Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Tony was no stranger to waking up sore to the sight of an unfamiliar ceiling, but this was definitely the bad kind of sore, and, if the shadows of bars falling across his face were anything to go by, also the bad kind of ceiling.

He blinked hard up at the ceiling twice and quickly assessed his status-- pounding headache (amateur hour), sharp throbbing pain at the back of his neck (weird, probably bad), sore at the back, wrists and ankles like he had been restrained there at some point but no longer was (could either be good or very, very bad), nanite housing case missing from its spot against his chest (definitely bad)--

He had a brief moment to hope that this was a "Tony Stark give us your money" kidnapping and not an "Iron Man give us your very dangerous technology so we can destroy the world muahaha" kidnapping before he turned his head to examine more of his cell and saw Spider-man sprawled unconscious next to him.

Or, more accurately, saw Peter sprawled on the floor next to him, because the kid didn't have his mask.

"Shit--"

Tony scrambled to Peter's side, immediately forgetting in his panic any plans of investigating the cell as covertly as possible before getting up. Peter's face was bruised, so he'd definitely been in a fight before winding up here, but more importantly than that--

Tony pressed two fingers to Peter's neck, just in case-- it would have been monumentally stupid of his captors to-- hurt-- the kid before even making any demands of Tony, but you had to be monumentally stupid to kidnap Iron Man in the first place-- and breathed a sigh of relief to find a steady pulse.

"Hey, Underoos," he said sharply, shaking Peter by the shoulder as he finally looked away from the kid's face to do a sweep of the room-- roughly an 8x8 bare cell at the back of a larger room, ceiling-mounted cameras at each corner of the larger structure, rolling carts up against the walls with things on them that Tony couldn't clearly see from his position crouching on the cell floor but that looked shiny and unpleasant-- shit shit shit that was bad. There was a blank screen, too, in the middle of the wall opposite the cell, a chair with restraints built into the arms sitting at a crooked angle outside the cell, and the red of Peter's mask was unmistakable on top of one of the rolling carts.

All very, very bad. Dammit, how had they even ended up here-- no matter how much Tony racked his brain, he couldn't remember anything past getting ready for work that morning, and there was no way this whacko had managed to nab Tony from the tower, much less Peter. Some kind of drug that had fucked with his memory in addition to knocking him out, then, and that was even more concerning for Peter, because there was no way whoever this fucker was knew how to dose him and his super-metabolism safely.

"Kid," Tony said more insistently, shaking Peter hard, and to his relief the kid groaned softly, brow furrowing. He still wasn't awake, but he was getting there, he was responsive-- that was something. Tony sat back on his heels to consider the situation again, still shaking Peter less urgently to keep him from slipping back into a deeper sleep. The cell bars didn't look like vibranium, at least, so if the person responsible for this was stupid enough to leave them unsupervised on the other side of those cameras Peter could almost certainly get them out of there once he woke up.

The thought had just passed when the screen across from the cell flickered to life with the picture of a disheveled man who looked familiar, but whose face Tony couldn't quite place. Tony arched an eyebrow at the camera above the screen, and saw the man's face crumple with irritation, undoubtedly because Tony wasn't doing him the courtesy of groveling for information.

"Tony Stark," the man bit out, and then he forced a grimacing smile. "Remember me?"

Ugh, not this game.

"Well, let's see. Disgruntled former Stark Industries employee? Disgraced business rival?" Tony guessed, tapping his chin in faux-consideration. It was probably a bit much, but to be fair, Tony was pissed. "Underling to a bigger baddie that Iron Man put away? As I'm sure you know, I piss off a lot of people, so you might have to help me out here. Oh, wait! Did my dad beat up your dad?"

The guy-- Tony decided to call him Jack until he revealed his actual name, he had an unfortunate combover and the same kind of manic, drugged-out energy as the guy that chopped down the door in The Shining-- shook his head with disgust, muttering, "Doesn't even remember. Ruined my life and he doesn't even remember, that's just what he said would happen--"

'He.' Huh. Another player was involved, then? Tony kept himself quiet in case the nutcase dropped any more info while talking to himself, though he itched to run his mouth to work off some of his nerves.

Unfortunately, Jack got ahold of himself and simply shook his head again, saying, "Whatever, no, no-- it doesn't matter. It might even be more fun if you don't know what all this is happening for."

Oh, didn't that sound fun. Tony took a breath and didn't let himself reach to run a hand through Peter's hair to reassure himself that he was okay. He didn't want to draw this guy's attention to the kid, but he did need to keep him talking instead of getting started on 'all this.'

"You sure?" Tony asked, raising his eyebrows. "You don't wanna unload on me? I'm a big boy, I can take it."

"We'll see about that," Jack said, and he nodded downward. "I see your cute little friend is still asleep. I admit, I was surprised to see his baby face under that mask."

"Yeah, we're trying this whole Junior Varsity Avengers thing," Tony said, keeping his tone casual in contrast to the shivers wanting to crawl their way up his spine. He might not have anything like Peter's-- what did May call it-- Peter Tingle, but something in Jack's tone while he was talking about the kid put him on edge.

"You must have really made an impression on him, Mr. Stark," Jack said mockingly, and ooh, Tony wanted to punch him. "I only ever meant to bring you here, but then when he wouldn't give up on rescuing you, I decided: the more the merrier, right?"

He grinned, and yeah, Tony did not like that at all.

So, of course, that's when the kid started waking up.

"Oh, good," Jack said, watching while Peter's face scrunched and he struggled to sit up, groggy. "It took so much more of the sedative to keep him down, I honestly didn't know if he was going to wake up again."

"Mr. Stark?" Peter mumbled while Tony multitasked between helping him stay upright and planning exactly how many times he was going to punch Jack in the face once he got his hands on him.

"Hey, kid." Tony wrapped an arm around Peter's shoulders, letting him lean into his side while he blinked away his drug-induced drowsiness. "What do you remember?"

"Wh… There was…" Peter's face scrunched again with effort while he thought-- and that was honestly too cute to be happening in this situation-- and then his eyes widened as his brainfog apparently cleared enough to actually process what he was seeing, and he pointed at Jack's screen.

"You! You kidnapped Mr. Stark!" He pushed himself up a little straighter, indignant, and Tony would've been more warmed by the kid's dedication if it didn't mean that he had put himself in danger on Tony's behalf.

"Yeah, he kidnapped both of us, technically," Tony pointed out. The kid was way too quick to disregard threats when they were to himself. "Did you get a chance to activate the Safety Web protocol?"

"Oh…" Peter blinked, and then shook his head. "No, I-- umm, I was in over my head and I didn't think to. I'm sorry."

Good kid, Tony thought, because he and Peter had set up a system for talking about reinforcements in front of villains, and "I was in over my head" meant that he actually had been able to send out a distress signal-- so chosen because Peter was stubborn as hell and would never actually admit to being in over his head otherwise, no matter how true it was.

He clapped Peter on the shoulder with a faux-somber nod. If back-up was on the way and this guy didn't know he had a ticking clock, then all they had to do was stall and keep him talking before he got all torture-y about it.

"Oh, too bad," Jack said, on cue. "But all the better for me. It does make things a little bit more difficult, having to manage an actual superhuman, but there's all kinds of fun we can get up to now."

And then he outright leered, and there was no mistaking that intent, and Tony felt his heart fucking stop.

"No," he said immediately, any thoughts of strategy or manipulation or deescalation suddenly drowned out by the white noise in his ears. He realized distantly that he was tipping his hand too heavily-- even Peter shot him a weird look at the sheer horror in his voice, because of course Peter wouldn't recognize the leer on the fucking scumbag's face for what it was-- but honestly, trying to hide that Peter was his weak point in this situation was probably a moot point from the start. "No. Off-limits."

"I think you'll find that I'm setting the limits here, Tony," Jack said, expression rapidly changing from an ugly scowl to a sleazy grin as he addressed Peter next. "Spider-man. Take off your clothes."

Peter sighed and rolled his eyes, probably thinking the guy was just after whatever SI secrets were embedded in the suit, but Tony threw out an arm in front of him, heart hammering.

"Listen, Jack," he started, and then stopped when the guy's eyes lit up.

"You do remember," apparently-actually-Jack said, or at least if he wasn't actually Jack, Tony had spoken to him before and given him the exact same nickname. That narrowed it down-- almost definitely a former SI employee, then. He could use that.

Tony racked his brain to pull up any other information about the guy as he bluffed, "Of course I remember. You caught me at a bad moment, all right? I mean, this would be a pretty stressful morning for anyone, you gotta admit."

Jack tipped his head in an acquiescence, and he was engaged now that he thought Tony knew him, leaning in toward the screen to listen. There was still some part of the guy that wanted the Big Boss's approval, then, and Tony prayed that he could use that to keep him away from Peter.

"So, Jack. I know you're a smart guy, all right? You know I don't bother with idiots, so that's obvious." It turned Tony's stomach to see the scumbag nodding along eagerly at Tony's false praise, but that was good, it made him easy to play. "So I know that you're smarter than this. You know the Avengers are gonna find you eventually, and things are going to go a lot better for you if they find me and Spidey here alive and well before that happens. So far it's, what, false imprisonment and whatever you'd get for drugging us? That's a slap on the wrist next to torture and/or murder, especially with a minor involved."

"You haven't hurt anyone yet," Peter chimed in, nodding earnestly, all doe eyes like the bruises on his face didn't contradict his own words. God, he was too good for this. "You still don't have to."

Jack leaned back from the screen, mouth thinning.

"You ruined my life," he said, wavering. "You deserve-- you deserve this."

"Jack, believe me," Tony said, lying through his teeth and ready to improvise. "I hate how everything went down with you, okay? I really do. But you've gotta be able to see it from my side too, right? I mean, look where we ended up."

He gestured expansively at the literal torture chamber around him, raising his eyebrows imploringly. He didn't know if Jack being torture chamber-level batshit crazy had anything to do with why Tony had fired him or whatever the fuck had happened, but he felt like it was a fair point regardless.

To bring things home, he concluded, "Whatever hole you're in right now, it's not something you can't climb out of. Especially since, if you remember, I happen to know a guy with some pretty deep pockets. But this?" One last gesture to the cell, the carts, the chair. "This isn't salvageable."

Jack frowned more deeply, rubbing a hand over his jaw in thought. Tony felt the smallest swell of hope-- as unstable as the guy clearly was, maybe he'd really just needed some sweet-talking to come around-- but then Jack jolted in his shitty office chair, and his expression twisted from shock to fury.

"You're trying to trick me," he hissed, leaning back in toward the camera. "You're trying to-- he told me you would do this-- you think I'm stupid--"

Tony held up his hands, placating.

"I'm not--"

"Shut up, Stark," Jack snapped, furious, and he jabbed a finger at the camera. "I don't care what happens to me, this is about you getting what you deserve. Spider-boy, clothes, off."

Peter looked toward Tony, uncertain, and Tony laid a hand on his shoulder, his mouth dry.

"Jack," he said, "come on. You don't have to do this. Say the word and I can put millions in your pocket and you can disappear somewhere warm and sunny and never have to worry about--"

"I said shut up," Jack snarled, and he reached for something off-screen, and Peter hit the floor.

Tony followed him down so quickly it was almost like his knees had given out as Peter's body jerked and jolted on the floor, a cry stuck in his throat as a low gurgle.

Electricity, Tony's analytical mind noted distantly as his actual mouth babbled, "Stop, please stop--"

"You know what to do," Jack said, and in his panic it took Tony a stupid, precious second to realize that he did.

He sucked in a breath and pressed the spider insignia on Peter's chest, and a moment after the fabric loosened around his body, Peter gasped and he relaxed against the floor, trembling with nerves rather than electricity.

"Wow!" Peter laughed, but his eyes were too wide and his smile too weak as he reached for Tony and curled shaky fingers into his suit jacket. "I didn't like that!"

Tony clasped Peter's hand to his chest, and for once in his life, panic and guilt gripped his throat so tightly that he had absolutely nothing to say.

"Wow," Jack said mockingly from his screen, somewhere over Tony's shoulder. "Tony, did you really code that thing to open for you? It didn't do anything for me. The gentleman doth protest too much, maybe?"

He'd tried to open the suit.

Tony was going to kill him. Truly and honestly, put a bullet in his head, kill him.

"Hey," Tony said over his shoulder, helping Peter sit upright again as the top half of the suit sagged around his shoulders, and his voice was shaking but he didn't care. "What the fuck was that?"

Jack ignored him.

"Throw the suit through the bars," he ordered. "Far enough that you can't reach it."

Peter still looked to Tony as if for permission, but he didn't actually hesitate to comply this time, shrugging the top half of the suit into a pile around his waist. Tony swallowed hard and issued a tiny, jerky nod-- he hated it, hated it, his every instinct screaming to argue or fight or do anything to get some control back in the situation, but this new development meant that they were going to have to play things much more carefully-- and it was when Peter leaned forward to shimmy the suit down his thighs that Tony saw the angry red line scratched into the back of his neck.

It was thin, but ugly, the flesh only just knitted together-- the type of thing that would definitely leave a scar on someone without Peter's healing factor. And Tony had that sharp, throbbing pain at the same spot on his own neck.

Tony fought back a wave of nausea and helped Peter stand with a hand under his elbow, hyperconscious of touching him as little as possible. Peter didn't seem shy to be standing there in only his blue boxers as he tossed the Spider-man suit through the bars of their cell, but that only meant that he hadn't caught on yet, and Tony desperately cast about for something to stall Jack without antagonizing him.

"So, shock collar chip in the neck, huh?" he asked, praying that Jack was at least enough of a scientist that he wouldn't be able to help himself from explaining his methodology. "How'd you come up with that?"

Peter's hand flew to the back of his neck, his eyes widening, and Tony angled his shoulders so the kid would be able to see his own no-doubt-much-uglier incision.

