Chapter Text
Peter stares at a hooting pigeon. It inclines its head at him in question. And then he moves, he maneuvers to the left slightly, and then quickly to the right, refusing to step even an inch closer to pink scaly claws. The flock is huge and unwilling to waver, far too accustomed to blustering tourists to pay any heed to little old Peter Parker. He gingerly takes another step forward. This particular entourage is being rather calm, he’d relent, but there would be no chances taken today. Spider-Man had encountered the wrath of a pigeon on far too many occasions; and like a USSR fighter jet, they did not like to share their airspace.
He smooths away any sign of hesitation and schools an easy-going expression onto his tanned features (thank you, Italian sun).
When Tony had discovered Peter’s phobia of his namesake, the endless mocking that had ensued had been unbearable, he couldn’t repeat it, he refused to. Not to say that he's afraid of pigeons, he's just cautious- and the man is a dog with a bone. Tony had even enlisted Morgan, his own daughter, as an evil, Spider throwing sidekick. Too many times now had Peter opened his backpack to find the plastic eyes of Morgan’s tarantula jelly cat boring into him in a soundless taunt.
The demon child herself currently sits atop his shoulders, mercifully oblivious to his predicament as she drips ice-cream into his hair, distracted by the sight of a busker stuffing himself into a container the size of a match box. Even Peter does a double take before re-rallying himself. Luckily Tony and Pepper have also not clocked on, walking in Peter's stacked two-headed shadow, licking happily at their respective pistachio and mint gelatos, and chattering about why ice-cream should be rolled and not whipped. Peter white-knuckles his own cornetto.
“Boh.” The pigeons flee like a mass exodus has scourged the lands, their only salvation the sky above them.
MJ falls into step besides him, grabbing his hand and wiping a splodge of strawberry from Morgan’s face.
“How, how did you do that?” Peter stares at his girlfriend like she’d been bitten by a radioactive pigeon in her ten-minute absence and was now able to mind control them.
“Boh." MJ repeats. "It’s my new superpower. Italians created it and I just discovered it.”
“What does it mean?” Peter laughs.
“It can mean a million things.” Her brown eyes flit around as she thinks, like she’s reading an encyclopedia. “It can mean ‘I don’t know’, or ‘get out of my face’, it’s the best thing Italy ever created. Except for maybe espresso.”
“Oh, so you’ve been drinking espresso.” Peter grins, that would explain MJ’s twitchiness.
But he doesn’t say any more on the matter, the last time he’d suggested she stick to her patented herbal teas she’d dyed his web fluid bright pink. Not that he'd minded the pink, and Morgan had loved the pink.
But it had resulted in a persistent hounding from various groups, all clobbering to find out which pink themed cause he was supporting. Which was how Spider-Man had found himself spending three weeks training for a breast cancer awareness charity marathon- he’d come second, but not for a lack of trying; the Human Torch had flamed ahead of him at the final second, much to Peter’s chagrin and calls of cheating, which apparently wasn’t in the spirit of the event.
And then he’d spent a pink emblazoned Friday evening at a ‘Cocks for Cocktails-men can drink them too’ bar night. He’d delivered MJ a ‘spidey-go-martini’ in lieu of espressos or herbal teas, and the whole thing had been forgiven. Or so he thought it had.
His question is met with a quick and swift, “boh”, from the girl.
“Boh! Boh!” Morgan repeats, clapping her hands together as scandalised Venetians watch on with slight judgement. Peter reaches up to steady the toddler as she wobbles like a boat on his shoulders.
“Let’s not teach my three-year-old swear words, if you don’t mind kiddos." Tony and Pepper come to stand on either side of the couple, who chime contritely; “sorry, Tony,” “yeah sorry, Stark.”
Tony tilts his sunglasses to the tip of his nose to peer at them. “Anyway, boh’s small fry, you should’ve seen my mother on a Sunday morning, getting ready for church of all places, God the things she thought of. Now, repeat after me. 'Vaffanculo’.”
They comply, Pepper and Morgan included.
“Great!” Tony claps his hands for a beat, one calloused, one gloved. “Good pronunciation. It means go fuck yours-”
“Tony!” Pepper swats a hand over his mouth like she’s trying to prevent a fly from escaping.
……..
They walk for the rest of the afternoon, or at least four of them do. Morgan is transferred around whichever set of shoulders she deems to have the best view; she’d recently been weaned out of her buggy and clearly wasn’t enjoying the change. Though she does stand on her own two feet to briefly chase a duck, pink sandals crunching against cobblestone loudly enough to alert the poor creature, its wings flapping wildly from her warpath.
