. Ask Ned. Or Flash.”

They reach her house. “This is me,” MJ says, stepping back. “See you!”

And just like that, she’s walking away. Peter watches her go, wishing he could say something. But all he can do is stand there, counting the cracks in the pavement, as if they might add up to something that makes sense.

He turns to another block when he catches sight of a familiar frame leaning against a driveway.

Dad’s bike.

“What the,” he says, his footsteps drawing him closer to the house, Grandma’s house, as unease knots in his chest. Is Dad back early? But shouldn’t he go straight back to the tower, not here? Unless Daddy’s with him but… the driveway’s empty. No car. Not both of them, then.

Before he can step close, the door swings open. Steve steps out, freezing mid-stride as if caught off guard by Peter’s sudden presence. For a heartbeat, neither of them moves.

“Dad,” Peter blurts. “You’re back. I thought you'll be at the tower. Where’s Daddy?”

Peter searches Steve’s face. There’s a pause—so fleeting anyone else might miss it—but Peter catches it, of something unreadable in his dad’s eyes before it’s gone.

“You didn’t tell me you were coming here,” Steve replies with a smile, locking the door. “He’s at the tower. I just came by to pick up something.” He steps forward and wraps Peter in his arms. “How’s school?”

Peter leans into the embrace, his earlier suspicion now forgotten. “They made us watch your pep talk in PE.”

“They still play that?”

“Yeah.”

Steve chuckles, shifting his focus to the bike. “Alright, come on. I need to pick up a cheesecake for your Daddy before we head home.”

Chapter 22: Truth

In the private elevator of the Tower, Peter stands quietly, watching the pristine marble of the lobby shrink beneath them, glass walls reflecting a stillness that didn’t quite feel like calm. Beside him, his dad holds a cheesecake box from Bell Book in one hand and a bouquet of orchids and baby’s breath in the other. Tony’s favorites.

They’d picked them up together, but Peter hadn’t asked why. Not because he wasn’t curious—he was—but because something in the air felt fragile. Like if he poked it, it might fall apart. So its just the hum of the engine and Steve’s stories about the mission. Peter nods in the right places, but his mind drifts.

Only now—rising floor by floor—did the shape of the silence make sense.

He hadn’t noticed. All this time—school, friends—the ache of lost ones, the guilt of moving forward while still carrying the shadows. He’d been walking past the quiet like it was furniture.

And now, standing in a box of glass and gravity, worry settles in his chest like cold lead.

He only facetimed Steve when Tony wasn’t in the same room and never asked why. When was the last time they laughed together? He could remember their laughter, Tony’s smug smirk, Steve’s exasperated smile, but not when it had last happened.

When did it all start to go quiet?

“Did you both fight?”

Steve’s mouth twists in that way it did when he was trying not to lie but couldn’t quite land on the truth. “No. No, bud. We’re fine.”

Peter doesn’t look at him. Doesn’t have to. He knew the tone. Knew the way Steve says We’re fine like it was a blanket he could throw over the crack in the wall and hope no one noticed.

“You parked in the employee lot. You never do. Now we’re in the private elevator. And you brought his favorites.”

Steve chuckles, too quickly. “Just wanted to surprise your Dad. You know how he loves these.”

Peter nods. Not because he believes it. But because silence was safer than answers.

And he wasn’t sure if it was them breaking apart

or just him finally noticing.

 

---

 

When Peter steps into the penthouse, he doesn’t pause. Doesn’t glance at the view he’s been growing to love again. His feet know the way, to the lab drawn by routine. Steve quietly veers off toward the kitchen.

In the lab, the air hums with the low buzz of machines.

Peter moves in and wraps his arms around his dad, the same hug he always gives when he comes home.

“Dad’s back.”

Tony smiles or tries to. The edges of it don’t quite hold. There’s a pause too long between words.

“I know, bud. How’s school?”

Peter studies him. There’s something hollow in the way Tony’s shoulders sit, in the way he avoids eye contact.

“Dad… are you okay?”

“’Course I am.” Tony smiles again. It’s thinner this time, like he’s running out of ways to lie gently.

Peter nods, but something inside him knots.

Tony reaches out and brushes a hand through Peter’s hair. For a second, it almost works—almost makes things feel normal.

“We’re okay,” Tony says, voice soft. “Alright. Shower. Then dinner. Tell us everything then.”

Peter hesitates in the hall. Then he turns. Steve’s already halfway to the lab, bouquet in hand. Peter starts toward his room, but stops. He leans against the wall—just close enough to listen. Just far enough to pretend he’s not.

“Hey,” Steve says.

“Hey.”

“This is for you.”

A rustle. Flowers. Wrapping paper. Footsteps.

“Thanks.”

Peter imagines the distance in the room. The silence pressing between them. The things they’re not saying.

Only now does he realize how much of himself leans on their love. How much he’s counted on it to be steady. Unshakable. Like bedrock beneath everything else, as if it's also something holding him together.

“Tony… I—”

“It’s fine. We don’t need to talk about it.”

Silence expands. Heavy. Barely breathing.

“No,” Steve says. “We do.”

Peter pushes off the wall and walks away. Something inside him screams whatever that conversations is, he doesn’t need to know.

 

---

 

“We were…” Tony’s voice breaks before the words do. He breathes, then stares past Steve, toward the hall. Toward Peter’s room. Hoping—no, fearing that his son isn’t listening. “It doesn’t matter. We don’t have a right to each other’s lives anymore. I see that. Whoever you’re with, that’s yours. I have no claim on it. And you don’t on mine.”

Steve nods, but he doesn’t look up, but the quiet isn't agreement—it’s a silence shaped like loss, like remembering something already gone.

“I want to say it anyway,” Steve says. “Nothing happened with Sharon. She was helping us. We were just friends. There was a night—we got drinks. That’s all. One kiss. It wasn’t—” He shakes his head, searching for a way to rewrite it mid-sentence. “It didn’t mean anything. I don’t even know how you—”

Tony exhales, a short laugh with a bitter edge that cuts both ways. “Told you not to explain. Doesn’t matter.”

But it does. And they both know it.

Steve sighs. “I’m sorry.”

The apology doesn’t close anything. It just hovers there, like a peace offering left on a doorstep no one’s sure will ever open.

Then, softer—barely above a whisper, “It’s always been you.”

Steve’s voice doesn’t shake, but his gaze does. Tony meets it, startled by the truth he’s never been able to hold steady in his own hands.

Tony looks away first. Because if he doesn’t, he’ll start to reach for it and unravel his own truth.

Steve slices into the cheesecake without a word and sets a plate in front of Tony.

Tony stares at it for a moment and takes a bite, the fork pausing midway as the sweetness blooms on his tongue. He nods, almost despite himself.

“You think this’ll bribe me?” he murmurs. “Cute.”

Steve lets out a breath, and finally the air shifts, gentled—like a storm passed, leaving only wet streets and the smell of rain. He opens a pan, a quiet gesture of stubborn care.

“Dinner’s on me then.”

 

---

 

As soon as Peter steps out of his room, the scent stops him mid-step—garlic, thyme, something softly charred. Not the chef’s polished perfection. This was different. Warmer, messier. Real. This was both his Dads cooking. Comfort lives in that smell, stubborn and grounding.

He makes his way down the hall, shoulders tight, bracing himself. There’s a pit in his stomach, the kind that doesn’t come from hunger.

But then—Laughter.

It’s faint at first, then louder, fuller. His parents. Laughing. A sound that shouldn’t fit the aftermath of what he heard before. And he finally breathes, his chest lifting.

He moves closer, quiet, not wanting to interrupt the moment, just needing to witness it. Steve is gesturing, halfway through a story. Tony leans over the counter, slicing fruit, his face crinkled with a grin. Like nothing ever cracked.

Peter leans against the doorframe, unnoticed for a moment, and watches. Watches the easy way Steve’s hand finds Tony’s back, the way Tony tilts his head when Steve laughs, like he’s storing the sound for later.

Then Steve spots him. “That was a long one,” he says. “Thought you fell asleep in there.”

“Or the toilet ate you up, baby,” Tony adds, grinning.

Peter rolls his eyes but his feet move, unthinking, toward the kitchen’s soft light.

“I joined the Olympiad.”

Steve’s face lights up. “Way to go.” He lifts a hand, and Peter meets it with a satisfying high-five.

Tony’s already moving, pulling him in with one arm for a quick kiss to his head. “Proud of you, kid.”

Peter lets himself melt into it for just a second—this warmth, this safety. He catches the glance they share afterward, not just pride, but relief.

The three of them settle into their seats, the table between them warm and full, like the argument never happened—or maybe like love decided it didn’t matter.

 

---

 

Over the weeks, Peter begins his training as Midtown’s Olympiad Math representative. Twice a week, after classes, the sessions stretch long into the afternoon, filled with equations and proofs that demand all of him. He never says it aloud, not even to himself but he loves it. The solving. The stillness it gives his mind. Each answer he finds feels like a mirror reflecting someone he hasn’t fully met—some version of himself that understands the world through patterns.

His parents are overjoyed. Peter sees the gleam of pride in their eyes, and Tony even hints at suggesting a sport, but for now, this feels like more than enough. Seeing their pride is fulfilling in a way Peter hadn’t expected, and it fuels him to push harder, to give his best.

At Tony’s next checkup, he’s there with them, finding out the gender of his baby sibling. A sister. The news leaves him grinning, it’s the first time he hears his baby sister’s heartbeat, a steady, rhythmic pulse filling the room, Peter finds himself holding his breath, afraid to break the delicate magic of the moment.

He steals a glance at his parents. Steve’s eyes are soft, brimming with gentle joy, and there’s a quiet relief in Tony’s smile. Watching them, Peter feels something settle into place, the overwhelming gratitude of being part of it all again.

 

At school, Peter still drifts, gaze fixed ahead, yet seeing nothing. His mind slips easily into the current of memory, thoughts like shadows on water. Some are light, echoes of childhood when the world felt small enough to understand and kind enough to trust. There had been laughter then, sticky hands and scraped knees, the weightless belief that good things lasted.

But other memories press in, carrying the smell of smoke and blood, the quiet click of a safety being turned off. Foreign alleyways, faces he never meant to memorize but can’t seem to forget. Some he watched. Some he followed. Some he ended.

And when ghosts creep too close, Peter doesn’t fight them with reason, he retreats into numbers. Prime after prime, equation after equation. In a world where variables have answers and every problem a solution, he can breathe. Numbers don’t bleed. They don’t beg. They feel safe, contained, controllable.

And yet, in the quieter moments, when no one is looking, he wonders if any of it really matters. Is he here just to keep his parents content, a way to keep them smiling. Is he just filling a chair to ease his parents’ guilt, the living proof that they’ve done enough, that he’s okay now?

But then there are days—more of them lately—when something shifts. The soft punchline of an inside joke. The nudge of a shoulder in the hallway. The unnoticed miracle of a day passing without fear. The warm hum of life moving on, untouched by the things he’s seen.

He didn’t come here looking for peace. He didn’t believe he deserved it. But somehow, it’s finding him in pieces... in the rhythm of routine, in the comfort of being no one special. In the anonymity, he feels something close to safety.

 

 

---

 

 

One quiet afternoon in science class, Peter stares out the window, beyond the schoolyard to the silhouette of the tower. His experiment sits forgotten in front of him. His hands are still, his thoughts a blank tide rolling in and out.

Ned nudges him, a soft elbow to the arm that feels more grounding than annoying. Peter blinks back into the classroom. Ned grins, the same grin he wears when he’s just downloaded a new game or figured out a LEGO hack.

“I get it,” Ned says.

Peter turns to him, a question in his eyes but not yet in words.

“I mean, I want to work there someday too. Imagine seeing an Avenger every day—that’d be insane, right?”

Overhearing, Flash’s chair screeches against the floor. He swivels around. “Dude, dream on. By the time you work there, they’ll all be washed up. Retired. Dead, maybe.”

Beside Flash, MJ lets out an amused laugh. She doesn't bother looking up from her workbook. Ned waves off Flash’s remark and gives his chair a push, earning a chuckle.

“Whatever. My uncle worked at Stark Industries, you know.”