"Oh shit," Peter whispered, and then he startled and looked at Tony apprehensively, like Tony was going to get onto him about swearing in any situation much less this one, and it was so sweet and stupid and young that Tony wanted to cry.

Jack didn't take the bait.

"None of your concern," he said to Tony, and then to Peter, "Spider-boy, you're not done."

"--What?" Peter looked down at himself in what appeared to be genuine confusion, and then back up to the screen, and Tony couldn't stand it. He stepped forward, grabbing at the bars of the cell.

"You can have anything," he said urgently, and it didn't even rankle his pride. "Just leave the kid out of it."

"I told you to lose your clothes," Jack said, ignoring him. "Not just your special suit."

Tony couldn't make himself look back. He could imagine all too well the way Peter's confusion would melt into horror, disgust, panic, as Jack's words finally sunk in. He'd been imagining it the whole time, and he didn't need the real thing to haunt his nightmares.

But he still heard Peter's sharp intake of breath.

"Jack," Tony said, taking purposeful breaths to keep from hyperventilating. "I mean it. Anything. Money, tech, secrets, I'll suck your damn dick, just--"

"Mr. Stark," Peter half-whispered, shellshocked, and Tony didn't know if it was a reaction to what he said or what Jack said or both. He felt one of Peter's hands clutch at the back of his jacket, and the realization that bright, brave, self-sacrificing Peter was literally hiding behind him nearly did actually bring tears to Tony's eyes.

"Nuh-uh, no hiding," Jack scolded, as if Tony hadn't spoken at all. "Off and through the bars, like your suit."

Tony could hear Peter's panicked breaths behind him, could feel him shaking like a leaf through the grip on his jacket, and he lost it. He pounded a fist on the bars, and his voice steadily rose to fill the small room as he seethed, "I'll fucking kill you. You know that, right? I'll hold one of my gauntlets to your face so long your own mother won't--"

And then there was just pain, and the high, panicked sound of Peter's voice, though Tony couldn't begin to pick out what he was saying. Tony had been electrocuted before, by enemies and poor observation of safety protocols alike, and it had never, ever felt like this-- every cell, every atom making itself known in its agony.

He couldn't have even made a guess about how long it went on for, but when he came back to himself with a shuddering gasp, it was to the sight of Peter's tear-stained face.

"Tony," Peter cried, and he doubled over to press his forehead to Tony's shoulder, clutching at his shirt and shaking.

"'m okay, kid," Tony slurred, and he reached instinctively to wrap a comforting arm around Peter's shoulders and then flinched when his fingers found bare skin.

"Go ahead, Spidey," came Jack's voice, and Tony closed his eyes against the rising tide of helplessness in his chest, allowing himself to hold Peter to him for a bracing moment. "You promised."

Peter shuddered, and then pulled back enough to look Tony in the eyes, pleading.

"We have to do what he says," he whispered, and he bit his lip, anxious. "It's not-- it's not real torture, and-- it's just for a while." He was obviously trying to reference the fact that there should be back-up on the way, whenever the other Avengers were able to track them to their current location, without giving it away in case Jack's cameras were sensitive enough to pick up his voice. Tony shook his head minutely, understanding where Peter was coming from but unable to accept-- accept--

Peter gripped at his shirt more urgently, and insisted, "Please, Mr. Stark. You can't-- don't leave me alone with him."

Oh.

Oh, fuck.

Tony struggled up onto one elbow and pulled Peter into a hug with the other arm, hand cupping the back of Peter's head as Peter collapsed against him and pressed his face into his neck.

"'Kay," Tony said, voice tight, and he cast a glance up at that blank fucking ceiling in an unspoken prayer. "Okay. I won't go anywhere. Sorry, kid."

"Aww," Jack cooed from his screen, and Tony closed his eyes and let himself run his fingers through Peter's hair once before letting go to push himself up. Peter helped support him, and Tony saw that-- he was still in his boxers for now, so that hadn't happened while he was out-of-it, at least.

"Are you going to behave now? Spider-boy promised he'd be able to get you to listen, and you wouldn't want to make a liar out of him," Jack said, and Tony clenched his fists, seeing red. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly-- Peter was right, no matter how much Tony hated it, no matter how much his instincts screamed to antagonize the motherfucker to keep his attention off Peter. If he pushed it too far, that would just leave Peter alone with this guy, and that was-- that was-- he couldn't let that happen.

Tony raised and dropped his hands in a surrendering gesture, not trusting himself to speak without making things worse for Peter. Peter hovered anxiously at his shoulder, looking between him and the screen, and-- god, Tony hated this. He hated it.

"Good," Jack said, and then gestured at the camera. "Let's pick up where we left off, then. Spidey?"

Peter sucked in a breath, and stepped out beside Tony. He hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his boxers, and Tony looked back up to the ceiling.

There was the sound of fabric brushing against skin. Peter put a hand against Tony's shoulder for balance while he must have been stepping out of his clothes, and Tony reached across himself to put his hand over Peter's, squeezing.

"Thanks," Peter whispered, and he cleared his throat, and Tony saw him move to toss his boxers through the bars of the cell out of the corner of his eye.

"Very good," Jack praised, and Tony vividly imagined what he'd look like after being on the receiving end of every one of Iron Man's weapons at once. "Tony, take a look."

Peter's hand tightened on Tony's shoulder, and Tony squeezed his hand again before letting go, turning his head in Peter's direction. He kept his eyes on Peter's face, but that was bad enough.

Peter was looking away from him, eyes squeezed shut and flushed pink all the way down to his chest. He was shaking, and breathing too fast with nerves. Tony wanted to pull him into another hug, hide him against his body, and he didn't know if that was an inappropriate impulse or not-- he only knew that he could barely stand seeing the shame and fear on Peter's face.

"What do you think?" Jack asked, and Tony didn't look toward the screen. Imagining that-- fucking creep's-- expression while looking at Peter was bad enough, thanks. "Superhumans really are something else, aren't they?"

Peter took in a shuddery breath, and Tony wanted to do something, anything, to comfort him, but any kind of even innocent touch seemed like it would be unwelcome in this situation.

"He sure is a sixteen-year-old," Tony said instead, nausea heavy in his gut.

And then his body jolted, because Jack fucking shocked him, the absolute prick. It was brief this time, just a warning shot, and it didn't even make Tony's knees buckle, but he did yelp.

"Jesus," he gasped, forgetting himself and glaring at the screen, indignant. He saw Peter turn wide, panicked eyes toward him in his peripheral vision, the kid actively clutching at his arm now, and Tony mentally kicked himself for worrying him even if he really didn't know what else he should have said, there. "What?! I'm not a fucking mind-reader, Humbert, I don't know what kind of creepy shit you want me to say, am I supposed to wax poetic about his youthful flesh?"

Jack shrugged.

"I didn't like your tone," he said, and gestured to the camera again. "And you can't tell me you've seen any other sixteen-year-olds that look like that."

"Yeah, I don't make a habit out of ogling teenagers, actually," Tony snapped, looking away from Jack's leer and scowling. He tried to get his heart rate under control-- he knew Peter could hear that shit, and he didn't want Peter to feed off of his own anxiety, and he also knew he was probably toeing the line here with Jack and he really needed to calm the fuck down.

That immediately proved to be impossible, though, because what Jack said next was, "What about touching them?"

He and Peter both froze. Tony didn't make a sound, even when Peter's grip on his arm tightened so much that it hurt.

"You heard me," Jack said, his voice all faux-patience, and Tony thought he might legitimately throw up. "Touch him."

Tony sucked in a shaky breath, and looked to where Peter was glued to his arm. His eyes were wide, and he looked more shocked than scared, lips still parted in surprise, and that was-- that was something.

"Kid," Tony said softly, because the alternative was looking back at the screen and getting himself electrocuted to death screaming at Jack.

Even on just the one word, his voice shook.

Peter swallowed hard, and set his jaw. He nodded, jerky, and shifted his grip on Tony, grabbing the lapels of his jacket.

"It's okay," he half-whispered, half-mouthed, his voice breaking. He cleared his throat and tried again, voice stronger this time. "It's okay, Mr. Stark."

He was so brave. Too good to wind up like this, in this monumentally fucked-up situation, because of Tony's enemies.

Tony hated himself, and moved as if someone else was controlling his body to angle Peter to where his back was facing the screen. He knew it wouldn't really block Jack's view-- there were cameras in every corner of the room; there wasn't anything he could do to actually hide Peter's body from him-- but he didn't want Peter to accidentally look up and see that fucker's leering face while they were… doing this.

They were doing this.

He flattened his palm against Peter's stomach first, and Peter shivered under that simple touch, breath catching.

"You're okay, kid," Tony murmured, heart breaking, and he stroked his hand over the planes of Peter's stomach, tight with nerves and strong muscle alike. "Ready?"

Peter nodded again, too quickly, his breath already unsteady. He bit back a strained little whine when Tony wrapped a hand around him, letting his forehead fall forward to rest against Tony's shoulder. Tony brought his other hand up to stroke his fingers through Peter's hair, whispering reassurances he couldn't actually make while Peter trembled against him.

"It's okay, you're okay, don't worry," he soothed, over and over again, feeling Peter start to harden in his grip.

That was-- only to be expected, really, given Peter's age, though Tony had wondered if the inherent horror of the situation would keep it from happening. Peter seemed embarrassed by it, for his part, briefly jerking a little further away from Tony but not out of his grip.

"Sorry," Peter mumbled, voice high and weak with shame, and Tony gently pulled him back in.

"No, you're fine, kid, s'normal," he said, and he let the hand stroking through Peter's hair drop lower to squeeze near the base of his skull in what he meant to be a comforting gesture, careful to avoid Peter's incision site.

Instead, Peter shuddered as Tony felt his cock twitch in his hand, and the kid huffed out a tiny, manic laugh.

"What kind of-- definition of normal--" He gasped instead of finishing the joke, and he gripped Tony's jacket tighter, laying his head on Tony's shoulder so that Tony could feel the hot panting of his breath against his neck.

Tony tuned out the sensation, because while the adrenaline was doing a pretty good job of dampening Tony's natural biological response to a person sweating and panting and whimpering under his touch, it wasn't perfect, and every once in a while there was-- the bare edge of an impulse making its way southwards, and involuntary or not, that wasn't okay.

He also tried, less successfully, to tune out the habitual part of his brain that automatically wanted to catalogue the way Peter reacted to this angle, to that amount of pressure, whether he preferred Tony's other hand gripping his shoulder or petting over his back or sliding into his hair (it was the hair, definitely the hair)-- Tony had been called selfish over a lot of things, but sex had never been one of them, and it was difficult not to-- notice. Those things.

He needed a distraction, and if Peter wanted to cope with jokes, he could do that.

"Is it way too fucked up to joke that you'd hurt my feelings otherwise? It's been a while since the last time I gave a handjob but I shouldn't be that rusty," Tony rambled, and that was totally inappropriate, but Peter buried a slightly hysterical giggle in his shoulder that turned into a breathless groan at the end.

He was urging forward into Tony's fist a little bit, miniscule jerks of his hips that had to mean he was making his way towards a peak, and slick precome was starting to build up between the velvety skin of his cock and Tony's palm.

Peter's next moan had a wet hitch in the middle of it, and Tony's stomach dropped. He wrapped an arm fully around Peter's shoulders, clutching him close and whispering, "Hey, hey, it's okay, you're doing fine, Peter," shit, he hadn't meant to use Peter's name, "--we'll be okay, I'm right here."

And then Peter looked up at him for the first time since Tony first touched him, eyes bleary with tears, cheeks flushed with sex, lower lip bitten red, and he whimpered, "Mr. Stark."

Tony's mouth went dry.

Because, again-- he was very, very good at reading people's cues during sex, and Peter was too inexperienced, overwhelmed, and earnest altogether to think to hide his tells. So he could read that expression on Peter's face, had seen it a hundred times, and he knew what it meant that Peter was leaning into him, lips and eyes both half-parted, wetting his lips, pleading.

He knew it meant that Peter wanted him to kiss him, and he also knew that there was absolutely no circumstance, barring being ordered to, under which he should let that happen.

But the fucked up thing was-- he wanted to. Not out of desire, jesus no, but out of some deep-seated instinct to give the kid what he wanted, to erase some of the lingering shame and fear out of his expression, and then that instinct to comfort Peter getting all tangled up with his years of habits built up in the bedroom, giving people what they wanted in that context--

He felt the urge like a hook in his gut, but he didn't lean in. Instead he held Peter's gaze, and cupped his cheek, and said, "It's okay, kid. Go ahead."

Peter's body actually arched in response to Tony giving him permission to come, and Tony thought he would, for a second-- Peter's eyelashes fluttered, and he rutted into Tony's fist, all subtlety lost, but his groan was ultimately from frustration instead of release.

"Can't," Peter gasped, and he collapsed back forward, pressing his sweaty forehead to Tony's collarbones and jerking his hips fruitlessly into Tony's grip. Tony finally, finally allowed himself to look down, and jesus-- he could already feel how wet Peter was, but the flush to the head of his cock looked almost angry, red and swollen. Peter continued, "I'm too--"

And he almost threw a look over his shoulder at the screen, but Tony caught him with the hand on his cheek, stroking his thumb over a dried tear track.

"Don't look," he said, keeping his voice low-- Jack hadn't reacted to Tony dropping Peter's name like an idiot, so he either didn't care or couldn't hear if he or Peter whispered. He didn't need Peter to finish the thought, anyway-- he was too nervous, too scared, too angry maybe, to come, and that made sense. "It's okay. Just stay with me, okay, kid?"

Peter sighed against Tony's skin, shaky, and he nodded-- but even if Jack couldn't hear them whispering, he could still see, and he'd apparently been drawing some conclusions.

"Can't come?" Jack's voice came from the screen, and Peter tensed in Tony's arms. "That's normal the first time, Spider-boy, don't be embarrassed."

Tony didn't think anything could turn his stomach more than the faux-parental tone in Jack's voice, until the creep continued and asked, "It is the first time, isn't it?"