They visit museums, ride a gondola, buy tacky keyrings- the works. And when day bleeds into evening, humid and slightly sticky, they settle by the Grand Canal around a mosaic table that spirals outwards like a seashell. They sip limoncellos from a pitcher that sweats with condensation, or in Tony and Morgan’s cases, plastic beakers of cloudy lemonade.
The man in question raises a glass in a toast. Pepper’s glass follows last, the woman momentarily thinking of the sorts of toasts Tony used to give. She smiles.
“To Peter and MJ.” Tony starts, “entering their final year at MIT, which as you may know was my alma mater.” He boulders on at everyone’s unimpressed stares. “Now where did all that time go? Feels like just yesterday the two of you were stumbling after butterflies in your overalls.”
“You met us both when we were teenagers, Stark.” MJ corrects, though her tone is easy, like she’s watching a paraquet jump happily around a pile of leaves.
“Oh yes, perhaps I was thinking instead of the two teenagers who liked to sneak around my tower thinking I don’t know what a back to front sweater looks like.” Tony counters.
“Stop embarrassing them.” Pepper chides. “Though, Peter, I really thought that at least you of all people would’ve been a bit stealthier about it.” Then she bursts into giggles, cheeks pink from the limoncello. “Oh God, Tony? You remember when Peter came home with that h-i-c-k-e-y,” she spells out, Morgan looking on curiously.
Tony snorts a scoff into his lemonade. “How could I forget? What did you say it was again, kid? Remind me. Another spider-bite? Help me out here,” Tony goads.
“This is the worst toast ever.” Peter replies instead, tracing the spiral of the table and wondering if he does it in just the right formation whether a merperson will come to his rescue.
Pepper slaps her hand onto Tony’s. “Oh, oh! I remember! He said he tripped into a sewer and got attacked by rats!”
The two dissolve into fits of laughter. “And you’re gonna take that MJ?” Tony piles on, breaths short.
Peter and MJ stare passively and without humour, a united front, Morgan imitating their faux-stern expressions sleepily. Oblivious, the married couple continue to clutch at one another, the initially well-meaning toast now thoroughly dead in the water, floating among the algae on the top of the canal.
That was another not so new development. The marriage, not the algae. Three years ago, Tony and Pepper had officially tied the knot. When they’d assumed guardianship over Peter, ideas of marriage had been off the table- the table was floating in the stratosphere. Morgan was young and Peter’s grief over May fraught. Pepper and Tony had a long conversation about it, eventually concluding that they’d come back to the it when the time was right.
Which Peter had then overheard. He’d rallied the Avengers, barring Steve and Thor who were off world, to throw a surprise wedding. If he had been anyone else, it would have been presumptuous, but it was a sign that Peter was healing, it was a sign that there was life beyond death. And if Tony had swiped a tear away at the display, then no, he did not.
Peter hung decorations with his webs, Clint did the flower arrangements, Wanda cooked (she'd taken a class), and Bucky crocheted place mats- though the super solider had just started up with the hobby, so they'd ended up looking a little lopsided. Even Strange got involved, conjuring white doves to lead a crawling Morgan, still slightly too young to understand the full duties of being a flower girl, down the aisle. The makeshift wedding was everything they had wanted and more.
As the couple continue to laugh at his expense, Peter finds himself regretting the effort.
He speaks up, finally defending his honour. “You know Spider-Man almost got killed by rats last month? So really, this isn’t very funny and actually pretty inconsiderate.” Peter pauses. “Though now I think of it, it was more of a rat man than an actual mischief- you know that’s what a group of rats are called. Cool, right? Wait what was I saying?”
Jet lag had messed with Peter slightly.
“Well put.” MJ says.
A glass clanking against a spoon snaps the group from their reverie, an echo of Tony’s failed toast, before it shatters to the floor.
Then three more fall and canal water ripples ominously towards them, lapping dangerously close to their feet. Peter inches his hand to his backpack, to where his suit lies at the bottom buried under every piece of tat he’d purchased that day. A bottle smashes.
Tony rises, face taut. “Come on.” He orders, no room for dispute.
Then loud bass music thrums, and a party yacht comes into view, barely surviving the tight turn. There are swathes of people on the deck in head-to-toe neon paint, waving glow sticks in a trail of technicolour, some have even weaved them into their hair. They pound back similarly luminous shots that give the impression of drinking toxic waste. The boat’s turbines grind the shallow water, pushing it outwards in waves that could be surfed on.
The adrenaline breaks away from Peter like the snapping of their glow sticks. He relinquishes his hold on his backpack and Tony sinks back down into his seat. The two share a shaky grin at their dual overreactions.
Pepper takes the reigns. “No wonder the Italians hate tourists, that felt like an earthquake. Surely that can’t be allowed here.”
“And that monster cannot be good for the marine life.” Tony grouses in agreement. “I can count about fifty pollutants whiffing off that cheap plastic coating alone.”