“Really? In the tower?” Peter asks, keeping his voice carefully level. But there’s pressure rising under his skin, an ache from old places, memories sharp as glass and just as cold. He used to walk those labs like they belonged to him. Tony made sure of that. There was always laughter echoing in the glass halls. Always time to stop and look, to explain, to dream.

Peter remembers lingering in his dad’s office, fingers tracing the edge of a model reactor, his name carved into the corner of a desk drawer.

“Yeah,” Ned says. “He was an assistant scientist there for a while. Said he saw Iron Man all the time before the whole thing with their kid.”

Peter’s gaze drops back to his notebook, pen pressing into the paper until the ink pools too dark, bleeding at the edges, the old ache unfurling into something harder to ignore.

Flash leans over again, his elbow knocking into the desk. “What do you think Cap and Iron Man’s kid even looks like?”

MJ shrugs without looking up. “Who knows? Whole internet’s scrubbed clean. They’re like, paranoid-protective.”

“Yeah,” Ned says, softer now. “Sad they still can’t find him.”

Peter keeps his eyes fixed on his notebook, the pen trembles slightly in his grip. His friends keeps talking, voices skipping from the fall of the Triskelion to the mundane terrain of parental jobs, as if they haven’t said anything that matters, but to Peter, it all sounds like the dull hum of an engine too long running, a hum of a world that moved on without him, the sound of a life that forgot he was in it.

God, he wants it to stop.

Ned’s saying something—two dads, both in IT. Flash chimes in, boastful. His moms run a construction business. MJ leans back, letting them guess hers like it’s a party game. Peter watches the blue ink swell in the loop of a J.

“Psychologists?” Ned says. MJ shakes her head, curls bouncing.

“Therapists?” Flash says.

“Nope.”

“How come? You psychoanalyze everyone,” Flash adds. MJ half-heartedly slaps his arm.

Then like it’s his turn—they look at Peter.

“Psychiatrists?” he says.

They laugh. Except MJ. “Is that how you all think of me?”

“You’re too observant,” Ned says. “We just figured…”

“They’re cops,” MJ cuts in.

Flash raises his brows. “Ohhh,” as if that explains everything. Ned chuckles. Then MJ looks at Peter. “Your turn.”

Peter’s throat dries. “I have two dads,” he says, and already the lie is coiling. “One’s a mechanic. The other’s a Baseball coach.”

Flash perks up, leaning in. “Really? Like, local team or big league?”

“Just… local.”

Ned brightens. “Hey, don’t we have that baseball match for PE next month? Maybe he can help us practice!”

Peter’s grip tightens on his pen. His pulse flares—heat rising under his collar. He tries to smile, but it hangs too stiff. “No, no. He’s busy. High school team and all that.”

MJ’s brow lifts in mild skepticism. “Okay, no need to gatekeep your dad, Peter.” She chuckles, exchanging a lighthearted glance with Ned and Flash, as if the whole thing is just another passing joke. They turn back to their workstations, microscopes turning, scribbling of notes, and few chatters the only sound.

But it doesn’t last.

MJ lifts his head. “Oh, I just remembered. Apparently Mr. Steve Rogers is our neighbor.”

Ned stops mid-task, his eyes going wide. “No way! You’re joking.”

Flash mirrors the shock. “You’re not serious.”

“I am.” MJ folds her arms with quiet triumph. “Just a block away. My dad saw him the other morning—nearly choked on his coffee when Mr. Rogers went cruising by on a bike like it’s still 1943. Neighbors say he’s always leaving early, comes home late.”

Peter's face scrunches up. None of that makes sense. That's not possible. His dads were together every night with them at the Tower. Why would he…

He shakes it off—just neighborhood gossip.

Ned chimes in, “Guess the Stark and Stripes divorce didn’t leave much for Captain America, huh?”

The world tilts.

It hits Peter like a sucker punch, his mind blanking, his breath snags, like all the oxygen has been sucked out of the room.

“Please,” Flash scoffs. “He’s got decades of backpay in hero money. Still, what do you think happened? Why’d they split?”

“Duh, isn’t it obvious?” MJ says. “They lost their son. That kind of pain tears people apart.”

Peter’s heartbeat slams against his ribs. He barely hears himself say, “Wait.”

Three pairs of eyes turn to him.

“You’re not… you’re not talking about them, right? Not… Not Tony Stark and Steve Rogers?”

Ned gives him a bewildered look, eyes flicking to MJ and Flash. “Yeah? ‘Stark and Stripes’? That’s them. And MJ just said Mr. Steve Rogers. Dude, are you with us?”

“No.” Peter shakes his head so violently it feels like he’s trying to dislodge the entire conversation. Denial isn’t a word anymore, it’s a full-body rejection. “No, they’re not. They’re not divorced.”

“Uh, it’s been all over the news? Not front-page, but it’s there,” Flash says. “Sure, most articles are redacted but—Ned, show him.”

Ned hesitates, casting a wary glance at Peter before pulling out his phone. He discreetly slides it across the table. The screen glows with a headline Peter can’t quite read because the letters are swimming, sliding. He blinks hard.

The words come into focus.

And then everything else falls. Everything feels muffled, like he’s underwater.

He doesn’t realize he’s shaking until he tries to breathe. The kind of breath that hurts going in and worse coming out. The room feels wrong, like it’s pressing in on him from all sides. Just last night, he’d seen Steve lean in and press a quiet kiss to Tony’s cheek, soft as breath. He’d seen the way they looked at each other—like nothing and no one else existed, that’s love, that’s love right there. Not this. Never this.

“Nope,” he says, trying to hold it together. “That’s a lie.”

MJ frowns. “It’s a legit article, Peter. Sure, Bugle’s crap but this—”

“It’s not! They’re not!”

Peter’s hand moves before he knows what it’s doing, pen gripped tight driving hard into the table. The sharp snap of wood gives way under force, and the room goes still. The pen is embedded in the desk, vibrating slightly from the impact.

Everyone stares. Shocked. The background chatter dies.

Ned’s jaw drops. Flash edges a step back, MJ instinctively shifting in front of him.

Peter doesn’t look at them. Can’t. His vision tunnels as he grabs his backpack. His legs move on instinct, pushing him out of the room, into the hall, into air that still doesn’t feel like enough, scraping him raw from the inside.

He doesn’t head anywhere.

He just runs.

Back in the classroom, MJ, Ned, and Flash exchange uneasy glances. Flash finally breaks it with a whisper, “What just happened?”

Ned leans closer to the table, his voice hushed in disbelief. “How did he do that?”

They all look at the pen—driven deep into the wood like a nail. Like something held in too long and finally, violently, broke free.

 

---

 

Peter sprints without pausing. The noise of honking cars and agitated voices blurs into nothing, a dull roar behind the louder sound in his head: the truth, breaking apart and crashing together all at once.

It’s just him and the pieces falling painfully into place. Every little detail he had brushed aside now glaringly obvious. Why hadn’t his dad parked in the garage that day? Why had Dad been in Brooklyn, at Grandma’s, instead of home that afternoon? How had he missed it? The signs had been there, hadn’t they? Quiet things. He’s never seen his parents together in their room, not really. Those fleeting kisses, pecks on the cheek, the hugs. The hand-holding that always seemed just a little too perfect. Had it all been an act? Just for him?

Had he ignored it all? Because believing meant safety?

His parents is the reason he believes in love, the love that’s enduring. The kind of love that bends, but doesn’t break. That’s what they gave him. That’s what they let him believe in.

But as he skids to a stop in front of the tower, chest heaving, heart trying to tear itself out of his chest, that belief trembles. He wipes his eyes, but the burning stays, the sting not just from the wind, the pain doesn’t start there. It’s deeper. He realizes that the ache isn’t new, it’s just been waiting.

Maybe love isn’t the fortress he thought it was and forever is a word people say when they’re scared to admit things fall apart.

He doesn’t remember the front doors opening—only the startled looks from the guards, the quiet murmur of his name, the way no one stops him. They don’t need an announcement to recognize a Stark.

The private elevator door glide open. He steps in. Doesn’t say a word to Jarvis. Just stares at the button for the penthouse like it’s the edge of a cliff.

And presses it.

 

---

 

At the penthouse, Tony’s already bracing himself. The call from Principal Collins about Peter storming out of school hit like a warning shot, the tracker shows him running towards the tower. Steve stands nearby, leaning on the table, fingers gripping its edge as if trying to hold on to something solid.

Tony’s hands tremble uncontrollably. He presses them to his stomach, slow circles over the swell of life growing inside him, a silent plea that his baby inside won’t feel the quake of his fear. He wishes he could build a cocoon, spare them all from what’s coming.

The elevator dings.

Time holds its breath.

Peter steps out, sweat making his hair stick to his forehead, face flushed.

“You divorced?” Not a question, an accusation. Peter’s eyes lock onto Tony’s and Steve’s in a sharp intensity. “You lied to me.”

Tony tries to step forward, but his body feels heavy. “Peter…” His voice barely escapes his throat, strangled by guilt and the words that won’t come.

“Did you ever really love each other? Or is this all just for me?”

The silence in response is deafening. It rings louder than any explosion Tony and Steve faced in battle, louder than any argument they had fought.

Tony watches the way Peter’s face crumples, a light extinguishing behind his eyes. And it feels like everything Tony’s built—every remaining foundation of their family—crumbling.

“We’re…” Steve’s voice is barely there, threadbare. “We’re so sorry, bud.”

“So what now? Is my baby sister and I, are we… are we going to have two Thanksgivings? Two Christmases? New Year’s? Is that how this works? Are you going to split us up like—like you’re dividing up stuff?”

“No,” Tony says, shaking his head, trying to reach for Peter even though even his hands feel like they’re failing him. “No, sweetheart. It’s not going to be like that.”

But the words sound empty, and he can see it in Peter’s eyes, the fear that everything is about to change, that nothing will ever be the same.

And when the first sob tears free, it slices through Tony and Steve, exposing their wounds, every mistake, every regret.

Before they can move, Peter turns. Bolts, footsteps echoing down the hallway.

The door slams.

And the silence that follows feels endless.

Punishing.

Full of everything they meant to say and didn’t. Every reassurance they can’t give. Every ounce of love that suddenly isn’t enough to hold a family together.

Chapter 23: Together

 

In the dim light of Peter's room, he clutches his pillow tightly as if he could wring comfort from it. The pillowcase beneath his cheek is stained with dried tears that hadn't yet faded.

The door creaks. Peter knows the cadence of those footsteps too well to turn.

“Dinner?” Tony says.

“I’m not hungry.”

Silence stretches. A breath held. Then the faint rasp of the closet door sliding open, the soft rustle of fabric disturbed.

The bed dips beside him. A hand lands lightly on his back, tracing slow soothing circles through the damp cotton.

“Come on, kid. Your shirt’s soaked. Here, change into this one.”

Peter doesn’t move. His lungs feel too full to speak. But after a beat, he pushes himself upright and accepts the shirt. He slips out of his soaked one and into the fresh shirt.

“You could’ve taken a taxi. Or an uber.”

“There’s traffic. Running’s faster.”

Tony huffs, a sound caught between a laugh and a sigh. He lies back against the headboard and reaches for Peter again, drawing him close. Arms wrap around the boy’s smaller frame.

“We’re sorry,” Tony whispers. “Dads are so sorry, baby.”

“Why did you lie?”

“We thought maybe it was the only way to protect you. We couldn’t tell you because the damage was already done. And we—I wish we could take it all back...

“But even if—” Tony wavers before he forces himself to continue. “Even if your dad and I divorced, we love you. That’s what matters. That love is forever. We’ll always take care you and look after you. You and your sister.”

Peter’s chest tightens, confusion, anger, and hurt swirling into a storm he can’t contain. “I don’t understand. Don’t you love Dad anymore?”

Tony exhales a shuddering breath. “I do. It’s just… it was complicated back then. And losing you, when we lost you, it was like the light went out. And we… we didn’t know how to find our way back to each other in the dark.”

 

Outside the door, Steve listens, his back pressed against the wall. He hears everything—every fracture in Tony’s voice, every unspoken regret lingering between them.