Peter stayed still and tense against Tony's body for a moment, but then he nodded, gripping hard at Tony's jacket.

"Out loud," Jack ordered, and Tony literally bit his tongue to keep from screaming at him.

"Yeah," Peter said in a rush of breath, unsteady, and he leaned into Tony like he could somehow hide himself in his chest. Tony squeezed his upper arm supportively, and strained to listen like he could somehow manifest the other Avengers knocking down this asshole's door if he tried to hear it hard enough.

"How lucky for Mr. Stark here," Jack said, and Tony didn't have to look at the screen to hear the glee in his voice as he continued. "Which, speaking of-- if you need time to work out your nerves, why don't you do it on your knees."

There was a part of Tony that had been expecting it-- there was a part of Tony that, in imagining all the different things Jack could ask for, in imagining that the fucking creep might actually crawl down from his little pervert office and drug Peter to try to touch him himself, actually preferred this to some of the alternatives.

But the anticipation didn't actually make him any more prepared to hear it, and he was too paralyzed by his own horror this time to stop Peter from instinctively whipping around to look over his shoulder at the screen, mouth agape.

"I've never--" Peter protested, and then his jaw clicked shut and he turned back toward Tony, head ducked in mortification.

"I'm sure Tony will be happy to teach you," Jack responded, and Tony rolled his eyes massively instead of throwing up.

"Uh, I know perverts always think everyone else is just like them but I think you're overestimating how involved my dick wants to be in this whole situation," he said, and his voice was only shaking a little. "It's not gonna be much of a show."

Jack laughed, ugly and mean.

"Notorious playboy Tony Stark having trouble getting it up, huh," he said. His voice was cold when he continued, "Sounds like something you're going to have to figure out, or we might have a problem."

"Shit," Tony muttered, and Peter looked up at him, eyes huge.

"Mr. Stark," he said, biting his lip, uncertain, "I can--"

"No," Tony interrupted, shaking his head for good measure. He didn't need to hear what Peter was going to offer, here. "Nope. I got this. Just give me a minute."

He reached for his fly, his hands clumsy from nerves-- god, the last time his hands were shaking this bad he had been literally dying from his arc reactor being unplugged, probably, and wasn't that a sexy memory to add to this fucking equation-- and he'd just gotten the button undone after an embarrassing amount of difficulty when Peter moved, putting a hand on Tony's wrist and leaning his head back against Tony's shoulder.

"It's okay," Peter whispered softly, mirroring Tony's words back to him. "We're okay."

It should have embarrassed him, to have Peter step into the caretaking role in this situation, when Tony was the adult and the one who wasn't being drooled over by a pedophile and the one who had literally had sex on camera on purpose before. But Tony found that Peter's voice and gentle touch did soothe his nerves, just a little bit. And if they also put a lump in his throat, then, well, that was just something he was going to have to push away like everything else about this nightmare.

"Yeah," Tony rasped, and he cleared his throat. "Yeah, we're okay. Thanks, kid."

Peter squeezed his wrist, and then brought his hands back up to tangle in Tony's jacket again. Tony wasn't exactly sure what it was about that that seemed to make Peter feel-- safe-- but like hell he was going to deprive the kid of whatever comfort he could find.

Tony took a steadying breath, pulled his zipper down, and slid his hand into his boxers to cup himself.

He tried to focus on memories from his playboy days and favorite, well-worn fantasies, he really did. But his body was more concerned with the fact that there was a naked, warm body right in front of him-- touching him, even-- and kept reverting back to the sense-memory of Peter panting against his neck, cock jumping in Tony's hand, leaning into his space and silently begging to be kissed.

It was an agonizing push-pull, his mind recoiling from what his body wanted to lean into, because Peter wasn't just a warm body, he was a kid, he was a kid and this shouldn't be what his first anything was like, he should have never been been put in this situation because Tony was such a fuck-up--

Peter must have heard the edge of frustration and panic in one of Tony's ragged sighs, because Tony didn't know why else he would have done what he did next. The kid let go of one of Tony's lapels and slipped that hand inside Tony's jacket, petting from his chest down to his stomach.

Tony's breath caught, and he couldn't deny the jolt that touch sent to his dick, finally stirring with unambiguous interest instead of half-hearted hesitance.

"Kid," he said, strained, and he didn't know how to finish that thought.

"It's okay," Peter repeated again, and he curled in even closer to Tony, his lips almost brushing Tony's neck. He slid his hand back up over Tony's chest, and let it settle at the crook of his neck and shoulder, squeezing. "It's okay."

Oh, god, it felt good. Not erotic, necessarily, but good, and warm, and that was enough. A rational, ethical, Pepper-sounding part of Tony was horrified, but another part-- a shivering, mindless animal part-- couldn't help but greedily eat up the comfort as it was offered, desperate for something to feel other than fear. Tony squeezed his eyes shut and pulled himself out of his jeans, stroking himself in earnest as heat started to pool in his gut.

He heard-- and felt-- Peter's breathing change from where the kid was tucked against him, and Peter kept tracing his hand over Tony's chest, playing his fingers over his collarbone, and Tony couldn't actually bite back a groan when Peter let his hand wander further up to sink into Tony's hair.

He didn't know if this was crossing a line, somehow; if they should keep going like this for as long as Jack would let them, instead of moving on to-- the next part. They hadn't been ordered to do this, specifically-- he shouldn't be letting the kid get him hard-- but it was also a magnitude less invasive than what they had been told to do, and if Jack would let them get away with it, he'd much rather come from what was imminently turning into mutual masturbation if Peter's shaky breaths were anything to go by--

But the decision was never in his hands in the first place, and Tony's internal conflict was brought to an end by Jack's voice saying, "All right, enough of that. Blow him."

Peter's next breath came out half-whimper, wet, and Tony didn't know where it came from, but what he said as he hugged Peter to his chest was, "Oh, baby, don't cry, it's okay."

Peter nodded against him weakly, and Tony tugged him along as he turned to put his own back to the bars of the cell. He wasn't going to face toward the screen while he did this, and Peter wouldn't be able to see it from-- Peter wouldn't be able to see it.

He gently, gently guided Peter away from his hiding spot against Tony's neck, cupping his face with one hand. Peter's eyes were red-rimmed, but he didn't cry, and he met Tony's eyes with such miserable resignation that it made Tony want to instead.

"I'm gonna take care of you," Tony whispered, and he hated that he knew they were only words, but-- he remembered how much Peter's words had helped calm him, when he was on the edge of panic. "We'll be okay."

"Yeah," Peter whispered back, and he turned his face into Tony's hand, skin smooth against his palm. It almost felt like a call and response.

Tony shrugged out of his jacket and passed it to Peter, murmuring, "For your knees." Peter took it with a flicker of surprised gratitude breaking through the misery on his face, like it was remotely enough, like Tony giving Peter half-assed padding for his knees wasn't the least he could do before the kid was forced to suck his cock--

But thinking like that was going to get them in trouble, Tony's erection already flagging a little in the interlude, so he told himself to shut up and pressed a hand over himself for modesty and stimulation both as Peter folded the jacket up into a cushion and sank down onto his knees.

"Okay," Tony said, unsteady. "Okay, uh. No teeth, go slow-- don't try to do the porn star thing and fit the whole thing in your mouth-- and, don't-- don't worry about drool, that's fine."

Peter nodded up at him, gaze flickering between Tony's face and the hand covering his dick, and-- god, he was still hard, too; Tony had known Peter was getting something out of helping Tony jerk off but hearing his harsh breathing and seeing the gleam of precome at the head of his cock were very different experiences--

Tony swallowed hard, and he meant to say, again, "you'll be okay."

Instead, he said, "You'll do great."

Peter drew in a shivery breath, and licked his lips, and reached to move Tony's hand as he said, "Okay, Mr. Stark."

Tony wanted to close his eyes as Peter took him in hand and leaned forward, breathing out one last nervous gust of air before he started with a swipe of his tongue over the head of Tony's cock. Tony didn't want to make Peter self-conscious, and he didn't want that memory-- the way Peter's eyebrows drew in slightly as he processed the taste of him, the way he nodded minutely like he was settling with himself that he could deal with it (cute, fucking cute under any other circumstances), the way his lips looked when he leaned back in to wrap them around just the first inch of Tony's cock, going slow like Tony had instructed.

But he also didn't want to miss any single sign of Peter's discomfort, didn't want to close his eyes and lose an opportunity to comfort him if he needed it, if Peter needed guidance or he started to cry or anything changed to shift this situation from nightmarish to outright hellish, because he'd never forgive himself if he couldn't say that he at least did everything possible to make it easier for Peter to get through.

So he gripped the bars behind him to keep his hands from finding their way instinctively into Peter's hair, and he watched.

"Just like that," Tony said, breathing slowly and deliberately and trying to ignore how Peter's mouth on him actually felt. "Not too much pressure to start; take your time."

Peter hummed a tiny sound of acknowledgement that Tony felt more than heard and leaned in a little further, taking more of Tony into his mouth. Tony could see and feel the little adjustments he made to try and get more comfortable-- testing the weight of Tony's cock on his tongue, adjusting his jaw, shifting closer on his knees-- and Tony could also see some of the grim set to his expression actively fading into focused determination as his scientist's mind started to take over. God, of course Peter would approach sucking dick like solving a challenging chemistry equation. He was perfect; he was too good for this.

Tony's cock wasn't interested in his guilt complex, though, and just the wet heat of Peter's mouth was enough to work him past the half-hardness he'd started with, even without Peter doing more than exploring the feeling of Tony in his mouth. So when Peter pulled off to take a breath, sucking against the drag of Tony's cock through his lips on the way, Tony couldn't help the hitch in his breath.

Peter glanced up at him, startled, and Tony grimaced.

"Sorry, natural reaction," he apologized, but Peter shook his head.

"No, just-- that felt good? He didn't--?" Peter asked, and oh-- the kid was twitchy about Jack shocking him.

"Nope, that was you," Tony put his foot in his mouth most extravagantly. His eyes widened and he sputtered, "And wow, I'm sorry, I'm not firing on all cylinders here; I'll shut up, kid."

"No-- no," Peter protested, and his eyes were wide, too. "Actually-- can you-- keep talking to me, so I know--?"

Tony didn't know if that was meant to convey so I know he's not hurting you or so I know what to do or some other motivation, but it didn't matter; he'd do anything for the kid right now.

"Sure, kid," he said, and Peter actually flickered a self-conscious smile up at him, like he wasn't kneeling naked in a cell with a middle-aged man's dick in his hand, and Tony couldn't afford another mental spiral about how Peter was the best person on the planet and it was Tony's fault he was here. So he unwrapped one of his hands from the bar it was clinging to and brushed Peter's hair back from his forehead, and reassured him, "I'm fine. You're fine; you're doing great."

"Okay," Peter whispered, leaning into his hand, and Tony stroked his fingers through Peter's hair a last time before grabbing back onto the bar. Peter watched him for a beat more, and then-- he leaned back in.

He picked up where he left off, not working his way up this time, and after a moment that was clearly to steel himself, started to put what he'd learned into practice. He bobbed down, taking a little more of Tony into his mouth each time, and pulled away with a wet drag of pressure that couldn't be called graceful, but did the job.

And Tony talked to him throughout, trying to keep his voice and breathing steady like he was talking Peter through something in the lab instead of a blowjob and only sort of managing.

It started with "yeah, like that, that's right, keep doing what you're doing," and after Peter moved in even closer and gripped Tony's thigh with his free hand, it turned into, "ah, feels good, you're doing great, that's perfect," and after Peter started getting comfortable enough with the basics that his movements picked up a little bit of finesse-- better rhythm and fewer dangerous near-misses with his teeth and not as many breaks to catch his breath-- and after he actually swallowed around Tony at one point because Peter was nothing if not an overachiever--

"Fuck," Tony moaned, low, forgetting himself, and he whispered it again, "fuck," when he felt Peter's echoing moan around his cock.

Until then, Peter had mostly either kept his eyes closed, or focused in front of him-- but at that whisper, Tony's mouth forgetting that this wasn't real sex, he wasn't breathlessly spouting praise to get his partner hot, he was just supposed to be reassuring the kid that he was okay and that he wasn't doing anything wrong-- Peter looked up at him from under his eyelashes, mouth stretched around his cock, and there was a glazed-over glint in his eye that was something other than shame or fear.

And with Peter looking at him, after Tony promised him to keep talking, to let him know he was okay, and after Tony promised himself not to look away--

Tony whispered, "You're perfect, sweetheart," and watched while Peter closed his eyes and took his own cock in hand, stroking himself in rhythm as he sucked and mouthed at Tony's cock.

It was a nauseating jolt in Tony's stomach when he realized he might actually come like this, wires crossed between fear and pleasure, knowledge and instinct, his body's hard-wired survival system taking the shame and horror and making it something electric instead of sobering. He didn't want to-- he didn't want to do this indefinitely, no, sympathetic to Peter's undoubtedly already aching jaw, but he also didn't want to finish, not from this--

Peter heard the change in his breathing again, raw breaths turning shallow with anxiety, and squeezed his thigh. The pure, straightforward evidence of the kid's golden heart didn't make him feel better, this time, and then--

Jack's voice.

"There we go. All that whining and he got you there in the end, huh, Tony? Show him the porn star version, then, like you called it."

"Goddammit," Tony growled as Peter pulled off of him, startled, ungraceful. His eyebrows were knit together with anxiety, and he was breathing hard through reddened lips as he looked up at Tony helplessly for guidance.

"It's-- it's okay, kid. You'll be okay," Tony murmured weakly, chastising himself for letting his own anxiety get the better of him in front of Peter. Peter nodded, uncertain and swallowing hard, and Tony added, softly, "It's just me."

It was the sort of nonsense comfort that he'd been feeding Peter all along-- why should it matter if it was Tony, it's not like Peter wanted to be sucking his dick more than any other forty-something's-- but it seemed to work. Peter's shoulders relaxed and the cloud of anxiety over his eyes-- didn't disappear, but faded some as he took a deep breath and leaned back in.