Peter hums, who knew you could have cheap yachts? He’s about to voice this, but Tony suddenly perks up, eyes lighting up in remembrance.
“Pep, I forgot to mention, speaking of earthquakes. Guess who Fury picked up last week?”
“Who?” The CEO replies, bringing her glass to her lips.
“Quentin Beck.” Tony says the name like it holds weight.
And clearly it does. “The BARF guy?” Pepper recalls bemusedly.
“Barf?” MJ mutters to Peter, who shrugs, only fleetingly knowing about the technology.
“Ding dong the mad scientist is dead.” Tony sings. “Or in custody, I don’t know what Fury does with his prisoners. But the short of it: Beck’s cuckoo. He practically obliterated a town in Mexico with drone tech. We’ve got SI on cleanup duty.”
“Why would he do that?” Peter leans in.
“Not a donkey, all I know is that he used the drones to make it look like the cookie monster had done the deed, the locals were spooked. If I hadn’t recognised the tech, then who knows what Beck would’ve done.” The inventor half brags.
“Why didn’t you tell me this before?” Peter asks before he can stop himself. Everyone turns towards him sharply.
“Because it’s none of Spider-Man’s beeswax?” Tony responds somewhat icily. “You’re little leagues now, kiddo. Enjoy it. And don’t think I didn’t notice you going towards the suit I explicitly told you not to bring. Take a day off.”
Peter tries not to squirm, considering how Tony is completely correct. He’d declined being an Avenger to stay local, and he’d never regret that decision, but it was hard to compartmentalise sometimes. Hence his last-minute decision to smuggle the suit across the border. In fact, it was one of the only points of contention in his and MJ’s otherwise blissful three-year relationship. The admonishment Tony was giving him wasn’t a new one.
“I think it’s time to get this one to bed,” Pepper gestures to Morgan who has dropped off in her lap. “And we can add party yachts to the list of things little miss can sleep through.” She gives Peter’s arm a sympathetic squeeze as she hauls Morgan up onto her hip.
Tony speaks again, this time to both him and MJ, looking slightly remorseful. “The evening’s still young, why don’t you two crazy kids head on over to the festival while we old farts tuck ourselves up in bed?” An olive branch.
Peter takes it. “You sure you don’t want to join, Tony? Bet you’d look great in Iron Man face paint.”
……..
Peter lies in bed and watches MJ’s breaths rise and fall. He notices an errant piece of green paint in her hair and gently flecks it out with his nail, careful not to damage the curl. They had stayed out until midnight, despite the festival still being at full throttle- the couple were made for one another in that sense, their social batteries perfectly aligned.
They’d ended their night in a gently rocking compartment of a Ferris wheel as it paused its turn perfectly at the top. They’d watched fireworks flourish into the night sky like blooming tropical flowers. He’d thought of May, who he’d always watched the fireworks with.
Then MJ had miraculously also made the flower comparison, teeing him up to unveil the black dahlia necklace he’d bought for her earlier.
“Like the murder,” she’d whispered far too reverently for a comment about a gruesome cold case, but Peter had smiled goofily anyway.
Red light briefly illuminated the flower’s clear black glass as he’d fastened the clasp for her. Then they’d kissed, the moment plucked right out of a storybook.
His plan had gone perfectly. How could it not have?
Peter turns his pillow over and buries his nose into its freshness. He ponders Ned a bit guiltily, he knows his best friend would have been in his element here in Venice. Tony had asked him along, but the boy said a firm no, insistent that he refused to be “a bachelor in Europe third wheeling two couples and a toddler.” And put like that, Peter didn’t blame him one bit. He’d convince Tony to send them somewhere just the two of them at some point.
He turns his pillow over again. Then kicks off the sheets with a quiet sigh. It was no use, sleep was evading him.
Peter touches his toes gently to the wooden floor and pours his weight slowly into them, careful not to make a sound as he stands. Then he notices goose bumps prickling at MJ’s exposed shoulder, so he fixes the sheet over it and plants a chaste kiss into her hair. Then he creeps down the stairs of the palazzi, cringing with every minute creak of the Baroque style steps. It was essentially a palace, but it had been the childhood home of Maria Stark (nee Carbonell), so Tony had held onto it despite the excess.
Peter steps out ono the veranda overhanging the canal and finds that Tony has beaten him to the spot.
“Couldn’t sleep?” Tony asks.
“Not tonight.” Peter replies, shivering.
“Well at least one of us had the foresight to bring out a blanket, otherwise we’d have a spider-popsicle on our hands. Come here, kid.” Tony picks up the edge of a blue tattered throw invitingly, and Peter wonders briefly whether it was a baby blanket, before joining the man.