In his hands, he grips a book, his fingers trace the jagged tear along the page—one Tony had ripped long ago. A poem rests on that page, its words now imbued with a meaning Steve can't ignore, because Tony hadn’t ripped it by accident. He’d left it behind deliberately, as if to say something he never could.

 

Our home was just a house with nothing to make it warm,

And instead of finding the kindling and lighting the fire

I opened the door and walked out into the storm

Where all the wood was wet

And there was no chance of the spark

I never came back

I thought you’d forget

I’m sorry for leaving you in the dark

 

 

 

---

 

 

At the dinner table, they sit together in silence. The clink of silverware and the occasional scrape of a chair sound louder than they should, filling the space that used to be warm with stories and laughter.

Peter lifts his gaze. “So Dad don’t sleep here anymore?”

Steve’s eyes flicker with guilt and regret. “No,” he says. “I come by early in the morning.”

Peter pushes down the feeling, imagining his Dad walking through the elevator each morning, making sure he’s here before Peter wakes.

“Am I going to spend weekends with you in Brooklyn now?”

“No, Pete,” Steve says. “We do what we’re doing, like before. We don’t have to change anything.”

But Peter shakes his head, his throat tightening as he stares down at his plate. “But it’s changed,” he says, his voice breaking like a truth no one wants to face. “You’re both just pretending everything’s normal for me.”

Steve’s jaw tenses, the silence stretching between them. “We do. But we also don’t. Our love… it’s not pretend. I still love your dad, I never stopped loving him.”

Peter’s gaze drifts to Tony, who’s been sitting quietly, and there’s something in the way his parents look at each other—an understanding that seems to say everything words can’t.

“We’re going to figure this out,” Steve says, reaching over to ruffle Peter’s hair with tenderness. “Don’t worry about it.”

 

 

---

 

 

After tucking Peter into bed, Steve and Tony stay by the lounge, the distance between them feeling like miles. Neither of them can meet the other’s eyes, Steve afraid of adding more stress to Tony’s, and Tony, with that familiar itch to escape to his lab. But they both know running isn’t an option tonight.

“Should we just get married again?” Tony says, laced with thin humor, though something in there suggests he might mean it, if only a little.

“Sure. So we can get divorced again, right? So you can push me away when it gets too hard?”

The bitterness comes out unrestrained, almost like it’s been waiting for this moment. The hurt, long buried, has clawed its way to the surface.

Their divorce wasn’t just a piece of paper, it was the undoing of every vow they once made. To stand by each other, to choose each other, even when it hurt.

Tony takes in the words like a gut punch. He tries to summon his usual armor of sarcasm, but it doesn’t come. Instead, the words settle in to the spaces he’s been trying to fill with everything but honesty. He wants to laugh it off, to brush it away like he always does, but there’s nowhere left to hide from the truth in Steve’s voice. The truth that he’s the reason they’re here, standing in this chasm where trust used to live.

What they had wasn’t just good—it was real, it was everything, the kind of love that didn’t just weather storms but made them worth facing. Steve had been that constant, the unwavering anchor when Tony’s world was collapsing, the light he could always turn to from the shadows. But Tony had let go. He had taken it all for granted, dismissing the one person who never wavered, who stood by him even when Tony couldn’t stand himself.

And in the quiet of this moment, Tony hadn’t realized how deeply the guilt had rooted itself in his bones. It wasn’t just regret; it was a deep wound that had never healed, a wound he had inflicted on both of them. Steve had been patient, endlessly so, but Tony had shattered that trust.

Tony forces his gaze away from the anger and hurt in Steve’s gaze, the pressure building in his throat, a flood of words he’s never let out—never knew how to. He tries to push the tears back, to swallow them down with every unsaid apology that sits heavy in his chest. But he fails. The tears break free, trailing down his face, and he hates how weak it makes him feel.

Tony makes a move to leave, to escape again. He turns away, but Steve’s voice catches him.

“Please… Stay. For once, just stay and say something. Because I can’t keep holding on for both of us.”

Tony stops, breath shallow, not knowing if he can find the words to bridge this distance, but something in Steve’s voice tells him that if he leaves now, there won’t be another chance.

“I wasn’t the only one who gave up," Tony says. "You signed the papers too. Why?”

Steve’s jaw tightens, and for a moment, Tony thinks he won’t answer. But then Steve’s voice comes,

“I couldn’t look into your eyes anymore without feeling all the blame. Seeing you like that while being with you… it was making everything worse, making you worse. I thought if I signed it, if I let go, maybe it would take away some of the guilt. But it didn’t. It just made me lose you.”

Their eyes meet, and Tony sees the raw honesty in Steve’s expression, sees the hurt and regret that mirrors his own. It pulls him forward until he’s standing close enough to feel the warmth of Steve’s presence.

Tony lifts a hand and brushes Steve’s cheek, feeling the faint stubble beneath his fingers, and it’s grounding—real in a way that memories aren’t. “I didn’t realize what I had until it’s gone. I’m sorry for breaking us, for pushing you away... for leaving you in the dark.”

Steve’s eyes flutter shut at the touch, and for a heartbeat, they’re both suspended in the uncertainty of whether they can still reach each other. 

“And I'm sorry I let you walked out into the storm.”

His arms circle around Tony, broad and strong and so achingly familiar. Tony lets out a shaky breath, leaning into the embrace like he might break apart otherwise.

Between them, a small movement, a tiny kick brings a brief, stunned silence. Steve lets out a breathless laugh, and Tony can’t help but smile, both of them easing just enough to let in a sliver of light. Steve’s hands shift, resting gently over Tony’s stomach where the subtle kick had interrupted them, before moving up to wipe away the remnants of his tears.

“How can I make sure that you won’t give up on me again?” Steve asks.

Tony holds Steve’s eyes with a resolve that feels new but sure. “You don’t. But I always learn from my mistakes. That’s the only promise I can give you. I won’t make the same mistake again.”

For a moment, there’s only the sound of their breathing, and Tony waits, almost afraid to hope. But then Steve nods, and the small spark of hope flickers to life between them.

They don’t have all the answers, but for the first time in a long time, it feels like they might have a chance to heal together.

 

Notes:

Poem mentioned is from Sarah - https://vt.tiktok.com/ZSkfCRkBd/
So glad i have stumbled upon this poem last year, it had inspired most of the trajectory of this story.

Chapter 24: Baseball

Notes:

so sorry its been a while again since my last update. been on endless interview preps since last month after graduating this summer and finally yo girl is unemployed no more. arghhhh. if i have readers in this hell of a job market, i know its easy to lose hope but keep hanging on, the right door will open for you.

thank you for still reading this story, i'll try to update as much.

 

Ned, MJ, and Flash walk into an indoor baseball field, their steps curious and a part cautious. Peter’s text had been brief and vague, none of them sure what to expect, but trusted their friend anyway.

As they move further in, they spot Peter standing alone in the center of the field, looking like a tiny speck in the massive, empty stadium. His hands are shoved deep into his pockets, his posture casual, but there’s a nervous energy in the way he rocks back and forth on his heels.

When he sees them, his face lights up. “Hey, guys!”

The trio exchange skeptical glances. Peter’s voice is too upbeat, unnaturally cheerful, unlike the Peter they’ve known for a few months.

“Peter, what’s going on?” MJ asks.

“I, uh, I wanted to apologize for last Friday.” Peter rubs the back of his neck. “Thought maybe we could have my dad teach us baseball to make it up for it.”

Ned’s eyes light up. “Really? That sounds awesome, Peter!”

But Flash isn’t as quick to buy it. “Hold up. Is this the part where you tell us you’re Iron Man and Captain America’s biggest fan?”

MJ chimes in, “Or you’re their son?”

“Hell no,” Flash scoffs. “Son of a billionaire? He makes me pay for his food! What kind of rich kid does that?”

“I mean, honestly. Who else can make a whole stadium this empty?”

“Seriously, just tell us the first one, ’cause I’m not ready for the second.”

Peter winces for a beat before breaking into a grin. “I’m afraid it’s the second.”

Steve walks in, effortlessly flipping a baseball bat in his hand, looking like he just stepped out of a GQ magazine spread.

"Dude!" Ned gasps, hands flying to his mouth, while MJ and Flash stand frozen, mouths hanging open in shock.

A few rows up, Tony’s already lounging with Natasha. Balanced on his very pregnant belly is a bowl of popcorn which he munches on casually as they watch the kids gape at Steve.

“Yeah, I’m not the only one who loves a cool entrance.” Tony leans toward Natasha. “He secretly lives for it.”

Natasha chuckles, shaking her head. Peter glances up at them, the kids around him too awestruck to form words.

Tony grins, giving them a casual wave, and Natasha follows suit with a subtle smile. Meanwhile, Sam, Bucky, Wanda, and Pietro stroll onto the field, each introducing themselves with easy confidence, adding to the stunned silence.

“Oh my god, my best friend’s the son of two Avengers,” Ned practically squeals, shaking Peter by the shoulders.

MJ raises a brow. “Just yesterday, Peter was your friend, Ned,” she teases, causing them all to chuckle.

As they huddle together to form teams. Sam throws Bucky a pointed look. “Can we be normal for once? No using the metal arm.”

Bucky smirks. “Oh, come on. Where’s the fun in that?”

Sam’s gaze shifts to the twins. “And you two, no magic, no super speed.”

Pietro pulls a face. “What, you want me to crawl?”

“Yeah, that’s no fun.” Wanda grins mischievously. “Peter’s not gonna hold back either. Are you, little spider?”

Nearby, the three kids listen, unsure if their surprise will ever fade.

“We—We thought we’re just gonna learn here,” Flash stammers.

Steve sighs. “We are,” he says, answering Flash directly, which only adds to the kid’s awe. “Alright, no magic, no speed, and no metal arm. This is for the kids.”

Ned leans in closer to Peter, whispering. “You have powers? Oh, of course you do. Son of a super-soldier and all, but wait, Spider?”

Peter’s smile fades, his heart sinking in a way that feels all too familiar. Just when he thinks today might be different, that the joy he feels might finally stay, Ned’s question yanks him back—back to Paraguay, where blood soaks the ground and lifeless bodies lie at his feet.

“I was bitten by a radioactive spider.”

“Awesome!” Ned beams, focused only on the calm exterior Peter wears like armor. “Are you also gonna be a superhero when we grow up?”

The question strikes Peter like a blow to the chest, tightening the knot already coiled there. He holds it in, refusing to let it show—the war inside him, the guilt, the self-loathing, the conflict tearing at his insides. He hears his own voice echoing in his head, words to his dad that day at the Triskelion, I want to be like you and Daddy when I grow up. I’ll fight bad guys too. How innocent those words had sounded then, filled with a conviction he no longer recognizes. Now they’re hollow, a cruel reminder of a boy who thought the world was black and white. A boy who didn’t know he’d become the very thing he wanted to fight.

What kind of hero can he be with so much blood staining his hands.

“No. Never.”

Ned's brows furrow, but he doesn’t press, still seeing only the Peter he knows at school—the one who often zones out but always has the answers, the one who stays cool under pressure, seemingly unaffected by the world. He doesn’t see the cracks.

Steve calls for warm-ups, pulling them both back to the present. But Steve’s eyes linger on Peter for a moment longer, as if he’s caught just enough of the conversation to know something isn’t right. Peter feels it, but he doesn’t meet his dad’s gaze.

The warm-ups begin, a blur of pitching and batting drills, and Peter falls into rhythm, but there’s something off in the way he swings. Too hard. Too fast. As though each crack of the bat is a release, or maybe an escape.

Steve and Tony notice. They always do. Tony watches as Peter bolts across the field, his movements sharp, his focus too intense, like he’s trying to outrun whatever’s chasing him. Steve can only watch with quiet understanding.

When the break finally comes, prompted by the arrival of food, the kids wander off to their own corner to catch up and eat. Tony and Natasha descend toward the field, where the team sits in small clusters, energy winding down.

Tony picks up a bowl of fruit, his eyes tracking Peter before stepping closer to Steve, who’s sipping water, the lines of his shoulders tense beneath the sweat. Without thinking, Steve’s hand moves to rest on Tony’s back, an instinctual touch that doesn’t ask for anything but offers everything.