Tony brushed his fingers through Peter's hair, shaking and reverent, and whispered, "Okay, kid, hold still."

Peter hummed softly, and Tony rocked gently into his mouth.

Peter automatically tensed, even though Tony was moving even more shallowly than Peter had been himself, when he was in control-- it was different being on the other side of things, Tony had enough experience with both to know-- and Tony kept petting at his hair soothingly, muttering, "You're okay, don't worry, just breathe, you're fine--"

And that worked for a little bit, Peter relaxing as much as could be expected under the circumstances, keeping his lips closed but his jaw loose, Tony throwing words of praise into his litany of reassurances when he started to tense up again-- you're perfect, kid, doing great, don't worry, just hold on. Tony didn't know if it was good or bad that having to maintain that level of focus-- attuned to Peter's every cue of discomfort while trying to rock only as deep as necessary to fulfill the letter of the law-- was handily resolving the issue of whether or not he was going to come from this, because while Peter's mouth felt-- good-- it wasn't enough to break through Tony's concentration.

But, of course--

"You know that's not what I was asking for, Stark."

Jack.

Tony allowed himself a brief reprieve, clenching his jaw and squeezing his eyes shut, before he opened them again to catch Peter's wide, worried gaze.

"Okay, kid," he said, heart in his throat. He pulled Peter off of him and petted his hair urgently, comfort for the both of them alike. "Can you-- you've gotta open your throat, okay, like chugging water or swallowing a pill, it'll help you not gag, all right?"

"'Kay," Peter responded, his voice already a little scratchy just from hold long they'd been at this-- goddammit-- and apparently seeing the dread on Tony's face, he leaned into Tony's hand in his hair, clumsily continuing, "M'okay, Mr. Stark."

You're too good for this, Tony thought for the thousandth time, and it was all he could do not to say it out loud, heart a mangled thing in his chest. But he knew if he let himself say it, he'd start to spiral for real, and-- he had to hold it together for Peter; this was going to be bad enough for him without Tony sobbing through Peter deepthroating his dick, jesus--

So instead he said, "Okay, c'mere, baby," and gently pulled Peter back in, and didn't stop pulling.

Peter actually didn't gag at first, brow furrowed in concentration as he took Tony nearly down to the root, both of his hands gripping at the top of Tony's thighs. And Tony took it slow as he started to thrust, whispering that's right, good job, you're perfect, but-- it couldn't last, of course, and on the fourth thrust Peter couldn't keep his throat open any longer and he gagged, eyes immediately filling with tears.

"Don't stop," Jack ordered behind them, and Peter whimpered as he coughed. Tony gritted his teeth and rolled his hips in tiny motions, trying not to overtly disobey while still giving Peter time to at least recover, and whispered, "Sorry, honey, sorry, you're all right, please be okay."

Peter moaned wetly around him, drool dripping from his chin, and blinked away tears as he met Tony's gaze. He closed his eyes then, taking a deep breath through his nose, and Tony took it for the go-ahead that it was and started to thrust more deeply again, throat dangerously tight with threatening tears of his own.

They found a kind of rhythm. An even ratio of fast, throat-scraping thrusts for keeping Jack off their backs and slow rolls of Tony's hips for letting Peter cough and breathe and reset, and the whole time, Tony brushed his fingers through Peter's hair, wiped away his tears, and whispered things that passed through him without conscious thought; things he could only half-remember in the aftermath.

You're doing so good.

I'm so sorry, baby.

You're okay, you'll be fine.

Don't cry, sweetheart.

Just a little more.

You're perfect.

You're so perfect, baby.

You're beautiful.

By the time Jack stopped them, they were both shaking and exhausted, sweat gluing Tony's band tee to his back and Peter crying in earnest and moaning through every 'break.' Tony heard stop and immediately dropped to his knees, his synapses firing all wrong, pleasure and shame and instinct and horror all mixed up together in an overwhelming jumble that he couldn't begin to untangle, and he pulled Peter into his arms, heedless of the fact that the kid was naked, heedless of the fact that he was still hard.

Peter collapsed against him, exhausted, and cried into his neck. Tony crushed him to his chest, too numb to pray, and only barely processed Jack's orders to move onto the next stage in a predictable escalation of events.

He just held Peter, breath shuddering in his chest, murmuring you're okay, I've got you over and over again and petting his hair, until he knew he was pushing it and addressed Jack over his shoulder: "What, dry?"

"He'll heal, won't he?" Jack said, glib, and Tony closed his eyes.

Jack really held all the power, here, and Tony wasn't sure he wanted to play any of the bargaining chips available to him. He could remind Jack that Peter wasn't likely to be able to come without lube, but he didn't want to dangle the kid's pleasure, coerced or otherwise, in front of the creep like bait, and Jack might not actually care whether that was something he got to witness. He could offer something else in exchange, but it would probably be another sex act, and he didn't want to tempt Jack to get creative, and there was every likelihood that whatever he asked for would outweigh the threat of dry sex in humiliation. He could simply refuse to move forward without lube and hope that at this point the scumbag was too worked up not to bend a little to get to see things through.

And there was also the little complication that it turned Tony's stomach just to think of the man being in the same room as Peter, even to deliver supplies-- getting to see him in the flesh and possibly getting other ideas of what he could ask of him up close and personal, and Tony refused to think about putting Peter on the line like that, even if getting Jack to slip up in-person due to his perversions was maybe their best shot out of this.

Thinking through his options must have kept Tony quiet for too long, because Jack suddenly laughed on the screen behind him.

"You were really going to do it, weren't you? A little bit of pressure and you were going to fuck that kid dry. I'm starting to think you already wanted to, Mr. Stark, with how tight you made his suit and all," Jack taunted, and Tony's stomach flipped over, because what Jack was saying was disgusting but he was also implying that Tony might not have to. "Check your jacket pockets."

Peter was pliable as Tony shifted him in his arms to drag the jacket out from under his knees, too exhausted at this point for more tears, leaning against Tony as he fished through the jacket's inner and outer pockets.

"Sorry," he croaked, voice wrecked, and Tony winced at the sound and the sentiment alike.

"No," Tony said firmly, fingers finally closing around a small foil packet in one of the pockets-- no wonder he hadn't felt the weight of it while he had his jacket on; it was just a little sample pack. "No 'sorry,' I won't hear it. This isn't your fault, kid."

"If I'd been faster--"

"No," Tony repeated, dropping the lube packet on the floor beside them and taking Peter's face in both hands. It hurt to look at him-- he looked beaten up in every way imaginable, from the literal bruises to the tear tracks to the haunted expression in his eyes, and Tony tucked away the sight to beat himself up over later, because right now he needed Peter to listen to him. He leaned his forehead to Peter's, trying to channel every ounce of fierce protection and adoration he felt for the kid into his gaze.

"This isn't your fault. It's that motherfucker's, and we're going to take him down, okay? We are."

Peter nodded automatically, eyes dropping down, and Tony stroked his thumbs gently over Peter's cheeks until he looked back up again.

"But I need you to stop with the sorry, because I love you, kid, and I can't see you beat yourself up about this," and that did something, Peter's eyes filling with a new glaze of tears, but he nodded more fiercely, eyes not leaving Tony's. "We're in this together, okay? Not you hurting me, not me hurting you; we're a team."

And then he kissed Peter's forehead, and Peter whispered okay, and kissed his cheek once Tony had pulled back.

It was so unexpected and sweet that Tony had to blink back tears of his own, but he managed a quick smile for the kid before busying himself with checking out the lube packet. Somewhere in their whispering he had half-processed Jack bragging about slipping it into his pocket when making his plans for the two of them, and if he thought about that too hard it would make him see red, and if he thought about the fact that Jack hadn't also provided a condom while setting the stage for his fucked-up sex fantasies he would also see red, so instead-- he checked out the packet, and yeah, that would be enough for-- this.

"Okay, kid," Tony said, and god, he was never going to be able to say that to Peter in an innocent context again after how many times he'd had to follow it up with horrible shit today, "You wanna do this on your back or your knees? It's not as comfortable on your back."

"Oh--" Peter jolted and stared at him, cheeks taking on a flush that they'd lost sometime during all the-- crying. "No, I-- I'd rather… on my back."

"Whatever you want," Tony promised, and he reached past Peter to spread his jacket out on the ground. He was going to have the fucking thing burned after this, he thought viciously. He gave Peter a smile that he hoped was less shaky than it felt, and gently said, "Lay down?"

Peter did as he asked, and Tony expected him to-- look at the ceiling, close his eyes, take some deep breaths, something, but-- Peter kept his eyes on Tony the whole time. And the kid was obviously nervous, his hands shaking where he'd drawn them up uncertainly over his chest, but there was also trust in his eyes, so much trust for Tony in spite of everything that had already happened, in spite of the kid knowing what it felt like for Tony to fuck into his throat and make him gag, and--

Tony felt a hitch in his breath and swallowed through it. He couldn't fall to pieces here; he couldn't make Peter be the one to keep it together. He cleared his throat and gripped at the hem of his own shirt, meeting Peter's eyes in a silent question, and Peter nodded after a moment of hesitation with a shaky breath-- but as Tony started to lift his shirt, Jack's voice commanded, "Don't. Keep it on, Stark."

And the fact that Jack wanted to watch a powerful man, fully-dressed, fuck a nude teenager told Tony way too much about Jack's kinks, and that was one more thought he had to shove aside with a theatrical eyeroll for Peter's benefit as he sat back on his heels to tear open the lube packet.

He coated his fingers and set the packet aside up against a cell bar so it wouldn't leak, and then settled halfway over Peter, who automatically flattened one of his bent knees to make room for him.

"This okay?" Tony asked, watching Peter for any-- well, any additional-- signs of discomfort. He wasn't sure that the faux-intimacy of the position was what he would have wanted in the same situation, but he wanted to block as much of Jack's view of the kid as possible, and Peter had clung to him at every opportunity so far and had chosen to be on his back for a reason, so--

He was proven right in his assumption when Peter nodded, letting out a shivery little sigh and reaching up to grip Tony's shoulders.

"Yeah," Peter whispered. He licked his lips and turned his gaze away for a moment, embarrassed. "I-- I'm ready, just… tell me if you… if I need to do anything--"

"Just relax, sweetheart," Tony murmured, hating how impossible he knew that would be in this situation, and reached down to gently circle a finger around the kid's entrance.

Peter flinched at the touch, breath rushing out of him.

"Sorr--" Peter gasped, and then caught himself, squeezing his eyes shut and correcting to, "J-just surprised me."

"Good job," Tony praised him, pressing another kiss to Peter's forehead while he massaged a finger against him, spreading the lube and giving him something to adjust to the feeling with. "You're doing fine, kid, you're perfect, just relax, okay? I've got you, I'm not going anywhere."

Peter took a deep breath, and-- reached up to press his fingers to Tony's jaw, holding him in place where his breath was stirring at sweaty strands of Peter's hair over his forehead; a silent request.

So, heart nearly spilling over with tears, Tony kissed his forehead again, and then his temple, his cheek, the bridge of his nose, and whispered praise and reassurance and promises he might not be able to keep until Peter relaxed under him enough to press a finger inside.

Things moved more quickly after that. It wasn't something he'd want to brag about under the circumstances, but Tony was good with his hands, and Peter-- after that initial move of silently asking Tony for more affection, Peter got a little bolder, and eventually guided Tony down to kiss along his jaw, his neck, and Tony did. He kissed Peter where Peter took him to with the gentle pressure of fingers threaded into his hair, and he thrust and twisted his fingers inside him until Peter cried out with it, and he called Peter baby, sweetheart, honey because from this close he could feel how Peter shook with it every time.

And Tony didn't know what it would do to either of them, to play this out like a shadow cast by the real thing, real love and sex and intimacy. But it was what Peter was asking him for, so he did it.

"'Kay," he said at last, three fingers inside Peter, brushing against the spot that made him tip his head back against the floor, jaw slack, "kid, you ready?"

"Yeah," Peter gasped, shivering when Tony withdrew his fingers, and he drew his legs back so that Tony could settle between them properly-- and fuck, he was flexible, maybe this was going to work better than Tony had thought.

"You're doing great, baby," Tony praised him as he reached to dip his fingers into the lube packet again, slicking himself over and then rubbing the excess over Peter's hole. Peter tangled both of his hands in Tony's hair and panted, shaking, as Tony lined them up. "Just relax, sweetheart, just like you have been, I'm gonna take care of you, you'll be okay--"

"Tony," Peter whimpered as Tony pushed into him, slow, and Tony blinked back tears, past the point of being able to process the difference between his own grief and pleasure and exhaustion and love, god, he loved this kid--

"Sorry," Tony whispered, shaky, and swallowed a grunt of surprise when Peter tugged at his hair.

"No 'sorry,'" Peter panted, brushing shaking fingers through Tony's hair where he'd tugged to soothe the sting. "You said. We're-- together, so--"

Tony loved him, he loved him, he loved him.

"You're gonna learn I'm a hypocrite, Pete," he whispered, tucking a tearful smile into Peter's hair as he inched inside of him. "I can… say it all I want."

And Peter actually huffed a tiny laugh, strained as it was, and ran a comforting hand over Tony's back.

"Nope," he gasped, and he turned his head to press a clumsy kiss to the underside of Tony's jaw. "Not allowed."

"Bossy," Tony teased, and he pressed a kiss to Peter's forehead in return. He was nearly bottomed out, and his cock begged him to move-- his body shook with the ongoing stop-and-go of sensation since they'd started, pockets of building pleasure burrowed amongst a wall of sobering horror, and the hot pressure of Peter's body around him was almost overwhelming in its unambiguous good.

But he held still, and Peter shot back, "You said… whatever I want."