Once Peter is resting in the nook where Tony’s arm should have been, the prosthetic absent for the nighttime, Tony tucks the blanket neatly around Peter, a movement that should have been difficult and fumbling with one arm but was instead performed with the ease of someone well-used to accommodating the loss.
Peter thought maybe he was too. He coughs.
“You good?” He asks Tony. The man’s sleeping schedule is usually much more routine these days.
“Always, kiddo. It’s just I’m well into my fifties now, and cheese really doesn’t go down like it used to. Even the fancy Italian parmigiano stuff.” Tony deflects.
Peter makes a disgusted face. “Not gonna touch that one. But, uh, if you did want to talk about anything I’m here.”
“I know.” Tony sighs a smile. “It’s just my arm, or the lack of. Phantom pains.” He clarifies.
“You still get those?” Peter asks, surprised.
“Think it’s for life, kid.”
“That sucks.” Peter says with genuine, but unoppressive, sympathy, eyes bright.
It was simple, but Tony breathes for the first time since he’d crawled out of his and Pepper’s bed. He looks at Peter nestled safely in the spot that had plagued him all night.
“Wouldn’t trade it for anything, though.” Tony bumps Peter’s shoulder.
The boy smiles, ducking his head. “But you do know right?” Peter presses insistently. “That you’re allowed to talk about your issues without them being these like planet ending catastrophes?” He accompanies his words with a little explosion noise made by pursing his lips together and puffing out a jolt of air, splaying his hands outwards like a jazz dancer.
Tony nods. “Sometimes an aching arm is just an aching arm.”
Though it had taken the man a while to reach that particular philosophy, and even longer to implement it. But Peter cut through Tony’s hard-won emotional repression like it was made of sponge. He always did.
Tony looks at Peter suddenly like he’s watching sand run through a timer. “When did you go and grow up on me, kid?” Despite the twang of years passing, his muse is fond, familiar.
“Summer after I turned eighteen, I’m pretty sure.” Peter’s eyes twinkle. “Though it’s hard to say when you keep wearing those shoe lifters.”
“I was trying to have a moment, kid! And what if there’s a reporter?” Tony shushes.
Peter looks around dubiously “Where? Under the water? As far as I know we’ve not got a mutant gill person on our hands.”
At that, Tony’s subsequent laugh sounds a bit strained. Peter stares at him curiously, but the man doesn’t give him room to question it.
“And what’s rattling around that noggin of yours? Not that I don’t appreciate the company.”
Peter sighs a bit too heavily for Tony’s tastes, prompting the man to continue. “Or we can just sit, I don’t mind, kid.”
“Wouldn’t that be pretty hypocritical after the speech I just made?” Peter smiles slightly. “No, it’s okay, it’s just that I’m still figuring it out myself.”
“Well, the night is young,” Tony says, despite it being well past 3 am.
Peter looks out onto the gently rippling water. “You ever get the feeling that your life is over before it’s begun?”
His mentor jumps, alarmed.
“Wait, no. Badly put.” Peter smiles sheepishly and Tony tries to quell his racing heart. “I told you I was figuring it out. What about this, do you ever feel like everything is temporary? Like, for instance, things are good, Tony. Better than I could have ever imagined things turning out for me. I’ve got the team, an amazing girlfriend, and a little sister of all things. And, uh, even though I never got to know my parents, well, I have you guys now.”
Ben and May had always firmly been his aunt and uncle- even though Peter had little recollection of his parents themselves, the two hadn’t wanted to disrespect their memory. But Tony and Pepper were different. Peter would never call them anything beyond their given names, he was far too old to start whipping out mom and dad titles now, but he thinks maybe that this is what it would feel like.
Tony glows as Peter continues. “Maybe it all just seems, I don’t know, too much? I guess I’m just waiting for the other shoe to drop.”
“Welcome to your twenties, kid.” Tony waves his arm dramatically, the blanket dropping for a moment before he resituates it.
“That’s what this is?”
“Well, yes and no. Everyone’s gotta have their first quarter life crisis at some point, but you’ve also been through a hell of a lot, kiddo. Obviously, you’re gonna be jumping at shadows, you’d be numb, or Natasha, if you weren’t. And I know it sounds hollow but you just gotta power through it. The only way to find out if things will turn out alright is to keep living, keep experimenting.”
Peter nods slowly.
“And sometimes, kid, an aching arm is just an aching arm, and happiness is just happiness, no strings attached.”
Peter watches a firework explode and decides it can be that simple.
“Thanks Tony.” Peter leans his head lightly on the remainder of his mentor’s shoulder, and Tony hides a smile, pleased he’d gotten through to him.
And when Peter drops into sleep half an hour later, Tony stays exactly where he is, basking under the Italian night sky and the comfort of having his son by his side and his family safely tucked away in their beds.
They were happy.