“You okay there?” Steve asks.

“Yeah, we had the best view,” Tony smiles, gently wiping the sweat from Steve’s temple with a tenderness that’s familiar, yet renewed. “You’re working too hard, Coach.”

Steve chuckles, seeing the softness in Tony’s gaze, the warmth there. He’s missed this. Not the motions, not the show they’d put on for Peter’s sake, but the ease, the understanding that was always there. Now, it feels like they’re not just doing this for their son, they’re doing it for themselves, their start of something new.

From nearby, Sam mock-grimaces. “Uh, some of us are trying to eat over here.”

Steve doesn't even turn, waving him off as his arm slides around Tony’s waist, subtly gesturing for them to sit.

Tony stares at Steve, then plucks a single grape from the bowl, offering it up, which Steve accepts with a smile.

“Remember that time we had a practice match with the team?” Tony asks. “Peter’s only five, and he hit that ball with that tiny bat, then he ran across the field, doing that—”

“Cartwheel,” Steve chuckles. He can still see it, how that unexpected move had their team doubled over in laughter, how Peter had beamed with that pure joy only children seem to have, utterly unselfconscious, his little face bright with pride, unaware of how absurdly adorable he looked.

Tony laughs. “He’s very you. But that? That was a diva move. That was me.”

Steve laughs too, and when it fades, there’s a heavy pause. Tony’s gaze drops, his voice quieter. “I wonder where that kid went.” His gaze drifts back to Peter. “What’s going on with him? He was fine before warm-up. I thought he’d have fun today.”

Steve exhales. “Yeah, well… Hero thing came up. Ned asked him about it.”

“Oh.” Tony doesn’t need more words. The quiet between them speaks, a familiar ache shared only by fathers who know too well the burden their son carries. A burden far too heavy for someone so young. In the quiet, Steve’s hand finds Tony’s stomach, a gesture meant to soothe. “What do you want? There’s pigs in a blanket. You were craving that earlier, right?”

“Nah,” Tony says, smirking, eyes playfully glinting. “I just want you.”

Steve’s laugh is low, almost shy, but there’s no hiding the faint flush creeping up his neck. It still surprises him sometimes—the way Tony makes him feel so effortlessly seen, needed in ways that still catch him off guard.

Natasha, sitting near the twins, rolls her eyes. “Seriously, we’re happy for you two. But we have kids in here.”

“We’re almost eighteen,” Wanda shoots back.

“Are you though?” Pietro mutters, only to receive an elbow in the ribs from his sister.

On the other side, Flash slurps his energy drink, eyes narrowed with disbelief. “Can’t believe I get to see Iron Man and Captain America flirt in real life.”

Peter’s gaze darts to his parents, embarrassment flooding in. His face burns. “Oh my god.” They’ve been like this all day, sickeningly sweet in their own bubble of affection, unaware of the cringe it forces upon him. He’s honestly happy his Dads are figuring it out, no more pretences, but he doesn’t know if he’s ready to see them like this, like peering into a side of them that he’s not sure he’s meant to witness.

As the game resumes, Tony and Natasha shift closer to the field, the playful banter giving way to the real competition brewing on the field.

Then comes Bucky’s fastball—who says he won’t pitch with his metal arm, but the high-speed missile suggests otherwise. It rockets toward Tony and Natasha, a split-second where everything freezes, but Steve’s hand is there, catching it clean before anyone else can even flinch.

“Oh, Captain, my Captain,” Tony says, impressed.

Steve winks. The ball throbs in his grip, but his focus never wavers. “So, Mr. Stark, you got plans tomorrow night?”

Tony’s brow arches, his smile growing. “Mr. Rogers, are you asking me out on a date?”

Nearby, Peter’s eyes widen in horror, mortification crawling up his spine. His friends are watching, the laughter just a beat away. “Oh my god, Dads! Stop embarrassing me in front of my friends!”

The laughter spills over the field, light and warm, Steve and Tony exchange a glance. Beneath the teasing, there’s relief, as for the moment, they’re not heroes or legends, they’re just parents, grateful to see their son smiling genuinely, even if just for a second.

 

Chapter 25: Burnished Light

In a city like New York, where aliens stroll down Fifth and a half-crushed spaceship rusts in the weeds of Central Park, you’d think nothing could surprise anyone anymore. A kid snapping and driving a pen through a desk? Should barely be a blip. Just another Friday. At least, that’s what Peter tells himself. That’s the script Flash parrots, what MJ offers with her usual razor wit, and what Ned blankets over everything with that boundless, stubborn optimism like a bubble wrap around a grenade.

But the truth doesn’t care. It doesn’t soften. Doesn’t bend to comfort or denial. It insist. It stares back.

It is different.

He is different.

The moment Peter steps into class, the noise curdles into silence. Conversations fall off a cliff. His skin prickles. The heat of every stare scrapes against him. Judgment. Curiosity. Fear. His brain begs him to ignore it. Pretend. Walk. Sit.

But even if no one says a word, he feels it. That shift. That suspicion. That subtle recoil, as if they can see beneath his skin. A hum in his bones. As if they can see through the shell of him. To that moment. Like the world knows what he did.

What he became.

Lifeless bodies. Blood. Noir.

The way the night swallowed him and didn’t spit him back the same.

He clenches his jaw and keeps moving. Keeps pretending.

They won’t know. They can’t.

“We’ll protect you. We’ll keep you safe,” his dads had said. Their voices steady, but their eyes—their eyes trembled. They knew better, knew that safety is a story you tell children. Peter hasn’t been a child in a long time. And there are storms no one can shield you from. That sometimes the world doesn’t care who raised you or how much they love you, it just wants something to fear.

There were ideas—plans—press statements, grand reveals. The long-lost son of Iron Man and Captain America, found at last. A legacy born of legends. Iron Man’s mind, Captain America’s heart. A reveal that would shape the story before the world could twist it. Keep questions quiet.

But Peter had said no.

Not yet.

Maybe not ever.

“They won’t mess with us,” Flash had said after the baseball game. As if Flash who used to push other kids around, suddenly knew how to protect. As if MJ’s quiet stare—sharp enough to cut steel—was enough to silence a whole school.

Maybe it worked for them. But it didn’t stop the whispers.

“Bet he’s not even human.”

“He’s a freak. Look at his eyes. They watch too hard.”

“I heard he snapped a broom in half just by looking at it.”

Even the teachers look at him a second too long, like they're searching for something familiar in his face. Some explanation. Then they blink and smile and pretend like nothing’s changed. As if they aren’t quietly terrified of the kid sitting in the back row.

Peter lowers his head and drinks his soda. His face stays blank. Unbothered. Untouched. He doesn’t want comfort. He wants silence. Forgetting. Undoing. A place where the past can’t follow.

Just few more days. The Olympiad. The end of school. Then maybe he can breathe again. Far away, where the lake house waits. Quiet. Far from these eyes and whispers. A summer hidden in the hush of pine trees and soft water.

For now, he escapes the only way he knows how—going up.

On the rooftop, the wind doesn’t judge. He lets the city breathe for him. Lets the breeze ghost past his skin.

He’s alone, if only for a moment. His friends are off grabbing food. Happy and the rest of the security detail still trailing him at a respectful distance, still giving him this illusion of space. Down below, the world churns. He tunes it out.

Except for one laugh. One laugh that slices through everything. Familiar. Effortless. Like a song he never forgot the lyrics to.

There, across the street, standing in the soft light like he belongs in it. Johnny.

With a group Peter doesn’t recognize but can guess, the Dalton Olympiad team. Peter watches, caught off guard by how quickly his chest loosens.

Maybe it isn’t just the lake that offers peace.

Maybe peace is a person, too.

“Wow, didn’t know you could smile like that.”

The moment shattered.

Peter’s face drops like a mask falling back into place.

His friends are here now, settling beside him with grins that know too much.

“Who’s giving Peter that smitten look?” Flash says.

“Smitten?” Peter scoffs. “Smitten your ass.” He reaches for the burger Ned slid in front of him.

Ned leans forward. “Who are we looking at?”

“No one.”

But they follow his gaze anyway, because of course they do.

“Dalton?” MJ asks. “Wait, that’s your old school?”

“No way,” Flash says. “You were classmates with Johnny fucking Storm?”

Worse.

Peter says nothing. Just chews. Tries not to feel, like food in his mouth might silence whatever his heart is doing.

But Flash is already standing, waving. “YO, JOHNNY—!”

Peter’s reflexes snap like a whip. He grabs Flash’s arm, yanking him down before the name even finishes echoing. MJ and Ned blink startled.

“Do that again and I swear, I’ll throw you off this roof.”

Flash stumbles, laughter bubbling up. “Jesus, okay, okay, chill! I’m just messing with you.”

“You should’ve seen your face, dude,” Ned says between chuckles.

“You’re all red, Peter,” MJ adds.

“Not funny.” Peter steps away. Distance is easier. Safer. Simpler than explaining the knots he’s suddenly choking on.

“Oh, come on, Peter,” they chorus. “We’re just joking!”

But the knot in his chest didn’t unwind.

Across the street, Johnny turns. He must’ve heard his name, must’ve caught something in the wind. His eyes scan the rooftop and land on them.

Three teens laughing. One standing apart. A silhouette steeped in shadow.

Black against the burnished light.

 

Chapter 26: Olympiad

 

In the halls of NYU’s Skirball Center, the air buzzes with adolescent nerves—squeaky sneakers, half-whispered mnemonics, laughter that’s just a little too loud. Dozens of middle schools have assembled for the annual Olympiad, and the theatre hums with the fragile bravado of kids pretending not to care as much as they do.

Peter sits among them, posture flawless, expression unreadable. To anyone watching, he might seem composed, another gifted kid ready to claim his medal. But inside, his pulse thrums like a trapped moth. His hands rest in his lap, moisture slicking his palms. He tries not to wipe them on his pants, pretends he’s only nervous about the competition.

The opening ceremony drones on—rules, structure, schedules. Noise. Meaningless.

He studied. He’s ready. He could answer questions in his sleep.

But he’s not here to win. This is something else.

Proximity.

Because Johnny is breathing the same recycled air.

The name alone is a snare around Peter’s chest.

His ex-best friend. His nothing-now. And that’s what tightens Peter’s lungs, not fear of failure, but the possibility of being seen.

Of being recognized. Noticed. Ignored.

And maybe that’s worse than anything else.

It’s pathetic, really. Peter’s faced worse things. He survived monsters, walked through nightmares and come out the other side. He’s buried things—people, too—and learned to keep walking. The whispers, the gawking, that part of being a curiosity, a punchline, it’s dulled now, like the tail end of a fading bruise. Summer’s coming, and with it Midtown’s willing to let him wear the team shirt, smile for the photos, pretend that incident was never headline-worthy. He’s their best shot at a medal. He’s useful again. That buys selective amnesia.

But not from Peter. He remembers everything now. Unfortunately. His memory a curse with perfect recall.

But one boy. One boy can flip him inside out.

He tries not to look. Fails.

There. Seventh row. Dalton’s team. Johnny throws his head back at a joke, sunlit hair flaring under the house lights. He’s radiant in that effortless, unbearable way, a flash of summer in a windowless room. The sound doesn’t reach Peter, but the shape of the smile does, and it’s enough to leave him breathless.

There’s no eye contact. Not yet. But Peter knows it’s coming. His notebook rises like a reflex, a shield to hide behind. But it never stays up for long. Peter lowers it each time. Just enough. Just enough to steal another glance, to catch that fleeting glimpse. His mind battles with itself—look away, don’t look away—but his heart keeps pulling him back. Every stolen glance feels like an indulgence and a punishment all at once.

Each time Johnny laughs, Peter’s attention flickers like a broken filament, drawn to light it can’t hold.

Don’t look. Don’t care. Don’t want.

But he does. Hates that he does.

There’s no escape now.

The rounds begin, Peter’s team is shuffled to one end of the building; Dalton, mercifully, to another. Peter lets himself drown in the distraction of equations, hypotheses and ticking clocks, but nothing feels like triumph. Every success feels like treading water, just enough to keep him from drowning in thoughts he refuses to name.