And for a second--

Peter's voice wasn't marred by suppressed fear and shame. He sounded like himself, like this was any other exchange he and Tony might share over lunch or in the lab, playfully cocky. And far from unshed tears, the low rasp in his voice sounded instead like--

Tony felt his cock jump, and felt Peter's breath hitch as he felt the same thing, and Tony could beg off that all his wires were crossed and fried to hell and back all that he wanted, but the fact remained that it wasn't the sex that made it happen, not Peter's body tight around him or his breath stirring the hair over Tony's ear, but it was just Peter being Peter.

And there was no way he could let himself even begin to process that, so instead, he started to move.

"Oh fuck," Peter whimpered, his hand fisting in Tony's shirt over his back, and that-- wasn't totally what Tony was expecting, and he was pretty sure it was a good thing, but--

"You're gonna have to do the whole… good-noise/bad-noise thing for me, now, kid," he said, hesitating, and Peter nodded jerkily and urged, "Good, good, good."

And-- well, fuck it, Tony could work with that.

"Okay, baby, you just let me know," he murmured in Peter's ear, and the way Peter shuddered at Tony's voice didn't compare to the way he arched when Tony started rolling his hips to thrust into him, long and slow.

Peter did let him know. He was obviously trying to keep his voice quiet, just between him and Tony, but over time his soft panting and distracted whispers of m'fine, it's good, Mr. Stark turned into heavy, ragged breaths and audible whimpers, and then sharp cries and long moans when Tony angled his hips to thrust into him at just the right spot--

Peter untangled a hand from Tony's hair to bring it to his mouth and bite at his own wrist at that point, trying to muffle himself to where his cries didn't echo in the quiet room over the mingled sounds of their harsh breathing as Tony fucked him, deep but gentle.

"No," came Jack's voice, and Peter flinched hard underneath Tony's body. "No hiding. And Tony, pick up the pace, for fuck's sake."

"Ignore him," Tony urged immediately, and he kissed Peter's forehead where it was furrowed with discomfort. "Look at me, sweetheart."

Peter did, and he looked helpless with shame and desire alike, cheeks flushed and eyes glazed-over and brows knit together. Tony didn't know if he could fix it, but fuck if, after all this, he wasn't going to try.

"Ignore him," Tony murmured again, voiced pitched low and soothing. "We're the only ones here, okay, baby? Just you and me."

Peter took in a shuddering breath, the heat in his gaze growing a spark brighter, and whispered, "O-okay, yeah."

"Good, good, yeah," Tony soothed nonsensically, and he rocked into Peter a little faster. Peter arched under him, and Tony could feel him trying to relax, but it wasn't enough-- he was still breathing shallowly, trying to hold back any noise, and it was keeping him too in his head and focused on Jack.

"Pete, babe," Tony said, and Peter whimpered a little shivery oh at the pet name. "You feel good, right? It's okay, it's okay. I want you to feel good, sweetheart."

He thrust his hips forward harder, rocking Peter's body with it, and Peter scrabbled his hands at Tony's shoulders, gasping, "Oh-- yeah-- f-feels good--"

"Good," Tony praised him, and he kept up that pace, fucking into him hard and fast. "That's good, let me know, okay? Just like before, you were doing so good, so perfect, baby."

Peter started to lose control again, his voice coming out on whimpers and groans, and Tony encouraged him through it, murmuring that's it, good job, just like that, you're gorgeous, sweetheart, so beautiful to drown out the sound of Peter's own voice in his ears.

And like that-- letting himself talk like he would to an actual lover, hips driving at a pace meant to bring them both to the edge, Peter's arms and legs wrapped around him to clutch him close-- Tony felt his own control begin to fray, just a little, his body ready for the lightness of release after the exhausting onslaught of persistent, oppressive tension.

So when Peter moved a hand up again to tangle in Tony's hair and dragged him down from where Tony was pressed over him, groaning "Tony," in that desperate mix of frustration and want, and tipped his face up again, like before, like when Tony had been stroking him to the edge of coming--

Tony had told himself that he wouldn't let it happen, but he'd also told himself that he would give Peter whatever he asked for; whatever comfort he needed to make it through this.

So he curled down over Peter and kissed him, open-mouthed, over and over again, and let Peter muffle his cries into his mouth while he fucked him, and swallowed down the low moan Peter shuddered out when he came.

"Good," Tony grunted, pressing his face back into Peter's hair as the kid fell apart under him, dazed, "good, perfect, you're perfect, baby," and he snapped his hips forward into the heat of Peter's body until he followed, tears in his eyes.

The relief of coming, after all the horror leading up to it, was so powerful that the moments afterward were hazy. Tony found himself on his side, shaking and covered in sweat, clutching Peter to his chest. Peter was crying-- quietly, just little hitches of breath and sniffles, and-- distantly, Tony realized, so was he.

He let out a shaky sigh, and stroked his fingers through Peter's sweat-damp hair, and waited for Jack's voice to break their exhausted reprieve.

Instead--

Peter curled closer where his head was tucked under Tony's chin, and mumbled, "Mr. Stark?"

"Mmm?" Tony managed to hum, and he rubbed circles into Peter's scalp.

"I love you too."

Instead--

Red lights started to flash overhead, and Peter jolted upright, leaving Tony to swallow down a sob on the floor. He pushed himself up with shaking arms, and for the first time in what felt like hours, he let himself look toward Jack's screen.

On that little screen, Jack's shitty office chair clattered to the floor, and the door in the background slammed open.

The Avengers had found them.

Chapter Text

Tony threw his jacket over Peter, made sure he was tucked away, and stumbled to his feet. Peter flinched and his knees buckled when Tony reached to help him up, and Tony's heart lurched.

"Fuck, kid, did I hurt you?" he gasped, throat tight, and jesus he could not afford a panic attack right now but if he'd actually somehow hurt Peter he didn't think he'd ever get over it--

But Peter shook his head, flushing deeply, and he looked mortified instead of pained when he grabbed one of Tony's hands again to pull himself up, clutching the jacket to his chest with his other arm.

"No-- I just-- i-it feels weird. It doesn't hurt," Peter rushed to reassure him, like Tony's feelings meant jack shit in this situation, because from watching Peter pull himself up with his knees together Tony had realized like a punch to the gut that Peter just hadn't been expecting anything to-- leak-- because of course he hadn't, because he was sixteen and that was his first time and Tony had come inside of him, why the fuck had he done that, he could have pulled out and finished himself with his hand--

"Mr. Stark," Peter said urgently, inches from him, and Tony realized that Peter's free hand was on his cheek and he couldn't remember when that had happened, and oh, he was having that panic attack after all. "Mr. Stark, we're okay. I'm okay. We made it, right? The others are here and we're going home, okay, come with me, let's go--"

And Tony nodded stupidly and let Peter lead him to the cell door, like he wasn't the adult in this situation, and watched, useless, as Peter tore the door off its hinges with one hand.

The door to the room opened as the bars clattered to the ground, and that at least got through to Tony in some way, though his chest was still tight and his fingers were cold and he was thinking as if through a dreamlike fog-- but he immediately stepped in front of Peter and scooped up his clothes, passing them into Peter's hands behind him.

"Do we have a second?" he croaked as Natasha, Sam and Barnes poured into the room-- Steve and the others must have still been dealing with Jack, he noted, distantly.

Natasha, bless her, coolly took in the situation and then nodded, turning her back and simply saying, "The others have the situation secured," over her shoulder.

Sam and Barnes both blanched, though, and Barnes even whispered, "Christ, Tony," before Sam turned him with a hand on his shoulder.

Tony knew it was painfully obvious what had happened. The room smelled like sex, he and Peter were both still flushed and disheveled and tear-stained, Peter was naked, and if all of that weren't enough, Tony had Peter's come smeared across the front of his shirt.

He turned mechanically and held his jacket out for Peter to change into his suit behind, Peter having already scrambled into his boxers while Tony was faced away. He closed his eyes and took deep breaths and listened to the sounds of fabric rustling, as behind him, Natasha continued, "The jet's nearby, staffed with medical. We figured if any of us needed to stay behind to hold down the fort until SHIELD got here, we could get a ride back with them."

"Tony, we can send Wanda and Nat ahead with Pete in the jet if you wanna hang back and debrief with us," Sam offered, and his aim was transparent-- send Peter off with the women and let him process things away from Tony; no one was actually going to make Tony debrief like this-- and Tony opened his mouth to agree when Peter burst out with, "No!"

His healing factor had already done a little bit for his voice, but it was still achingly raw, and Tony's stomach churned at the thought of the others putting two-and-two together about why that was.

"You-- you can turn around by the way but no, Mr. Stark needs medical too--" Peter started, sounding self-conscious after his outburst, and then Tony felt a hand on his wrist as Peter interrupted himself. "Oh-- shit, Mr. Stark, are you going to puke, please don't--"

"I'm good," Tony insisted, airless. "I'm good, I'm good."

"Okay, both of you are going to the jet," Tony heard Sam announce behind him, and then felt a strong hand grip his shoulder. Tony sucked in a breath, grateful for the grounding touch. "There you go, breathe, Tony, we've gotta get you home. --Shit, your neck."

"Electroshock chips," Tony mumbled, and he let Sam lead him by the shoulder, Peter trailing behind and still holding his opposite wrist. He distantly recognized Natasha reporting in to medical as they moved through-- whatever this place was-- "Controls are in that guy's room. I wouldn't… I wouldn't have…"

He couldn't find it in himself to put words to it, and he felt Peter's grip tighten on his wrist. He fell silent, ultimately, but to his relief--

"We know, Tony," Barnes said from where he was leading the pack, ahead of the trail of Sam-Tony-Peter and Natasha bringing up the rear. "Not your fault, or Peter's."

"It's not your fault," Sam echoed, firm, and hearing it made Tony's shoulders nearly sag with relief, even if it also made him want to cry, again, like he hadn't lost enough tears today. "Either of you."

And then Peter, behind him, also whispered, "It's not your fault, Mr. Stark," voice creaky with tears, and Tony resigned the part of himself that still distantly cared to the fact that every person he knew was going to see him cry today.

It was hazy, after that. Medical staff met them at the bridge of the jet with shock blankets, which a part of Tony scoffed at even as he clutched his tight around his shoulders. Changes of clothes were pressed into his and Peter's hands once they were on the jet, and Tony remembered insisting that Peter take the bathroom first, and not understanding why Peter was hesitant until Sam offered that Tony could wait for him outside the door.

"You must have made him feel safe, man," Sam explained with a shrug when Tony turned a look of blank confusion on him after the door clicked shut behind Peter.

And that didn't make sense at all, but if he could do something for Peter, he would do it, so he leaned against the wall and let his mind drift, and it was still drifting when he took his turn and washed the traces of lube and precome and sweat off his hands for so long that Sam knocked on the door to make sure he was okay, and then somehow or another he and Peter were sharing a medical bench while their incisions were examined and they were asked questions to make sure Jack hadn't fried their brains.

Helen-- oh, Helen was there-- wanted to operate to remove the chips before they even left to go back to the tower, and Tony loved Helen but that pissed him off even through the dull haze that had settled over him, and he snapped as much: "Why the fuck aren't we doing this in the med bay? Chop-chop, let's jet, jesus christ--"

Natasha stepped up to answer instead of Helen.

"Steve says the man who captured you had a chip, too," she informed him, cool and steadying. "He's dead now. There was someone else behind this, and they used the chip to kill him before he could be captured. We have no reason to think that whoever did that doesn't also have access to your and Peter's chips, so we have to remove them now."

And fuck, if that hadn't been enough to cut through his haze, Peter squeezing the daylights out of his hand would have been.

"He's-- oh, shit, he's--?"

Peter sounded on the verge of panic, and a distant part of Tony marveled over how the death of even a monster like Jack could shake him, when all Tony felt about it was a mix of vicious satisfaction and disappointment that he hadn't gotten to do it himself.

He couldn't say that, so instead he squeezed Peter's hand in return and murmured, "We're okay, kid."

Peter looked at him, a little bit of the reflexive horror fading out of his eyes-- he was such a good kid-- and then took a deep breath, shaking his head slightly.

"For… for the surgery-- can we… Do we have to be put under?" Peter refocused, looking at Helen with his brows drawn together. "Can we use local anesthetic? He-- we were already drugged, so if it's still in our system--"

He framed it like a safety concern, like it wasn't enough to be afraid of going under after what had happened. Tony wanted, impossibly, to whisk him away somewhere he'd never have to worry about supervillains or electroshock chips or torture ever again. He leveled Helen with an outright pleading gaze for her to make this happen for Peter and he didn't even feel embarrassed about it.

She hesitated, and admitted, "It's not as deep as it could be, but even with anesthetic it will be uncomfortable, Peter, and we know that local doesn't work very well for you."

Peter looked upset, and Tony couldn't stand it, so he said, "Do mine local. I'll be awake the whole time, Pete, I'll be here when you wake up, okay?"

He didn't know how it should have made him feel, the way Peter's shoulder sagged in relief at that. The way it did make him feel was like he'd put his heart through a meat-grinder, but Peter nodded, and Helen apparently wasn't about to argue with the expression on Tony's face, so that's what they did.

Tony went first, and they let Peter watch and Helen explained the process to him while Tony cracked jokes the whole time, and they let Tony hold Peter's hand and do the countdown when they put him under.

After, Helen promised Tony that even with his spider-metabolism, Peter wouldn't wake up before they made it to the tower. So Tony shoved a cot up next to Peter's, just in case, and finally let himself lay down.

Sam had come in to check on them, and before Tony dropped off, he mumbled, "How bad did I fuck up here, Wilson?"

"You didn't fuck up, Tony," Sam said, and Tony took a shuddering breath, exhausted. "You did the best you could in a fucked-up situation."

And if all that meant was that Sam, in all his trauma training, didn't have any better answers than Tony, he would take it. Tony took another breath, and fell asleep.

Tony stuck by Peter's side while he was out. They moved him to the med bay once they reached the tower, and Tony took a quick shower in one of the other empty rooms before posting up by his bed. He had a brief conversation with Happy over the phone-- Happy took Tony's explanations about the shock chip surgeries and that he couldn't remember what security breaches had lead to his abduction with an air of grim-if-concerned acceptance, and Tony breathed a sigh of relief when Happy let him go with well-wishes, promises to catch up once Happy had resolved their security problem, and zero questions about what the shock chips had been used for. He must have looked okay on the video call, then, which-- he'd only barely been physically hurt, so. That checked out.

SHIELD didn't make him debrief, but Natasha did ask if there was anything he could think of that could help them track down the person behind Jack's chip. Tony shared the little that he had-- he still didn't remember anything about his actual abduction, but he thought that Jack was probably a former SI employee, and he'd referenced another person by "he" during his ramblings-- and Natasha took the meager info with a nod and left him with Peter.

As she left the room, another woman entered-- one Tony didn't recognize, but she had a SHIELD insignia on her jacket, so he guessed he didn't need to fire anyone about playing fast and loose with Peter's identity.

"If you think I'm doing a mission report right now I'm going to be forced to break your heart, darling," Tony said, eyeing her, but she smiled at him.

"I'm Agent Landry, and I'm also a trained crisis counselor," the woman said, and Tony relaxed.

"Oh, you're here for Pete," he said, and he gestured around the room. "Pull up a chair; Dr. Cho said it shouldn't be much longer."

"We have a counselor standing by for Peter too, yes," Agent Landry said, but when she chose a chair, she turned it to face him instead of Peter. "But I'm mostly here for you, Mr. Stark, if you would like to talk. The other treatment rooms are all available, and we could have you notified when Peter wakes up, or we could make an appointment for later today after you've had time to rest."

"...If I want to talk," Tony said, blankly. They'd arranged a counselor for him?

"I understand that you were abducted by a man that hurt you and Peter," Agent Landry said, calmly. "It's very normal to have difficult emotions to process in this kind of situation, especially having a previous history of abduction."

"No," Tony said. They were comparing this to Afghanistan? "What? No. Uh-- the kid, though-- whatever therapy he needs, though, I'll pay for it, so can your people set that up?"

"Sure, if he decides he wants to move forward with treatment," Agent Landry said. She took a business card out of her pocket, and Tony took it mechanically when she offered it. "Do you have any questions for me?"

"Should I be here?" Tony blurted, surprising himself. But he'd already asked, so-- "I told Pete I would be, but I don't-- he might not want to see me. Is your professional opinion, y'know, should I give him some space?"

Agent Landry hummed.

"Did he say whether he wanted you here or not?" she asked, neutral.

"No, but, he was-- he was sticking close to me on the jet," Tony said, and he clasped his hands together. "He, um, he didn't want to do the surgery until I told him I'd be awake for him when he woke up."

Agent Landry nodded, and her face was understanding instead of deeply worried on Peter's behalf, so that was something. She leaned forward in her chair.

"Often an aspect of traumatic events is a feeling of helplessness, or not having a say over what's happening to you," Agent Landry explained, and Tony nodded, swallowing. "So, as loved ones of a person who has experienced something traumatic, often one of the best things we can do is listen to and trust them when they tell us what they want or need."

"What--" Tony cleared his throat, rubbing a hand over his mouth. "What if they want something that's not healthy? That happens all the time. Drugs, alcohol, isolation, y'know."

"That's where encouraging healthy boundaries and communication come into play," Agent Landry said kindly. "Often therapy is a part of that, though it doesn't have to be. And it's also important to keep in mind that recovery is a process, and Peter might not need the same things from you the whole time. You might not need the same things from him, either."

Tony flinched.

"I don't-- I don't need anything from him, he's a kid," he said, and Agent Landry tipped her head slightly.

"Adults get to have boundaries with children, too," she said. "There may be times when you don't want to see Peter, or parts of your life you don't want him to be a part of. That's normal, and if those boundaries change over time, that's normal, too."

I don't want anything to change, Tony thought, and bullshit, how could I have the right to ask him for anything?

Instead, he said, "Huh. Well, okay, Doc, I've got your card. I'm gonna stick with Pete."

Agent Landry took the dismissal for what it was and smiled at him as she stood.

"Okay, Mr. Stark. It was nice to meet you. Let me know if you have any other questions, or if you just want to talk," she said, and when she left a nurse came in to 'check in' on Peter-- they weren't even monitoring his vitals; he was totally stable-- and Tony realized they weren't leaving him alone in Peter's room.

Well, that was fair. Peter had wanted him around before he was put under, but like Agent Landry had said-- that might change, and that was normal.

He didn't have much time to work himself up into too much of a froth of self-hatred, though, because it wasn't long after Agent Landry left that Peter started to stir.

Tony held his breath as Peter blinked awake, and hoped his smile didn't look too strained when Peter's eyes settled on him.

"Hey, Pete," he whispered, and Peter yawned.

"Hi, Mr. Stark," he said, rubbing a hand over his face. He looked tired, and drawn, but not afraid. There was only a little bit of a scratch left in his voice, now. Tony let out a long, slow breath.

"How's the neck? You need anything? There's a nurse here," Tony said, keeping his voice soft, and he saw Peter's eyes refocus over his shoulder where the nurse was standing.

"Not bad," Peter said, shrugging one shoulder. "I won't be able to feel it at all tomorrow."

The nurse asked if she could just check the incision and Peter agreed, and Tony sat back while she checked and changed Peter's bandage. Peter was a little withdrawn, and he didn't know if that was because of him or the nurse or the whole godforsaken situation.

"Everything's looking good!" The nurse chirped, and she patted Peter's shoulder. "You should even be good to take a shower whenever you're done here. There's a support person outside that wants to talk to you; I'll send her in and when you're done talking you're free to leave."

"Oh--" Peter looked at Tony, surprised, and then back at the nurse. "Could you-- ask the-- 'support person' to hold off for a few minutes?"

His nose scrunched adorably when he said 'support person,' and yeah, Tony knew the words 'crisis counselor' might be a bit much at the moment but that had been a truly weird way to put it. Tony looked at the nurse too-- he didn't know if it was general common sense that they weren't letting him be alone with Peter and if they'd lay off now that the kid was awake and not flinching at the sight of him, or if it was some kind of actual protocol that was being followed.

But:

"Sure," the nurse said easily with nothing more than a quick glance at Tony, "I'll give you a bit of time and then send her in, okay?"

"Thanks," Peter said, and he and Tony were both quiet as they watched her leave.

Peter leaned back against the pillows, and broke the silence first.

"Did… Did anyone tell May?"

Now he sounded small and uncertain, and Tony wondered how many times his heart could break in one day.

"She knows we were captured and had to be rescued, and she's on her way up-- should be here soon, actually-- but no one told her… what happened," Tony said, and he cleared his throat against the way his voice wanted to shake. "That's, uh. Something I think your counselor can help you with, once she gets here."

"Oh, it's a counselor," Peter said, scrunching his nose again. "Why didn't she just say that? 'Support person.'"

Tony blinked-- it stopped his breath to see Peter being so himself, and, oh, maybe they were going to be okay.

"Yeah," Tony said, with a more natural smile, "They sent one after me too; you can imagine how that went."

But instead of smiling, Peter looked at him, baffled.

"You didn't talk to them?"

"No?" Tony shrugged. "I'll be fine, Pete, I just want to see you get back on your feet."

"Mr. Stark," Peter said, frowning in a way that was trending toward upset, "you had a panic attack."

Tony almost frowned too-- this was not the direction he was expecting things to go, he didn't love that Peter knew how to recognize a panic attack, and he hated to see Peter's shaky peace getting shakier by the second-- but he caught himself in time to keep his expression light.

"Not the first time; won't be the last," he dismissed with a shrug. "I'll be fine, like I said. Listen, Peter--"

He leaned forward, and Peter didn't interrupt him, but he looked like he wanted to.

"Anything you want-- I got it, okay? You wanna stay here at the tower until we catch the guy behind that bastard, you got it. You wanna go home with a 24-hour security detail, you got it. You want fifteen new spider-suits with, what, laser beams and chainsaws and I'll figure it out. Therapy, meds, if you want designated Peter-only hours for the lab or the gym or--" Tony cleared his throat again, but he couldn't stop there, he had to say it, "--or you need me to get out of your face for a few weeks or months or, whenever, just say the word, okay? Just… tell me what you need."

Peter--

Peter's eyes went shiny and red-rimmed, his expression sliding straight past 'troubled' and slamming into 'upset,' and Tony panicked.

"Baby, why are you crying," he whispered, and there it was, another piece of evidence about how he shouldn't be trusted to handle this, he shouldn't be trusted to be around Peter when he was why he was upset in the first place--

"No," Peter said, rubbing at his eyes with a sniffle and frustrated groan. "No, sorry, it's not your fault, Mr. Stark. Just--"

And he looked back at Tony, at least, even if the heartbroken uncertainty on his face made Tony want to throw himself into traffic.

"You're really not… mad at me?"

Tony took in a breath, slow.

"Jesus, Pete," he said, letting the breath flow back out. "Why would I be mad at you? It wasn't your fault. None of it was your fault. He was my bad guy, my shitty illustrious past catching up with me again and hurting-- hurting you-- no, Pete, why would I be mad at you?"

Peter nodded, wiping his eyes with shaking hands.

"Okay," he said, small and wet. "Okay. Sorry."

Tony ached to touch him-- ruffle his hair, hold his hand-- but he didn't know where they were at with that, now. The immediate crisis was over, and the level of touching in the aftermath definitely wasn't something that should become their new normal, so maybe he-- shouldn't.

Instead, he just said, "The moratorium on 'sorry' is still in effect, Pete, don't think you're getting out of that one," and Peter at least gave him the mercy of a shaky smile.

Then, FRIDAY's voice came over the speakers.

"The car that was sent for May Parker is ten minutes out from the tower, Boss."

Tony sprang to his feet like he'd been-- well, electrocuted. Haha.

"I'll send in your counselor, okay? You talk things over with May and tell me what you want," he said, and then stared as Peter jolted forward, wide-eyed and gripping his wrist.

"Tony," Peter said, an edge of panic in his voice, and oh, no, no, he couldn't do this.

"Pete," Tony answered, and he tried to keep his voice gentle, tried to shove down his own panic to where Peter couldn't hear it even with his spider-ears. "I'm gonna be in the tower, okay? Just ask FRI if you need to find me. But I can't--" His voice broke, so he was already failing, but whatever. "You know I can't be here while you talk to May, right? She's not gonna want me here. And you need, um, you need to be able to talk to someone about it without me here too."

On cue, there was a knock at the door, and the woman who must have been sent as Peter's counselor let herself in. If she was taken aback by the scene-- Peter clutching at Tony's wrist, still tearful, and Tony looking guilty and caught-- she didn't show it, smiling warmly at both of them.

"Hello, Peter, I'm Agent Norfolk," she said, her smile turning slightly apologetic. "I'm a crisis counselor with SHIELD. I'm sorry about the timing, but I heard word that your aunt has nearly arrived, and I thought there might be some things you would want to talk to me about before she gets up here."

"...Yeah," Peter said reluctantly, and his fingers loosened on Tony's wrist, but he didn't let go.

"Pete," Tony said again, and Peter looked to him, stubborn worry etched into his brow. "You're okay. You're gonna be okay."

Peter took in a shaky breath at the echo of the words Tony had used to comfort him-- back there-- and closed his eyes, but he nodded. He let go of Tony's wrist.

"I'll… I'll see you later," he said, and it sounded like a question.

"Yeah. Definitely, okay?" Tony said, and Peter nodded again.

And then Tony fled.

Sam was lingering outside the med bay, having changed out of his Falcon gear, and as Sam turned toward him Tony heard himself blurt, "Please leave me alone."

He immediately rubbed a hand over his face and shook his head-- he hadn't meant to say that, this wasn't Sam's fault, it wasn't anyone else's fault, but he was seriously hanging by a thread and blurting shit without meaning to was exactly why he needed to be alone.

But Sam just said, "Hey, man, it's okay," and when Tony looked he was holding his hands up placatingly.

"I'm not gonna ambush you," Sam said. "I figure you need a break. I just thought I'd see if you wanted me to set anything up or make some calls while you're getting some rest. Pepper or Colonel Rhodes, maybe?"

And it horrified Tony, to think of other people knowing. Enough people already knew-- every Avenger on the mission, probably, and all the medical staff on the jet, the crisis counselors, probably Nick fucking Fury once the mission reports were put in, and in ten minutes, May Parker-- but it also horrified him to think about all those people knowing, and the one person he may-- may-- have chosen to tell himself being in the dark.

"Rhodey," he said. "He can, uh… he can have access to the mission report."

Sam nodded, and Tony knew he was smart enough to take Tony's meaning-- you can tell him, so I don't have to-- and he only nodded in return when Sam clapped him on the shoulder and told him to get some rest and sent him on his way to the elevator.

Tony didn't rest, exactly. He went to his room and took another shower, and had FRIDAY talk him through his panic attack protocol, and closed out of the tab where he had three bottles of his favorite scotch added to his cart about six times. He started and scrapped plans for several new Spider-man suits on his work tablet. He looked up what it took for a minor to get an emergency leave of absence from school-- the start of the semester was, what, a month away or something, but if Peter needed that time then by god he was going to get it-- and emailed Dr. Cho to ask if she'd prepare a letter for Peter if it was necessary after all.

He thought about Peter telling May Parker what Tony had done to him, with only a stranger he'd known for ten minutes to help him through it.

It was almost a relief when FRIDAY finally told him, "Boss, May Parker is requesting access to your suite."

Tony sat on the edge of his bed, and clenched and unclenched his fists.

He said, "Let her in."

She was standing in the living room when he went out to meet her. Her eyes were rimmed in red-- she was actually still crying a little, quietly, but Tony couldn't read her expression beyond that.

He didn't say anything, and for a moment, she didn't either.