Lunch comes. The seventh graders are herded into a corner of the NYU cafeteria. Peter chews a bite of food he can’t taste. Across from him, his teammates joke about scoring perfect rounds. Beside them, two tables away—

Johnny.

Still radiant, basking in wins.

He hasn’t noticed Peter yet. Or maybe he has, and chosen not to show it. Peter can’t decide which hurts more.

He glances down at his tray, then, he dares another glance toward that sunlit boy, and feels it again, that pull, that reminder of all the things he didn’t get to say.

His throat tightens.

He swallows anyway.

 

---

 

After lunch, the semifinals shift into the Skirball Center’s subdued lighting. On stage, Dalton’s team readies for their match against Stuyvesant. Calculations are murmured, strategies whispered. But Johnny’s gaze strays, drifting toward the crowd.

There she is. Kate, waving from the audience with that bright smile. Johnny waves back, grin automatic. But the moment folds quickly, his focus snapping back.

“Alright,” he says, sliding into his seat with his cocky smile in place. “Let’s finish this up and crush Midtown next.”

George lets out a low chuckle beside him. “Might not be so easy. Word is Midtown’s got a new Math rep this year.”

“Oh yeah? Flash finally chickened out?” He leans back, confident. “Doesn’t matter. I’ll mop the floor with whoever it is.”

But as he adjusts the mic clipped to his collar, Johnny’s eyes skim the opposing teams. “Know who it is?”

George glances at Amelia, who turns her head, offering up a name casually like it’s nothing. “Peter—”

The name lands like a stone in a still pond. Ripples tear through Johnny’s mind before she finishes. And there it is. His chest tightens, in that specific way grief does when it wears the face of someone you once loved. For a beat, he forgets to breathe.

“—Parker. Peter Parker.”

Then like a muscle unclenching, the relief floods in. It’s not his Peter. The tension slips away so quickly he’s almost ashamed it was there.

The round begins. Numbers fly. Buzzers snap. Dalton dominates.

But none of it roots in Johnny’s memory.

Because as the teams rotate and new players file in, Johnny catches a movement. A familiar silhouette.

A boy stepping into light like he’s been conjured from a dream Johnny’s spent years trying not to dream.

Peter.

Older. Taller. Sharper. But unmistakably him. Like a memory given form and breath.

Johnny stills.

Peter walks with quiet confidence, the kind that makes time falter. Not because he’s loud or trying, because he isn’t. Because he never tried, and Johnny hated how much he loved that about him. Still does.

The past doesn’t come back all at once. It arrives in pieces, scattered and sharp, settling like glass in Johnny’s throat—Peter, laughing with a milk box mustache. The Peter who once traced the lines of Johnny’s palm like they were cartography for a place only they knew. The Peter who kissed scraped knees and said nothing when Johnny cried because some kinds of love are too soft for words.

Peter steps closer.

Closer still.

And Johnny can’t breathe. He can’t speak.

“Johnny,” Peter says.

The voice is deeper, unfamiliar, but the way it says his name feels like home. It wraps around him, both balm and blade.

“Peter.”

He reaches out, fingers trembling in awe, hand finding Peter’s arm. Warm. Real.

Joy swells, but so does the sting.

Betrayal. Resentment.

For not being chosen.

And before he knows it, joy morphs into fire. And before he can stop it, before the rational voice in his head can catch up, his hand arcs through the space between them. A slap—sharp and unrestrained—snaps across Peter’s cheek.

A stunned breath. A shattered moment.

And in Johnny’s chest, a thousand words crash at once—none of them spoken. Not yet.

 

 

---

 

“Tell me that isn’t Peter,” Kate says, demanding something he doesn’t have. “Why didn’t he tell us? Why didn’t he say anything?”

Johnny doesn’t answer. There’s no version of truth that makes sense even to him.

He’s already off the stage, legs moving before his mind can follow. He doesn’t know who saw, who whispered, who flinched when the slap echoed across the auditorium. Peter’s back. That’s all he knows. Everything else is a blur of questions with no shape and no mercy.

He scans the audience, and there just beyond the shadows are Peter’s parents. Steve and Tony. Their eyes meet his. No words pass between them, but the apology in their gaze lands heavier than any spoken admission.

The rest of the world fades. Onstage, Peter is calm, answering rapid-fire questions with that impossible ease that once used to fill Johnny with pride. Now it just burns.

Kate’s silence is thick with betrayal. But Johnny can’t explain what’s clawing at his chest. It’s not just hurt that Peter stayed away, not just anger that he came back without telling them.

But the empty space Peter left behind that somehow still feels occupied.

And now, seeing him like this—so untouchable, so far above them—it doesn’t feel like getting him back.

It feels like losing him all over again.

Kate leans in. “At least you already slapped him. Guess I don’t have to kill him anymore.”

A huff escapes him before it becomes a short laugh.

“There it is,” she smiles, brushing his arm.

Midtown’s victory gets announced. Bronx Science bows out. Dalton’s up next.

Kate throws her arms around him in a hug. “Crush him,” she says into his shoulder. “Don’t let him win.”

He wants to nod, to make her that promise, if only to prove Peter doesn’t still hold all the power. But the words are stuck, like he’s choking on the truth—Peter always wins. He can’t stop him. He never could.

She pulls back just enough to give him a teasing grin. “If you do, I’m not going with you this summer.”

He forces a smile. “It’s fine. I’ll go alone.”

“How dare you.” She smacks his butt, and for a fleeting second, Johnny’s grin is real.

She lets go, and the second she does, reality rushes in, cold and unrelenting. The lights feel too bright again, his footsteps too heavy as he rejoins his team.

And Peter’s still on that stage, still shining.

Still gone.

 

---

 

Peter huddles with his team, the quiet hum of strategy passing between them. Across the room, Johnny stands apart with his own group, nodding at something one of them says but he isn't really listening. His attention drifts, pulled toward Peter like a magnetic field he didn’t want to enter.

Their gazes collide—just for a beat, a heartbeat longer than it should be. Time bends between them like an old record skipping. A second too long. A beat too slow. Perfect and terrible all at once.

Then, just as quickly, it’s gone. They both look away. Masks click back into place, Peter’s practiced cool, Johnny’s practiced charm. But Johnny's heart doesn’t get the memo. It slams against his ribs like it’s trying to make an escape. He forces a breath and it doesn’t come easy.

God, he’s so screwed.

Why does it have to be Peter? The boy’s a machine—brilliant, poised, relentless. Always five steps ahead, as if the universe just wired him better.

Johnny clenches his jaw.

He tells himself he doesn’t care. That he’s just pissed about the competition. About how Peter makes him feel like he’s constantly playing catch-up. But there’s something else in his chest—tighter, messier.

The moderator clears their throat. The round begins.

Buzzers flash. Questions volley. Science, General Knowledge, Geography, Journalism, their teams respond in tandem, answers fly like arrows. But when the Math round arrives, everything stills. A breath held by the room itself.

Johnny glances at the scoreboard.

Tied.

Of course it is.

Because this isn’t just a match anymore. It’s a collision course. Him and Peter. Head to head.

And suddenly, it’s not about the win.

It’s about why he needs it so badly.

 

---

 

From his seat, Tony crunches on a piece of popcorn, grinning like he’s watching a thriller movie. The problem flashes on the screen. Peter and Johnny dives in, minds working fast, but Tony’s already there. Numbers line up neatly in his head, falling into place like old friends.

He leans close to Steve, voice low and smug. “Thirty miles.”

Steve glances sideways, that soft, familiar fondness surfacing. “Oh, really?”

“Come on, this is just a warm-up.”

The buzzer rings, Peter answers perfectly. Midtown takes the lead.

“That’s my boy,” Tony says.

“Our,” Steve corrects.

Tony scoffs, still grinning. “Fine. Our boy.”

On stage, Flash grins like he just won the lottery. But Johnny—Johnny’s expression falters, a breath drawn too slowly. Peter notices. Always does. Johnny bites his lip, glancing toward Kate in the audience. She nods—soft, supportive, the kind of look that says I’m here, even when it hurts.

The next question appears. Johnny strikes, confident and fast. He scores. A tie. The game drags on, tie after tie.

But Steve catches something else, Peter’s hand hovering just above the buzzer. Just a hair too long.

Tony notices too. “Your boy’s hesitating.”

“He is.” The faintest sigh escapes Steve’s, echoed by Tony’s quiet chuckle.

“We’ll be here till graduation.”

The final question drops. No buzzer. Just a ticking clock. The room holds its breath. This one’s different, it’s longer, more complex. Peter’s pen skims across the paper, and when he finishes, his hand stills long before the timer’s up. On his periphery, he sees Johnny, still writing, brow drawn tight in concentration.

The timer sounds. The judge takes Johnny’s first.

Peter’s breath catches, eyes squeezing shut for the briefest of moments. He doesn’t want the win. Not like this. But it’s his turn now.

The judge nods, a gesture toward Midtown’s point.

The crowd explodes into cheers, but to Peter, it’s like hearing it underwater. Victory should feel good, but it sits heavy. His gaze finds Johnny, who’s smiling, or trying to. Something inside that smile has cracked. And Peter sees it.

They walk toward the center to shake hands, each step sends Peter’s heart thudding louder in his ears. When their hands clasp, for a second, Peter feels the tension drain out of him. He doesn’t let go, doesn’t want to, because this is the only place that feels right.

He pulls Johnny in, locking him into a hug.

Just to hold him close. Just to say what words can’t.

For a second, Johnny stiffens. Then he exhales, a sound like surrender.

“How dare you hold back on me, Stark-Rogers.”

Peter chuckles, though it’s more for Johnny’s sake than his own. “I’m sorry.”

The words fall inadequate, like trying to bandage something still bleeding.

Johnny pulls away first. The rest is a blur. Shaking hands. Clapping backs—faces, voices, movement—none of it sticks. Peter only watches Johnny drift toward Kate.

“Guess I’ll be going alone LA this summer,” Johnny says.

Kate slides her arms around him. “You crushed it, I’m so proud. Of course I’ll be there.”

And for a moment, there’s peace in that. A safe place to fall. But when Johnny glances back, it hits him, Peter is standing with his team, surrounded by new friends.

The sight lands like a blow, a pang of loss that goes deeper than the competition itself.

It’s not about winning or losing, it’s distance… how far apart they’ve become.

Johnny exhales slowly, but the tightness in his chest won’t budge. Kate squeezes his hand, and they barely notice Steve and Tony until they’re already standing in front of them.

Tony wraps them both in a hug, just like he used to when they’d visit the tower for playdates as kids.

“You were incredible up there, Johnny,” Tony says with a proud smile. Steve’s expression mirrors it. “Is your Dad here? Your sister?”

Johnny’s smile flickers. “He's probably stuck in surgery, or a meeting. Sue's in LA now—college.”

The understanding in Tony and Steve’s eyes dims their smiles just a touch. Not pity. Just recognition, before turning their attention back as Peter approaches.

Tony’s arms are already around Peter. “We’re so proud of you.”

Johnny and Kate watch the reunion, the way Steve and Tony beam, the pride in their expressions, the reunion of a family that had found each other after too long apart. It’s impossible not to feel happy for them. Johnny’s heart warms at the sight. But beneath his smile, a realization sinks in, Peter has found a place in this world that he isn’t a part of anymore.

Peter meets their eyes. “Hi.”

Kate smiles, but it’s distant, polite. “Hey, Peter. Glad you’re back.”

“Thanks.”

The silence that follows stretches, not hostile, just… unbridgeable, even Tony and Steve feel it.

Johnny’s smile strains, turning to Tony and Steve. “It’s really great to see you again, Mr. Stark. Mr. Rogers. Kate and I should probably head out—”

Tony cuts in, “You kids should join us for dinner. Celebrate a little.”

There’s no space to refuse. No time to consider. Tony’s already guiding them forward with an arm slung casually around their shoulders. And Steve’s arm slips around Peter, steering him into step.

 

Chapter 27: Playground

In the cramped quiet of the SUV, Tony adjusts the temperature with a tap. Outside, New York sulks in gray light, spring trying and failing to warm the city.

His gaze flicks up to the mirror, to the kids in the rear. “You three doing okay back there?”

Behind the wheel, Steve watches the rearview too. The street is choked with traffic, students spilling from NYU like bees from a disturbed hive.

“We’re good, Mr. Stark. Thanks,” Kate responds with a wry smile. She’s wedged between Johnny and Peter, like she’s become the buffer, keeping more than just physical distance between them.

“Sorry we didn’t bring a bigger car. Still undercover, aren’t we, hon?” Tony glances at Steve. Steve smiles, his hand finding Tony’s without thought, their fingers lacing together even as Steve maneuvers through traffic like muscle memory, like choosing each other again, despite everything.

“Congratulations on the baby, by the way,” Johnny says with forced cheerfulness, as if it might be enough to diffuse the awkwardness thickening in the backseat.

Steve and Tony share a brief, soft grin. “Thanks, kids.”

Kate hesitates, curiosity getting the best of her. “So, um, did you get married again?”

“They’re dating,” Peter answers before either Steve or Tony can respond. His gaze is fixed on the window, but his attention is somewhere else, he doesn’t miss how Johnny’s hand, resting beside Kate’s, is loosely intertwined with hers. Peter’s stomach twists, though he keeps his gaze steady on the passing streets. “Apparently, that’s a thing now. After divorce.”

“Oh,” Kate goes quiet. Johnny doesn’t say anything either.

Steve and Tony share another glance, this one heavier, but neither offers a response. To fill the space, Tony reaches for the center console, fishing out a few canned drinks and tossing them back. He holds one out toward Peter.

“Press it on your cheek too,” Tony says. “Might still sting.”

Peter rolls his eyes but takes it anyway. Kate muffles a laugh behind her hand. Johnny presses his lips into a line.

Steve nudges the conversation toward safer waters. He asks about Kate’s moms, about Johnny’s family. Kate brightens as she talks about the security firm. Johnny mentions his Dad's foundation like it’s a script he’s memorized.

When the car pulls up to the restaurant, they step out, each releasing a breath as though they'd been holding it the entire ride. Steve’s arm instinctively slides around Tony’s waist, firm and protective, guiding him inside as the three kids follow silently behind.

Once inside, Steve and Tony choose a separate table, leaving the three at their own ‘kids' table.

As they browse through menus filled with Japanese dishes, Steve leans in closer, his breath warm against Tony’s ear. His eyes flick to the kids, still unusually quiet. “Still think this was a good idea?”

Tony doesn’t lift his gaze from the menu, scanning the options, specifically to the ramen he’s craving. “Yeah, starting to think twice about it.”

At the kids' table, as the waiter fills their glasses and hands them menus, Johnny takes a quiet sip of water, and Kate, seated beside him, mirrors the motion, two people reaching for steadiness in a moment that has none. Across from them, Peter sits unnervingly calm.

Kate doesn't look up from her menu. “So, how long have you been back?”

Peter doesn’t smile. His fingers wrap tighter around the cup of tea, the porcelain warm in his hands while something colder coils inside his chest.

“Last year.”

Kate nods, but there’s something in her expression, of hurt that she quickly hides.

“Did you listen to our voicemails? Or should I say Johnny's voicemails?”

Johnny’s head jerks toward her. “Kate,” he hisses under his breath.

Peter doesn’t react. His eyes hover over the menu, but he's not really seeing the words in front of him. He’s remembering the sound of Johnny’s voice cracking through static, the way it always ended with Come back, okay?—like hope could be left on a line.

The waiter returns. Peter picks something random, a dish he knows well, but even that feels distant, just a reflex. Kate and Johnny order with ease, as if they’ve been to this Michelin-starred restaurant more times than they’d care to admit.

When the waiter leaves, Peter clears his throat.

“I did. I listened to all of them.”

Kate scoffs, harsh and bitter. “And you didn’t even bother to reach out?”

Johnny keeps his eyes on the table. There’s a tightness in his jaw, in the way his hands press flat against his thighs. He doesn’t interrupt, not because he agrees, but because her words say what he never could. There were nights he sat by his phone, just waiting. Believing maybe this would be the one Peter answered.

Peter doesn’t meet their eyes.

“I’m not the same person anymore. I'm sorry.”

“Yeah, right. You’re not our friend anymore. What kind of friend does that? That’s just cruel.” But beneath it, there’s something else, a quiet plea she doesn’t dare voice, Why didn’t you choose us?

Johnny’s hands curl into fists beneath the table. Deep down, he knows she’s not wrong, he just doesn’t want to face it.

Kate swipes at her eyes, briskly, like she’s furious at the tears.

“Did you know Johnny’s planning to leave another one of those stupid voicemails tonight?” She lets out a bitter laugh. “I told him to stop. I told him you weren’t coming back. But he never gave up. He even joined the Olympiad. For you. Did you even know that?”

“Kate.” Johnny grabs her arm, his grip tight but not to hurt, just to beg her to stop. He wasn’t ready for the truth to come out, not like this, not in front of Peter. “That’s enough.”

Kate stands abruptly, the chair scraping the floor as she storms out. Johnny’s quick to follow, pushing through the doors after her. “Kate!”

He catches her by the elbow just as she flags down a taxi. “Don’t leave me here.”

“I’ve said my piece, Johnny.”

Kate flips open her compact mirror, casually wiping a smudge of eyeliner, as if the heated argument moments ago hadn’t even happened. 

“What the—”

“I’ve got a date,” she says, flashing a playful grin.

“We’re still in middle school!”

“So? Half the class is already dating.”

“It’s not even half! It’s four people! Did you just pull that to get away?”

Kate only grins wider, leaning in to plant a quick kiss on his cheek, before slipping into the taxi.

Johnny watches the cab drive off in disbelief. There’s a reason she’s number one in the Theatre Club—not only can she sing, but she’s great at acting and even better with a bow. And this date might probably be just an archery class. Still, that doesn’t erase the truth behind her words earlier.

Johnny sighs, glancing over to see Peter standing nearby, like he's been there longer than Johnny realized, quietly observing, hands stuffed in his pockets.

“Still sticking around?” Peter says.

“Yeah.” Johnny brushes past him with a nonchalance that doesn’t match the tightness in his chest. “The Karaage here’s to die for. And your parents are paying, we ordered a lot.”

Peter chuckles, a bit lighter now, falling into step beside him.

 

---

 

So far, Tony’s just enjoying the drama. While Steve watches in concern as the kids rush out of the restaurant, Tony, on the other hand, leans back in his seat, completely at ease.

The waiter places their order on the table, and Tony takes his time with his steaming bowl of ramen, breathing it in before taking a bite, savoring every second.

“You enjoying this?” Steve asks.

“I am,” Tony says, a quiet satisfaction spreading across his features. “God, it’s so good.”

Steve laughs under his breath, taking a sip of his own ramen, the comforting heat of the soup warming him.

“But seriously,” Tony continues, a glint of humor in his gaze as he looks back at Johnny and Peter, now returning to their seats, “this is way better than what we watched on TV last night.”

Steve follows Tony's line of sight, his own smile fading into something softer, more contemplative. On the surface, it seems like nothing, just Peter and Johnny, sitting down to eat. But Steve sees the undercurrent. He leans in. “You do realize we’re basically chaperoning our kid on his first date.”

Tony’s brows knit together, his gaze now focusing on Peter. There it is, that glint—something rare in the way Peter steal a glance toward Johnny, lingering for a fraction longer than usual. It’s subtle, almost imperceptible, but there’s an undeniable fondness there, and maybe… something more. “Oh, hell. I didn’t see that coming.” He glances at Steve, searching his face. “Did you?”

“No. Well, they’ve always been close.”

“They’re best friends. That’s just friendship.”

Steve’s eyes stay on Peter, watching the way his shoulders relax when Johnny smiles, the way his expression softens in ways it doesn’t with anyone else. “Maybe,” he says. “But Peter’s always cared more about Johnny, even back in kindergarten.”

A tightness forms in Tony’s chest, warmth gathering behind his eyes. “He’s growing up, Steve.” It’s too soon. He isn’t ready to let go of the boy Peter was—the one who needed him, who looked to him for everything. If only he could have those years back, all the moments they missed when Peter was lost to them, maybe then he could’ve savored every second more.

Steve smiles, though it’s bittersweet. His hand finds Tony’s stomach, rubbing gently. They have a new baby now, a new life to nurture and care for. But as Steve’s fingers trace the familiar path, they both fall into the quiet ache of memory.

They watched Peter grow—every small moment, every laugh, every tear. All those years when Peter was just a baby, just a toddler, when his whole world revolved around them, when they were Peter’s everything, his safe place, his home. Those moments belong only to Tony and Steve, fragments of time knowing they’ll never come back. And though they’re here in the present, part of them will always be reaching back—to the little boy Peter used to be, the one they’ll always carry in their hearts, no matter how much he changes, no matter how far he grows.

 

 

---

 

 

With spring stretching the day longer, the sky still holds a soft, fading light as they finish dinner. The sunset lingers on the horizon, painting everything in shades of orange and pink. Steve and Tony head back to the tower, while Johnny and Peter find themselves drawn to their old playground, the one where they used to spend endless afternoons as kids.

They settle into the gentle creak of the swings, both lost in their own thoughts as the playground hums with the laughter of small children. Small hands clutch the bars of jungle gyms. Shoes thud gently on rubber mulch. Some kids chase each other in wide, loose circles, others gathered up by tired guardians, led away under the warm hush of twilight.

The city breathes around them, distant conversations, the faint honk of traffic, but Johnny’s eyes are fixed on the children, watching them with aching stillness. In their joy, he sees shadows of himself and Peter, barefoot summers and breathless games, scraped knees and whispered secrets. Back when the world felt no larger than this playground and the safety of each other. Back when holding hands wasn’t something to think twice about. Back when love and friendship was a thing lived, not questioned.

Dinner had been quiet, not unnervingly so—comfortable, more focused on the bites they take than on the space between them. A question surfaces now and then, something about the food, something about the math from earlier, but neither of them pushes too hard. Eventually, they ease into a conversation about the final question from the competition, laughing softly as the tension lifts, just for a moment. It almost feels like old times. Before the conflicts, before the distance. But the moment passes, and the the gap remains.

Johnny steals a glance at Peter, who’s eyes are distant, lost in some memory or maybe just the rhythm of the city. He wonders if Peter’s thinking the same, if the quiet between them is with the same nostalgia, or if there’s a shadow there that Johnny can’t reach, lost in a place Johnny can't follow.

He realized he’s been physically close to Peter too many times, the one near Dalton when he heard Peter’s name. That rooftop. All those moments when it felt like Peter had passed too close, as if pulled by the same invisible thread that tugged at Johnny’s chest. And yet, they’re here. Breathing the same air. Close enough to touch. Far enough to miss. And he still can’t understand how Peter slipped so far away.

“What happened to you?”

He doesn’t expect a reply. After all, no one truly knows. Not him, not Kate. All they’ve heard is Steve and Tony searching for Peter, finding him, bringing him back, but nothing more.

The silence stretches, and Johnny starts to regret asking. But just when he thinks Peter won’t respond, he hears the quiet of Peter’s voice.

“I was kidnapped by Hydra. Turned me into a weapon. My dads finally found me last year.”

Johnny feels the world tilt slightly, and all he can do is stare at Peter, really look at him. How does someone say that so calmly? It’s heavy, too heavy for him to grasp in this moment. Johnny swallows around the lump in his throat. “Peter…”

What do you say to something like that?

“I’m sorry,” Johnny finally breathes, though it feels pathetically small in comparison.

Peter doesn’t look up. “Don’t be.”

Johnny’s heart clenches at the quiet strength in those two words, at how Peter carries this pain with such grace that it almost hurts to witness. He wants to say more, to bridge the gap, but the words seem to die on his tongue. He remembers Kate’s harsh words from earlier, the accusations, and guilt starts to twist in his gut. “What Kate said, we didn’t know.”

“It’s okay. What I did was no excuse. I should’ve told you. I should’ve let you know the moment I came back. It’s just….” Peter wavers, and for a moment, Johnny can see the cracks, the edges of vulnerability Peter hides so well.