And then her face crumpled, and she strode towards him fast, and he didn't let himself flinch as her hands reached for him--

But his knees nearly buckled when she pulled him into a hug.

"I want to be so mad at you," she whispered tearfully into his shoulder, while his hands hung uselessly at his sides. "But I know it wasn't your fault, and Peter told me what you said about taking care of things."

Tony felt off-center; braced for an impact, an immolation that never came. It took him too long to answer, but May didn't let him go.

"You can be mad at me," he said, uncomprehending, once he found his voice buried underneath something tight and constricting in his throat.

May shook her head and reached up to cup his face in both hands. Her expression was fierce, but her hands were gentle, and Tony couldn't wrap his mind around the dissonance.

"No, Tony. It wasn't your fault. Peter said you did everything you could--"

"May, I hurt him," Tony whispered, compelled. May was-- after Peter, she was the person who had the most reason to hate him in this, and Peter was too starry-eyed and golden-hearted to do it, but May had to see the truth here, because who else was going to protect Peter's best interests?

May gripped his face more tightly and shook her head again, stubborn, even as her eyes spilled over with tears.

"You took care of him. That's what he said. That monster hurt him, him and you," she insisted, voice catching on sobs, and Tony took her wrists gently to pull himself free, shaking his head.

"I'm sorry," he said, and the words spilled out of him. "No, May, I'm sorry, it was my fault--"

May made a disgusted sound and griped, "You two and your guilt, I swear to God, come here you idiot man--"

And she pulled him back into a hug, and this time, Tony didn't have the strength not to crumble into it.

They cried together. A part of Tony was horrified at himself for allowing May to see him like that, and for allowing himself to accept her comfort, but he didn't have anything left in him to help him hold back. All the posts holding up his veneer of functionality had been flattened, and all he had left was himself and the yards and yards of griefshamehorrorguilt packed into his chest that had to come out.

"Where's Pete," he asked finally, voice thick, when they untangled themselves from that long embrace to sit instead on the couch.

"Talking with his counselor," May said, wiping at her eyes. "He only agreed to let me come talk to you when I promised not to yell."

"You did call me an idiot," Tony pointed out, instead of saying how could either of us have ever let someone that good come anywhere near me. "I advance the technological baseline for the planet by five years every time I pull an all-nighter and you called me an idiot."

May laughed wetly, and said, "I stand by it."

They talked after that, about the tentative plans Peter had made with May and his counselor-- he didn't think he would need leave from school, but he did want to stay at the tower for a while. May was going to ask for family leave at work so that she could stay with him, and that, at least, was a problem Tony could throw money at if it didn't look like it was going to go their way. Peter was going to keep seeing Agent Norfolk, and he'd agreed to pause his patrols "until things settled down."

Which-- meant that Peter had to be feeling pretty unspeakably shitty, since patrolling was usually how he coped with trauma, and Tony tried to let that information flow over him so that he could ask the questions that really mattered.

"Do I need to…" He gestured uselessly. "Ship out somewhere while Pete's here?"

"I asked him about that," May said, and something in Tony shuddered in relief that even if she refused to blame him, she'd still thought about it. "But no. He wants to know you're safe too, since that asshole was after you."

"Does he want No-Tony hours for the lab or, wherever, other shared spaces? He can-- he can have the run of the place; I'll stay out of his way if that's what he needs," Tony offered, but May was already shaking her head.

"I think…" she said, slowly, "he wants things to stay as normal as possible. And I think he's hung up on the 'possible' part, because he doesn't know how he's going to feel and he doesn't know how you feel. But he said-- I mean, he didn't really say that he wanted to stay at the tower; he said he wanted to stay with you."

Oh.

"Don't tell me that," Tony whined weakly, rubbing a hand over his face. "What's your angle here, May; you gonna sell pictures of my crying face to the press?"

In truth he thought he was genuinely out of tears at that point, and it did help that for this, at least, he could fall back on his usual strategy of making a joke out of things in a way that he couldn't about-- Peter-- but god, that didn't mean the words didn't hit him like a knife to the heart. May laughed, tired, and patted his knee.

"I think it's too late for that, Mr. Iron Man," she teased, and her smile turned gentle. "He loves you, Tony. He wants to see you get better like you want to see him get better. I know… you might need space, but Peter's not going to blame you for anything no matter what you do, so you're just going to have to deal with that."

"Would you believe I don't have a lot of experience with people who refuse to get mad at me in my personal life," Tony muttered, going for the joke instead of actually confronting the fear of 'dealing with that.'

"You're the genius; figure it out," May said, and she patted his knee more sharply. "Maybe call your counselor. Peter's really worried that you're not talking to a counselor."

"Okay, thanks for dropping by, May," Tony said, overly loud, and May rolled her eyes with a tired smile before sighing and leaning forward.

"Listen, I meant what I said about space, okay?" she said, serious. "If that's something you're going to need, let me know so I can talk to Peter about it."

Tony scoffed and returned May's eyeroll.

"Oh, right, because I definitely need to hide from that menace Peter Parker," he said, and May frowned.

"I mean it, Tony," she said. "As much as I'd love to tell you to give Peter whatever he wants here, you know it would just hurt him more if he thought you were forcing yourself for his sake."

"I don't need 'space,'" Tony insisted flatly, complete with scare quotes.

May looked at him for a long moment, but then settled back, either satisfied or unwilling to continue to push it.

"Okay," she said. "Let me know if that changes."

And Tony wasn't going to let anything change, so it would be fine.

"Sure," he lied.

Rhodey called him after that, when he was lying crossways face-down on his bed, unwilling to submit to an actual nap but unable to actually focus on anything long enough to make sitting upright worthwhile. It didn't matter what it was-- SI business, suit schematics for Peter, new nanocasing designs so that it would never, ever make sense for him to leave the building without a suit at hand again, the millisecond he spent looking for trauma resources for sexual assault for Peter before tabbing away with his heart hammering-- he'd pull up everything he needed to work, and then when he tried to set his mind to actually doing the work, his thoughts would skate away to Peter.

He itched to know how Peter was doing, what he was thinking and feeling, but reminded himself over and over again that Peter had May with him, he wasn't alone and restless like Tony, and that he probably needed time away from Tony to even figure out what he was thinking and feeling in the first place. He reminded himself that Peter was safe in the tower and he didn't need Tony to hold him and tell him everything was going to be okay anymore, and it was almost certainly some kind of fucked up psychological impulse that Tony even wanted to do that, but the urge hit him like a sledgehammer every time he thought about the idea that Peter could be crying somewhere on another floor while Tony was laying uselessly face-down on his bed.

FRIDAY announced the call from Rhodey, and that at least forced Tony to drag himself up to sit against the headboard while he let her patch the videocall through.

He didn't say anything in greeting, and for a moment neither did Rhodey, his friend studying him intently instead. Tony knew that Rhodey was trying to suss him out-- how shaken he was, whether or not he was going to want to talk, if he would respond better to humor or companionable silence or actual concern and care-- and Tony silently wished him luck because he had no fucking idea himself, but if anyone could figure it out it would be Rhodey.

Rhodey finally took in a deep breath and let it out slowly, letting a grimace overtake his expression.

"Jesus, Tones," he breathed. "How are you holding up?"

I cried on May Parker's shoulder for ten minutes, Tony thought.

Every time my incision twinges I have to run through my panic attack protocol.

I was forced to fuck a sixteen-year-old and everyone knows.

Peter is somewhere recovering from choking on my dick and I can't even focus long enough to make him a new suit so he never has to wear that one again--

"Do you remember that time in Vegas when that bar named a drink after me," Tony said.

Rhodey paused, and then slowly nodded.

"The Toasty Stark. I don't think I ever saw you that sick even in college," he said, carefully, not entirely sure where Tony was going with this yet.

"Yep," Tony agreed, popping the 'p.' "But before I got sick I nearly got arrested paying everyone in the bar to put on an impromptu parade down the Strip, with a parade theme of 'Stripping,' because Toasty Stark-level Drunk Me thought that was clever."

He paused.

"I want, like, six Toasty Starks right now."

Rhodey smiled, rueful, taking his cues from Tony, but Tony could see the concern deepening behind his eyes-- because of course, Rhodey of all people would be able to recognize the message behind Tony's glib confession of wanting to break his sobriety: please help me, I don't know what the fuck to do.

"I think that making a Toasty Stark is probably illegal in the state of New York," Rhodey said. "But you know I make a mean virgin piña colada. I can be there tomorrow, Tones, I already put in for a few days' leave."

"You didn't have to do that," Tony muttered, rubbing a hand over his face, but it was a token protest. He couldn't even picture what the next few days were going to look like, but putting Rhodey into the frame helped inject-- some kind of structure and predictability and familiarity, something he could build off of.

"Oh, what, I need permission to come to the tower now?" Rhodey scoffed, recognizing Tony's half-hearted deflection for what it was. "It's already done. I'll be there around noon. Let me know if you need anything, all right?"

"You know your company is enough for me, honeybear," Tony said tiredly, falling automatically into their usual routine in the absence of knowing what else to say. He didn't know what he needed-- well, what he needed was to not think for a while, but he couldn't drink or get high and he didn't want to risk the dreams that might come with sleeping.

Rhodey flashed him a patient smile, and then sighed as it faded and he asked quietly, "How's the kid?"

Tony rubbed both hands over his face.

"He's-- I don't know. May said he wants to stay--" with me, "--at the tower for a while, and he's going to take some time off from patrolling. I talked to him for a minute after he woke up from having his chip removed and he seemed okay, but he-- it was--"

He stopped, his heart picking up speed as he stumbled at voicing the thought of how could he possibly be okay after I did that to him, but Rhodey stepped in to finish it for him.

"It was bad," Rhodey said simply, and Tony nodded, exhausted.

"It was bad," he repeated, quiet, the admission coming more easily in someone else's words.

Trust Rhodey to understand the way to actually get him talking was to bring up the kid.

"SHIELD sent him a counselor, so that's, y'know," Tony continued, swiping a hand through the air, emphatic but directionless. "But it's just-- a lot. I mean, how the fuck do you deal with that, as a kid? And he's already had so much-- with his uncle, and all the shit that goes with being a hero, and now-- this-- one of these days it's going to have to get to him, right, and I don't want--"

I don't want to be the thing that changes him stuck in Tony's throat, and he fell silent, shaking his head.

Rhodey watched him for a moment, silent and solemn, before he spoke.

"He's a tough kid," he said, quiet. "And he's got a lot of good people watching out for him. You aren't in this alone, Tones."

Tony let out a long, slow breath, the tightness in his chest loosening some. Call it narcissism or call it a guilt complex, but he did-- forget sometimes, that he wasn't the only one capable of solving a problem, and the reminder that Peter had other people to rely on here-- better people than Tony, people that weren't the cause of the problem in the first place-- did help him relax, as pathetic as that was.

"Yeah," he said, letting his head thunk back against the headboard. "Yeah, okay."

They talked a little while longer before Rhodey had to beg off so he could finish up some work and get packed for his flight the next day, and afterwards, Tony got in a good twenty minutes of design on a new Spider-suit before FRIDAY told him nearly half the resident Avengers were outside his suite with Thai food.

"Hey, Tony," Natasha greeted as she breezed past him to put down her portion of the take-out bags on his coffee table. "What are we watching for movie night?"

"We ordered from that place you like even though they don't even have crab rangoons," Sam said, flashing him a mock-scowl before continuing more quietly, "Let us know when we need to clear out."

"Crab rangoons aren't even Thai," Tony countered automatically, nodding to Bruce as he brought up the rear and clapped Tony awkwardly on the shoulder.

"They're good, is what they are," Sam scoffed, digging through the bags to set out the plastic cutlery. "What are we watching for movie night?"

They watched My Cousin Vinny, which naturally devolved into competing over who could do the best Joe Pesci impression (which even Bruce got in on), and Natasha cracked a sly smile throughout the whole 'trick question' scene. By the time he finally shooed them out, Tony found that his mental image of the next day was no longer so hazy with dread and unknowns.

Still--

He picked up his phone and opened his text history with Peter three times over the course of getting ready for bed. He knew Peter had had a similar evening-- Sam had reassured him quietly at one point that Steve, Barnes, Wanda and Vision were keeping Peter and May company for dinner-- and he didn't want to disturb whatever fragile peace Peter may have built up since their last conversation, but it felt-- strange-- to go without speaking for the rest of the day after… everything.

He was hovering over the keys of an empty text box when FRIDAY chimed, "Peter wishes to tell you 'good night.'"

Oh. The kid was a genius. Why hadn't Tony thought of using FRIDAY as a middleman?

"Tell him I said good night, too," he said, a knot of tension in his shoulders relaxing.

Tony finally put his phone away on his nightstand, and had FRIDAY turn off the lights. He was exhausted, suddenly, the final spark of tension that had kept him wired since waking back up on the jet fading at last. He was still dreading sleep, a little-- none of the techniques he'd ever tried for dreamless sleep had ever worked, whether meditation or melatonin or getting blitzed-- but something about the thought that Peter was doing the same thing somewhere else in the tower, curling up to face his own dreams and his own tomorrow, and he had apparently found some comfort in the idea of saying good night to Tony--

Tony thought, I'm going to talk to him tomorrow, and fell asleep.

He dreamed about fucking Peter on the filthy floor of that hellhole in Afghanistan. The newly-placed arc reactor throbbed in his chest with every thrust, and it made harsh red burns bubble up on Peter's skin every time their torsos slid together, every time Peter arched up under him or pulled him closer.

"Please, Tony, please," Peter begged, tears in his eyes, and in the dream Tony knew that despite the tears, despite the burns, this was Peter pleading for more.

Tony clawed his way awake with a strangled gasp, and by the time he was done dry-heaving over the wastebasket by his bed, he wasn't hard anymore.

It was 2:14am, Tony saw once he mostly stopped shaking and gathered himself enough to check.