“You don’t need to explain. I get it.”

“…I didn’t know how. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

In that moment, Johnny hears what Peter doesn’t say. He feels it. And for the first time, he really sees Peter—not the version he used to know, but someone scarred, someone who survived the unthinkable and is still here, still figuring out how to exist and how to be a person. There’s a depth there, a knowing that makes Johnny feel impossibly small, insignificant in comparison. He thinks about his classmates, his own life, their petty arguments and self-centred lives, and realizes how blind he’s been, wrapped up in his own world while Peter’s been drowning under something so much heavier.

Johnny rises before he can second-guess. The space between them stretches like a chasm carved by time and silence yet unbearably close all at once, but he crosses it anyway, wraps his arms around Peter, not because he knows what to say, but because sometimes being there is the only language that matters.

“I’m here. Let it out.”

At first, Peter doesn’t move. But then one breath. Sharp. Then another, more ragged. His shoulders tremble, then seize. It’s not a sob that escapes him but a surrender. The kind of grief that doesn’t ask permission. His childhood, innocence, happiness—all taken away. Tears slip down in silence, steady and unrelenting, like rain that’s been waiting weeks to fall.

Johnny holds him tighter, not to keep Peter from breaking, but to give him permission to. To say without saying, You don’t have to bear it alone. I won't look away. I’ll stay right here.

The last light of the sunset eclipses on their faces, soft gold catching on tear tracks and shadows. Johnny brushes a thumb over Peter’s cheek, the same cheek he once struck in anger. His touch now an apology without words.

“Thank you.” Peter whispers.

Johnny shakes his head. “No. Thank you. For trusting me with all this, letting me see this part of you.”

He offers Peter a folded kerchief. Peter takes it. Their eyes meet and laugh—soft and cracked, but real. The kind of laugh that only comes after a storm. The kind that feels like starting over.

And yet,

“It’s great seeing you, Johnny.”

The warmth drains from Johnny’s face. His heart stutters

“I thought, wait, what? So that’s it? You’re leaving again? Just like that? We’re not really your friends anymore?”

Peter says nothing. Doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t defend.

Johnny keeps going, voice rising. “Midtown gets you now huh, and we don’t?” His fists clench at his sides. “You just cut us off and expect us to be fine with it? You don’t disappear on people you care about, Pete. You don’t leave them wondering if they were ever enough.”

Peter’s face doesn’t change much. But his eyes—they soften. He waits a beat.

“You done?” he says, deadpan.

“What?”

“I was gonna ask if you wanted dessert. There’s a boba place I think you’d really like.”

Johnny stares. “Asshole.”

And he lunges, no real force behind it, just a punch to Peter’s chest, frustration and love tangled into one motion.

Peter winces and laughs. Then, as if the years hadn’t passed between them, he pulls Johnny in, choosing to hug again, clings for a second longer than before.

Nothing else is said. But in the quiet, Peter breathes a little easier. The weight’s still there—grief, guilt, distance—but it’s lighter now.

Chapter 28: Life

“After nearly three long years, Iron Man Tony Stark and Captain America Steve Rogers have been reunited with their long-lost son, Peter Stark-Rogers. In a brief but heartfelt statement to the press, the couple confirmed what many had only dared to hope. No further details were offered, as the family has requested privacy during this deeply personal time. In an additional announcement, the couple shared that they are also expecting their second child…”

From the living room, the murmur of the TV drifted in. But Peter doesn’t need to hear them. His Midtown group chat is flooded with updates—blurry snapshots, speculation, classmates who suddenly think they know him.

Peter’s hand moves in steady strokes, the bristles of the paintbrush gliding over the outline of the whale on his baby sister’s wall. The paint clings thick in some places, thinned in others just like the thoughts in his head.

Steve traced these whale figures weeks ago, leaving Peter to bring them to life with color. It’s been their project ever since summer break began. With the spider stuffed toy already found, its his dad’s way of giving them a first mission to tackle together since Peter returned, and now they’re nearly finished.

Painting helps. It gave him something to do while his thoughts caught their breath. But lately, it doesn’t work the same. Lately, the stillness doesn’t soothe; it waits.

He hasn’t told anyone. Not his dads. Not his friends. Not even himself, not out loud. That he doesn’t know if he wants to go back. Dalton or Midtown, it’s all noise. Two different worlds, but both demanding the same mask. Two paths leading back into the spotlight, into expectations he no longer recognizes as his.

Maybe that’s why he approved of the news coming out—of him being back. If the world thought it knew his story, maybe it would leave him alone long enough for him to figure it out himself.

It’s peaceful here. But peace, he’s learning, doesn’t mean easy. And healing—whatever that means—doesn’t follow a straight line. It’s a loop, a stall, a quiet ache you sat with until it stopped feeling foreign. Learning to live from it. Keep moving forward. Trying to live those words isn’t as easy as they say.

The brush lifts. The paint dries. And Peter lingers, caught between the boy who vanished and the one who came back.

His phone lights up again. His lock screen is that photo, the first stolen photo Peter took—slightly blurred, slightly perfect—Johnny, grinning at the boba shop, the curve of his smile careless and golden like the sun in July. That smile made everything feel softer. Warmer. The one who’s been giving Peter something close to peace, even when everything else feels like a question.

Peter doesn’t hear the soft shift of footsteps right away, but his spider sense pulls his attention away. His Dad is leaning by the doorway, arms crossed, a proud smile warming his face.

“Good job. You just finished,” Steve says, and only then does Peter realize the painting is done, the whale complete. But the sense of finality doesn’t reach him. Something inside feels unfinished, as if the last brushstroke missed a part of him.

Steve takes a few steps into the room. “Your Uncle Bucky and Sam’s asking if you want to go over the compound for a few weeks. Pietro and Wanda’s also there, bud. Invite your friends too. Heard Kate’s training with Clint sometimes?”

Peter nods.

“Your Midtown crew? Johnny…?” Steve pretends not to notice Peter’s thumb press the side of his phone, dimming the screen. But he saw the photo. And Peter knows he did.

“I’ll ask them. Wait, is this just Dad’s way of getting me out of the house so I don’t hear him screaming?”

“Yeah, that too.”

Peter huffs, wiping his hands on a towel. “Okay. But I’m not training.”

“Peter… about the hero stuff.”

Peter’s heart seizes in his chest, that one word pulling too tightly on all the strings he thought he’d tucked away. He forces himself to stay still, steady, though every part of him wants to run from this conversation.

“We were against it when you were younger,” Steve continues. “But—”

“Don’t worry, Dad. I won’t be. I won’t ever be one.”

Steve doesn’t look disappointed or relieved. Instead, his gaze remains unwaveringly calm. “We just want you to know, you are who you want to be, no matter what and no matter who you are or what you’ve done. I’m not telling you to be a hero... I’m not saying don’t be one either. But if you ever want to be… then you can choose that. Someday. Not now, when you’re much older.”

Peter manages a small, strained laugh, while Steve smiles.

“Remember what I’ve said, With great power—”

“—comes great responsibility,” Peter finishes automatically, but the words feel different this time. No longer just something he’s heard, but something he understands.

Steve’s smile lingers. “Did you know, when you finally came back to us, the first thing you did?”

“Cry? Panic?”

Steve chuckles, but his eyes never lose that quiet intensity. “No, son. You stood. You protected your Dad and your baby sister. It’s what an Avenger would do.”

The words hit Peter in the chest, threading into all the places he’s tried to numb. The words settle. And with them, something inside him begins to shift.

Steve’s hand lands on his shoulder, the squeeze firm but full of affection.

As Steve turns to leave the room, Peter can only manage a shaky breath, a faint smile slipping into place. His heart is lighter, marveling at how his dad’s pep talk always cuts through the noise. Always leaving him standing just a little taller, and maybe… just a little less afraid of who he is.

 

 

---

 

 

Tony's on all fours, breath hitching as another wave of agony seizes him. He’d sworn he’d never go through this again—this all-consuming, trembling surrender to his body’s demands, yet here he is, shaking uncontrollably under the force of each contraction, and all he can think is that he’ll never do this again.

Steve’s hand is steady against his back, moving in soothing circles, that feel like the only tether to sanity Tony has in this moment. They’re alone in their bedroom, just as they’d planned, just the intimacy of shared breaths and whispered reassurances. This moment was always meant to be theirs—Steve, the one who’d stay beside him no matter how hard it got, his sole confidant in a moment too exposed for anyone else.

Sweat beads down Tony’s face, and he shuts his eyes briefly, clinging to whatever focus he can find. “I’m not gonna open my legs for you again, Rogers.”

“Well,” Steve’s gloved fingers slips from Tony’s. “I’m gonna need you to open a bit wider, love. You’re fully dilated.”

Tony feels a momentary rush of relief. Finally. He can push.

Steve discards his gloves and gently helps Tony shift onto his back, propping him upright against the pillows as he signals JARVIS to call in the doctor. A team of nurses stands by just beyond the door, ready to assist, but for now, Steve is here, his hand wiping the sweat from Tony’s forehead.

“Hon, I’m serious,” Tony rasps. “When I say this is hell, I mean it. I’m not kidding.”

“I know.” Steve’s gaze lingers on Tony, softening in a way that gratitude and quiet awe holds. His thumb grazes over Tony’s knuckles, as if somehow, through that touch alone, he could bear some of Tony’s pain. “Don’t worry, okay? I’ll get snipped.”

“Really? You’d do that for me?”

Steve’s lips curve in a small, quiet smile, and he presses a gentle kiss to Tony’s forehead, then his lips, savoring the closeness as Tony closes his eyes. “You’ve brought our child into this world. Now another one. I’d do anything for you.”

The doctor and a nurse enter the room. Steve grips Tony’s hand firmly through each labored breath, each painful push. The moments stretch agonizingly, Steve’s heart suspended with each gasp Tony draws, until, at last, a cry fills the room, their daughter’s first sound. Relief floods through Steve, unexplainable joy unfurling, mirrored in Tony’s tear-filled gaze, his expression of exhaustion and awe running deeper than words.

As the nurses carefully tend to their newborn, Steve’s eyes follow every movement, counting each tiny finger, each delicate toe. “Ten fingers and toes,” he says, and Tony manages a laugh through the tears.

Finally, the nurse approaches, gently lowering her small, swaddled form onto Tony’s chest for her first hug, their daughter’s eyes, a familiar blue, blink up at them, wisps of light blonde hair framing a face that holds pieces of them both.

Steve leans close, pressing a kiss to Tony’s temple. “Thank you.”

Tony’s eyes shine as he looks up. “I love you.” The words are fragile, precious, a truth he’s held close since everything went wrong, now spilling out, honest and real.

“I love you,” Steve echoes, and as their foreheads rest together, they share the quiet cadence of their breaths—a silent vow wrapped around everything they’ve endured and everything they now hold, together, in this small, miraculous life.

 

 

---

 

 

As Peter returns to the tower, a churn of excitement and nerves bubbles in him, each emotion twisting into the other until he can barely separate them. He can’t wait to to meet his baby sister. But beneath that eagerness lies an awareness, he’s no longer the only child, no longer the singular focus of his parents’ love. There's a quiet ache in saying goodbye to that role, but in its place, a deeper responsibility blooms, one that feels both grounding and daunting.

The moment he enters his parents' room, his gaze lands on Tony, and a wave of relief sweeps over him. He reaches for his dad, wrapping his arms around him. “Dad, are you okay?”

“I am,” Tony’s arms close around him, breathing Peter in. “We missed you, bud.”

Peter catches the shift in the room and glances up as his other dad, Steve, steps forward, gently cradling his sister. There’s a tenderness in Steve’s expression as he leans down, carefully passing the bundle into Peter’s waiting arms.

Peter’s breath hitches, his gaze tracing her tiny features, her eyes and hair unmistakably Steve’s, facial features of Tony’s, a blend of the two people he loves most. She’s so small, impossibly so, and in that instant, he’s filled with an overwhelming need to protect her, to be the brother she’ll need in ways he can’t quite put into words.

“Morgan,” he breathes. “She’s beautiful, dads.”

She stirs, her tiny fingers curling around his, so fragile yet gripping with surprising strength.

“Hi, Morgan,” he says. “I’m Peter… your big brother.”

A soft laugh escapes Tony, the sound light and full of love. He leans into Steve, who drapes an arm around his shoulders, looking at their hearts.

 

Notes:

THE END OF PART I.

to which only means the part that focus on Tony/Steve.
Will still feature them on Part II but would be less.

Thanks so much for staying through!

Chapter 29: PART II: THE VIEW BETWEEN VILLAGES

Dummy

“It’s time to go home.”

The command snaps like a leash tugged. Peter blinks, tearing his gaze away from the mark he has shadowed all day. His fingers brush the cold weight of the pistol before sliding it into the holster. The last light of evening skims across his face, glances off Paris’ ornate facades, gilds a city that seems to belong to everyone but him. For a moment something aches, soft, fleeting, almost human. Then it fades, swallowed by the familiar hush of emptiness.

Home. A barracks room with no warmth, a plate of dinner gone cold. Silence that waits for him like a shadow.

He moves, boots tracing streets he has memorized over weeks. The work has trained him to watch, to follow, to erase himself. It’s preparation, Octavia says. One day he will step fully into the role they are shaping—an assassin without history.

A flash of color stops him. A toy shop window. Inside, a small train circles its track, whistle high and eager. Children crowd close, hands pressed to glass, laughter tumbling free, the scene cutting through his composure. Reward. Octavia promised he might have one after his first mission. He imagines holding the toy train, imagines its weight in his palm. But even the thought feels thin. The toy can’t give what those children have.

On the street, a boy rides high on his father’s shoulders. Another runs beside a friend, laughter bright and unguarded. Peter’s gaze clings. The word forms in his mind with no anchor, no lived tether—Family. Friends.

Did he ever belong to something like that? Did someone ever carry him, laugh with him, call him theirs? Did he ever know that warmth? He cannot recall. He searches his own memory, finds only fragments—drills at dawn, Rumlow’s barked commands, the sting of fists, the discipline of precision. The rest is blank.

The boy on the father’s shoulders laughs again, and Peter feels it like something stolen. Something maybe once his, maybe never.

He moves on as snow begins to fall. His senses twitch, someone’s following him. At the stoplight, he glances back. Not a man. A dog.

He might have seen it before, brushed it away, but now it lopes close, paws slapping wet against pavement.

“Arrêtez de me suivre.” [Stop following me.]

Still, it does.

On a narrow street lit only by a single lamp, Peter halts, pistol drawn.

“I said stop.”

The dog doesn’t move, doesn’t flinch. Its eyes meet his, quiet, knowing, as if stripping armor off bone. Two strays, staring across the space of a street. Something loosens in him, a melt he cannot stop. In those eyes, he finds himself reflected.

Unwanted. Searching. Alive.

“You’re such a dummy.”

The dog barks, sharp, delighted.

“Yes. You’re a Dummy.”

Another bark. And Peter’s breath fogs. He crouches, hand brushing coarse fur that radiates warmth back into his frozen chest.

At the base, Rumlow orders him to get rid of it. Octavia coos, but won’t get close.

“He can have my share,” Peter says.

Rumlow studies him, then pulls Octavia into the soundproof room, one that Peter’s super sense of hearing can’t reach. And when they came out, there’s a condition. Feed it. Care for it.

And it is enough. More than enough. Something bursts inside Peter, a smile breaks across his face, strange and startling, like sunlight on a long-abandoned street.

“Thank you,” he says. And for once, he means it.

That night, after feeding and washing the dog, Dummy presses close. It lightens Peter, lifts the iron chains off his ribs. At dawn’s training, Dummy runs with him, tongue lolling, joyful. Rumlow allows it, this Parisian disguise with a boy and his dog. The act becomes a truth. They return together. They sleep together.

Two strays, finding home on each other’s world.

Weeks bleed together. Dummy brings light where Peter thought there was none. Nights feel less sharp when the little bolt hums at his side, when its clumsy gestures remind him that not everything in this place is designed to break him.

As his first mission nears, he thinks not of a toy for himself but of rewards for Dummy—better food, maybe a bone, or maybe something soft he can chew.

The mission should be simple, distract Cassandra Krauss, a Hydra defector, poison her cup. He has practiced it, rehearsed it, lived it in his head.

Until the day arrives.

“Change of plans,” Rumlow says. “She won’t be at the café. Intercept her at the hotel.”

The words don’t land so much as detonate.

“What?”

“This is what a year of training gets you, Noir. You’re ready.”

Ready. His throat tightens; his body goes hollow. He hears himself answer “I… I am” but inside something twists hard, like a knife lodged the wrong way.

He has always told himself he doesn’t care for targets. Names, faces— disposable. But Dummy burned through that lie.

He’s studied Cassandra’s background, a niece and nephew in New York. A thin thread of family she still treasures. Once, Peter might’ve dismissed it. Now he understands what it means. Because now he has family. Dummy is his.

“Good. One hour.”

The room empties. Peter is left with the silence and his own breathing. Options unfurl like knives on a table. Follow orders, or run. He knows the base. He knows Octavia’s hiding places—passports, cash. He has Dummy. Dummy is enough. They could vanish. They could survive.

When Rumlow comes, Peter buys a moment. Claims he left something in the training room. Rumlow waits, arms folded, watching the door. Peter slips away, hand quick at Octavia’s drawer, passport and cash sliding into his pocket. Dummy whimpers, warning him, someone’s coming.

“I know,” Peter says.

The door opens. Octavia.

“What are you doing here?”

“Just left a leash.”

“Ah.” She drifts past, a coil of sugar and venom. Relief floods him, until her voice snaps his name.

“Noir.”

His wrist freezes on the handle. He turns. Octavia smiles. That smile. Sweet. Innocent. Poisoned through.

“I never told you about the sensor in my drawer.” She plucks it free, a tiny gleam of metal that might as well be a blade in his chest.

Run, his body screams. But running is death, he knows that.

“Come with me.”

Peter obeys, whispers “Stay” to Dummy, but Octavia doesn’t even glance as she adds, “Bring your dog.”

At the door, Rumlow is already waiting. Snow falls in sheets, blanketing the world white, as if purity could cover what comes next.

“Empty your pockets.”

Peter’s throat constricts. He spills passport, cash, betrayal into the snow. His chest knows the sentence before her lips do.

“We forgot to tell you, two missions today. Before Krauss—”

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry, okay? It won’t happen again. Please. Don’t. Don’t make me.”

“Time to put it down, Noir.”

The pistol feels heavier than the world. His hand rises without him.

“Please,” Peter says. “Please, stop.” His eyes find Dummy. “Get away! Run!”

But Dummy only looks at him. Trust so complete it burns. Innocence wrapped in fur and bone, believing, faithful.

“Get away from here, you stupid dog.”

Peter’s vision blurs, still his finger moves.

“I’m sorry.”

The shot rips the air. Snow leaps red, a grotesque canvas no artist should ever paint.

His knees buckle. A scream claws at his throat, jagged, animal, but never escapes.

“You know the consequences. No attachments.”

The door shuts. The snow keeps falling. Peter cradles his dog, hands shaking,  the only apology his voice cannot carry.

That night, he took Cassandra Krauss down. But the real lesson is already carved into him,

etched in blood,

painted on snow,

impossible to wash clean.

 

 

---

 

 

Peter finally understands why they let him keep the dog. Not mercy. Never mercy. It was a blade sheathed as kindness, a lesson honed into cruelty, attachments make you weak. The last string they cut before he hardened into the weapon they wanted.

The memory still loops. Before sleep. In nightmares, slithers back in daylight when his gaze wanders.

Always the same, the snow, the red blooming too fast, the silence thick as frostbite.

Sometimes the ache catches him off guard when his gaze lands on his father’s first bot, Dum-E. The irony of the name cuts. A machine too clumsy to break, too foolish to die, mirrors the first friend and family Peter had when he had no one, only that one wasn’t built to last.

If only Dummy had been steel instead of flesh. Circuits instead of blood. Something safe. Something that couldn’t bleed out in his arms.

And in those thin, breathless spaces between thoughts, Peter wonders, if he sees him again,

will Dummy ever forgive him?

“Where do you go?”

The voice shatters the spiral. Peter turns. Beside him, Johnny’s face glows in the golden spill of sunset atop Lady Liberty, that molten light dragging him back from the gray undertow of memory.

Somewhere I won’t let you follow, Peter thinks. He lets the thought dissolve into a smile, while Johnny waits—patient, expectant—for an answer Peter will never allow himself to give.

Johnny sighs, a smile tugging at his mouth as though he won’t press further. “Tragic. Your ice cream’s dying on you, Pete.”

“Oh,” Peter laughs, scraping at the edges of his cup as Johnny hands him napkins.

“Does the newborn crying keeping you up?”

Peter’s mind drifts to Morgan, his six month’s old sister, small lungs commanding the whole penthouse. She keeps their parents staggering with exhaustion, and Peter too, though he doesn’t say how the broken sleep drives him sometimes toward the outskirts of New York.

“I want to move to the compound, actually.”

“Then your parents and baby sister will just follow you.”

They laugh. Johnny turns his eyes back toward the horizon—the ferry carving across water, the city shimmering in restless calm. And for a moment, Peter lets himself rest in this fragile peace, the gold of now pressing against the shadows of before.

He chose to return. Back to school, back to Dalton, the place he once abandoned like a skin that no longer fit. Everyone knows already, the vanished son of Iron Man and Captain America, suddenly alive again, carrying silence where explanations should be. He didn’t come for himself. He came because he owes Johnny and Kate. Debts written in friendship, in laughter once so effortless.

But Kate doesn’t meet him where they left off. Her laughter is cautious, her eyes edged with suspicion. Johnny is easier, he opens like he always has, reckless with warmth, offering understanding like a hand groping in the dark. And yet, even his welcome can’t bridge the years. Childhood lies behind them like shattered glass and ghosts don’t come back whole.

Still, when Johnny’s gaze holds his—steady, unshaken, stubborn in its faith—Peter feels it in his chest like a wound reopening. It reminds him of what he ruined, and it terrifies him.

Johnny breaks the silence with something small, “This ice cream actually reminds me of my late aunt. She’d take us all over the city for treats when she visited. Raspberry truffle, her favorite. Same as Mom’s.”

A knot pulls tight in Peter’s chest. He remembers Johnny’s mom, gone before either of them could understand loss, before grief had words.

“What was she like, your aunt? Were you close?”

Johnny shrugs, though his spoon keeps scraping the bottom of the paper cup. “She tried. Aunt Cass never missed a chance to show up. Summers, Christmases, always with arms full of gifts, stories, hugs that smelled like her perfume. Like she was making up for everything Mom never got to finish.” His voice softens, “And then she was gone too. That’s just how it goes for us, I guess.” He attempts a grin. “She had a good life, though. I bet she’s having a blast up there now. With Mom.”

The words are light, tossed like a joke, but Peter hears the fracture beneath. The crack in Johnny’s brightness mirrors the one inside him, the splinter that will not heal.

“I’m sorry,” he says again. The apology shreds on his tongue, weaker each time he offers it. Sorry for this. Sorry for more than Johnny will ever know. Sorry for everything he can’t undo.

Johnny smiles, standing as dusk gathers and the air cools around them. “Guess it’s time to go home.”

The phrase spears through Peter. Simple words, ordinary words. Yet they tear open something buried, wired deep, something they thought gone. Johnny gazes at the horizon, oblivious, while Peter’s body remembers commands he never chose. His hand lifts before he knows it, hovering at Johnny’s back. Too close to a push, a gesture that is not his own.

Horror rips through Peter. He yanks his hand back as if from fire. His chest seizes, breath choking him.

Johnny turns, eyes narrowing at the expression on Peter’s face. “You okay? What happened?”

Peter stares at his own hand, trembling, foreign, as though it belongs to someone else. A sleeper command, coiled and waiting, venomous, alive inside him.

Johnny reaches, “Peter?”

But before his touch lands, Peter flinches back. “Yeah, yeah. I’m fine. Let’s head back.”

He pivots toward the stairs, putting movement between them before Johnny can press further.

And Johnny follows, worried and unaware.