He took deep breaths. He knocked back a glass of water from his nightstand like it was hard liquor. He rubbed a hand over his face.

He grabbed his tablet from the end of his bed, opened up the schematics draft for Peter's new suit, and got to work.

Chapter Text

Peter dreamed about a slide.

In the dream, he was a child again, playing on a playground with other kids-- some that he recognized as actual classmates, and some that had the appearance of random children but that his sleeping brain identified as fellow Avengers, in the nonsense way of dreams. Ned was there, of course. So was Mr. Stark, looking nothing like himself, all fresh-faced and chubby-cheeked and clumsy-fingered in the guise that Peter's subconscious had cooked up.

At one point everyone piled onto the slide-- one of those tunnel ones, made of thick blue plastic scarred white in small scratches where shoes and buttons and toys had scraped it. At first it was fun, everyone lining up to go down the slide together in a row of overlapping legs and then rushing back to climb the stairs and go again, but then, somehow, they got stuck.

There was no reason for it in the dream. There was only that abrupt shift from hazy, cyclical fun to sudden tension and uncertainty as the line stopped moving. Peter couldn't move forward or backward, penned in by confused friends on either side, stuck in the middle of the slide. The dim light in the tunnel turned a corner from feeling playfully covert to feeling oppressive and disorienting, the end and beginning of the tunnel seeming further and further away the longer the jam continued.

Panic rose in Peter's throat as his friends' voices grew upset, and he reached for one of the seams in the tunnel to try and pry it apart, grasped at the tunnel walls to try and climb up and out, but he wasn't Spider-man in the dream. His hands didn't stick to the walls, instead only gathering static electricity that made his friends yelp and shove him when he accidentally brushed against them in his struggles. His tiny fingernails digging into the tunnel seams couldn't do anything against the bumpy row of bolts pinning each section of the slide together from outside the tunnel. He was stuck, and nothing would change until someone figured out how to move.

The tunnel grew hot, the air turning stale and sweltering with the press of bodies and panicked breathing, and the plastic of the slide grew hot too, absorbing the rays of sunshine from the cloudless sky that had seemed so idyllic and nostalgic only moments before. It wasn't long before the slide started to burn Peter's skin, even through his clothes, and the soft buzz of static electricity turned sharp and painful as he squirmed to try and crouch off the plastic without falling. He breathed faster and faster until it felt like he wasn't breathing at all, and somewhere in the tunnel, he heard what he instinctively knew was Mr. Stark's familiar-unfamiliar child-voice crying, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry."

Peter woke drenched in sweat to the sound of his sheets ripping under the pressure of his clenched fist, which-- kind of sucked, but at least it woke him up.

He rolled from his side to his back, squeezing his eyes shut and letting his breathing and heart rate slow as his mind caught up with the waking world. He was used to claustrophobia nightmares-- getting trapped under a collapsed building would do that to a guy-- but this one had felt… different. Normally in those dreams he was trapped alone, and that was the scary part. This--

Well, whatever. It was just a dream.

But sitting up to the sight of his unfamiliar guest room didn't help his feeling of disorientation. He had his own room at the tower, but-- it was in Mr. Stark's suite, because Peter wasn't exactly a full Avenger yet, and Mr. Stark apparently felt the need to keep an eye on him, and normally Peter was torn between giddy delight at essentially having his own personal room in Tony Stark's penthouse and a touch of resentment at being treated like a kid, but today having a suite of his own just made him sad.

He didn't know who had arranged to set him and May up in this guest suite, his belongings from his usual room already transferred over by the time they left the med bay yesterday, but normally it was Mr. Stark that handled stuff like that on the Avengers floors. And he knew it wasn't exactly that Mr. Stark didn't want him around, but-- it also kind of was that Mr. Stark didn't want him around, and even if that was understandable, it stung. Really, there was probably something wrong with Peter that after everything that had happened, all he could think about going to sleep the previous night was how much better he would have felt knowing that Mr. Stark was in the next room, so of course Mr. Stark didn't want the same thing. Still, he hadn't been able to resist saying good night via FRIDAY, too nervous about the possibility of an unreturned text to use his phone instead, but Mr. Stark had responded right away and Peter had breathed a little easier laying down to sleep.

He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and listened. He could hear May on the phone from her bedroom, and much more distantly, he could hear the sound of several people gathered in the shared kitchen.

"FRIDAY," he said, and while he was hesitating over exactly what to ask, FRIDAY responded, "Good morning, Peter."

"Morning," he returned automatically, and then decided that if he was uncertain, he could just ask a question about his question. "Is it okay for me to ask where Mr. Stark is?"

"Boss has granted you full access to his location data," FRIDAY responded, and Peter blinked. "He is eating breakfast in the communal Avengers kitchen."

"Oh," Peter said, a conflicting flutter of relief and nerves rolling in his stomach. "Thanks, FRIDAY."

Mr. Stark was eating with everyone, which was-- great. Peter had been really worried about him when he'd disappeared for the rest of the day after leaving the med bay, but Bucky had said that some of the others had kept him company for dinner, which at least reassured Peter that Mr. Stark wasn't somewhere in his suite having another panic attack.

And he'd granted Peter access to his location, which was really sweet, even if Mr. Stark probably thought that Peter would want to use it to avoid him. He'd offered to block out times for just Peter to be in the lab or the gym yesterday, and while that was pretty much the exact opposite of what Peter wanted, at least that meant that he hadn't been too transparently-- needy. Agent Norfolk (or Patty, as she'd insisted that Peter call her after the initial introduction) had reassured him that it was natural he would want someone he trusted around after what had happened, but he still shuddered with retroactive embarrassment when he thought about how Mr. Stark had waited for him outside the bathroom on the jet, or how he'd almost had to beg Peter to let him leave before May had arrived.

But-- it was okay. He'd made it through the rest of the day yesterday without Mr. Stark, so he wasn't going to-- cling to him again or cry about it or panic at not having him around. If he hurried he'd at least get to see him at breakfast, and if they didn't hang out again until lunch or dinner, that was okay. He'd be fine.

("You're okay, sweetheart.")

Peter breathed out, long and slow, and got up to face the day.

He rinsed off as quickly as he could in the shower-- he'd... kind of freaked out once he finally got a shower the day before, and he didn't want to risk it again. That was something to talk to Patty about, probably. He brushed his teeth with his back to the mirror, and got dressed, and hugged May for a few beats too long before he asked if they could have breakfast with the others.

"Sure, honey," was all she said, though he could see the glimmer of concern in her eyes. But he would be fine; he would. "Whatever you want."

The first thing that Peter heard clearly as they approached the kitchen from the hallway was Mr. Stark's voice, sharp and indignant.

"--do you mean, 'he already went,' you made him debrief yesterday?"

"It wasn't like that." Steve's voice, low and placating. "His counselor opened the door for him to give an official statement about anything he thought might be helpful, that's all."

They were talking about him, then. Peter glanced at May, but apparently this was one of those conversations that he could only hear because of his enhanced senses, because she didn't react. Still, he scuffed his shoe against the floor to announce his presence with a purposeful squeak as he walked, and Mr. Stark's muttered response was quiet enough that Peter couldn't make it out.

Peter wondered if it would be awkward to reassure Mr. Stark himself that it had been fine, and no one had pressured him about his statement, and it had actually been sort of-- helpful-- to take a break from dwelling in the emotion of what had happened and just give a statement about the facts of seeing Mr. Stark's abduction. Seeing the weird... glitchy car, for lack of a better word, as he'd been swinging his way to the tower, and then recognizing with a sinking feeling in his stomach that it was glitching to look like one of Mr. Stark's cars, but it wasn't, it was something else--

Well, okay, no, that would definitely be awkward. If just because it would mean admitting that Peter had overheard him, but also because Peter didn't know if they were… talking about things, yet. He'd just have to show Mr. Stark that he was okay.

He made sure he was smiling as he and May walked out into the kitchen, and May helped by offering a cheery, "Good morning!"

About half the team was there, excluding those like Clint and Thor who didn't live at the tower in the first place, but Peter found himself focusing in on Mr. Stark as he dimly registered nearly everyone echoing May's greeting. Mr. Stark didn't, but he did offer Peter a nod and brief, tight smile before looking away and taking a big gulp of his green breakfast smoothie.

He had dark smudges under his eyes. Peter wondered if he did, too.

"Good morning, Mrs. Parker, Peter," Steve greeted them, all hospitality. "Can I get either of you a coffee? Juice?"

Peter didn't usually drink much coffee, but he was in the mood for something hot instead of cold, so he requested one along with May. He was agonizing over where to sit-- May seemed to be waiting for his cues about it, and he would normally sit at the breakfast bar with Mr. Stark, but he didn't want to crowd him today but he also didn't want to sit super far away because then it would look like Peter was avoiding him-- when Mr. Stark said, "The hot chocolate packets are next to Wanda's tea stash."

When Steve looked at him, questioning, Mr. Stark tipped his smoothie container towards Peter.

"That's how he drinks it." There was a beat, and then Mr. Stark said, softly, "Morning, Pete."

And Peter would have thought that the one upside to being kidnapped and being-- having-- being forced to have sex with the person he had a big pathetic crush on would be that things like 'Mr. Stark remembered how I like my coffee' and 'Mr. Stark said my name all soft and morning-deep' wouldn't make him blush anymore, but apparently, he would have thought wrong.

Still-- his heart swelled at being addressed directly, and his shoulders relaxed as he chose a bar stool two down from Mr. Stark's.

"Good morning, Mr. Stark," he said, and then, "I don't always have to have it with hot chocolate; it's summer."

"There's no reason why a low-budget mocha can't be a year-round treat," Mr. Stark countered, and he raised his eyebrows at Peter over the rim of his smoothie cup.

Peter smiled back, and this time, he didn't have to remind himself to do it.

He took his mug of coffee from Steve with a thank-you, half-listening in on May talking about breakfast options with Sam, who had apparently volunteered for griddle duty that morning. It nearly flattened him with relief that Mr. Stark hadn't immediately run for the hills once Peter got to the kitchen, and if that made his weird urge for a hug that much worse, he would deal with it.

A hug would have been really nice, though. He could see that Mr. Stark was there and that he was okay and that he was just messing with his phone while drinking a smoothie, obviously, but-- a hug would have been really nice.

And then Sam said, "Okay, May's on Team Pancake; what's your order, Spider-boy?", and Peter squeezed the handle of his mug so tightly that it crumbled in his hand, and Mr. Stark snapped, "Don't call him that," and Peter's mug shattered as it dropped to the countertop.

Peter watched the growing spread of chocolate-scented coffee over the counter stupidly, only dimly aware of someone-- Bruce-- appearing at his side with a massive wad of paper towels, and it wasn't until he processed May's voice in his ear saying, "Move, honey," that he noticed the drips of hot coffee spilling over the counter's edge and seeping into the knees of his jeans.

("Spider-boy, you're not done.")

"Oh," he said, blinking rapidly, and he dropped the crumbled remains of the mug handle on the counter before pushing back from the bar. "Sorry, I-- sorry?"

("Spider-boy promised he'd be able to get you to listen--")

"Not a problem, Peter," Steve said, because he was suddenly there too, pressing a folded-over paper towel into Peter's hand, because… it was bleeding, from the mug, and recognizing the itch from the scrapes and cuts that were already closing up did something to let Peter draw in a real breath.

"Oh, um." He looked toward Sam, whose mouth was set in a grim line where he was standing frozen by the stove. "There's already bacon and eggs, right? That's fine. Um."

Peter turned, looking past May and Steve and Bruce's worried expressions to where Mr. Stark had been sitting, and saw that he was gone.

("That's normal the first time, Spider-boy, don't be embarrassed.")

"Be right back," Peter blurted, and he went for the hallway.

He caught up with Mr. Stark by the elevator, where he was leaning against the wall with one hand over his face, but he looked up at the sound of Peter's footsteps. He opened his mouth to speak, but Peter beat him to the punch.

"Are you okay?" Peter asked, rubbing a hand absently over his forearm where all his hairs were still standing on end. Mr. Stark watched him do it, and he was holding his jaw tight, but he didn't look like he was going to panic again.

"What?" Mr. Stark said, eyes lingering on the blood-speckled paper towel clenched in Peter's fist. "Of course I'm okay. Are you okay? Sorry I startled you."

"What?" Peter echoed, and he felt, bizarrely, like they were speaking different languages. He moved closer, like the problem was that he couldn't hear what Mr. Stark was saying instead of it just not making any sense. "You didn't? And, I'm fine. I have therapy later anyway, and then after that we're going down to once a week unless I, like, freak out or something. But I'm fine. Are you sure you're okay?"

Mr. Stark stared at him for long enough that heat started to gather in Peter's cheeks, because, oh fuck, maybe he'd actually already freaked out a little bit, and everyone in the kitchen saw it and knew why, and he'd just left that huge mess there for everyone to clean up and run off and they didn't know it was because he wanted to check on Mr. Stark (and why hadn't anyone else left to check on Mr. Stark?) and he probably looked like a mess because he hadn't washed his hair in the shower and he had huge coffee stains on his knees--

The elevator chimed gently as it reached their floor.

"You don't have to worry about me, Pete," Mr. Stark said, finally, and that at least put an end to Peter's internal anxiety spiral, because it was ridiculous.

"I do, though," Peter said, and it came out small because his throat felt weirdly tight. "Worry about you, I mean."

It felt like it was all he had done, yesterday, even though that objectively wasn't true. He'd given his statement, and he'd talked about worrying that the Avengers would bench him for good, and how he felt like he should have been able to handle one guy to save Mr. Stark, tricked-out glitchcar or no, and whether he'd done the right thing by not just seeing how far he could get breaking out of the cell before-- that man-- electrocuted him, and he'd cried and cried on May. But also, the whole time, there had been a part of him thinking about Mr. Stark. Was he okay? Did he have anyone to talk to, since he'd turned down a therapist for himself? Was he ever going to be able to look at Peter again? Was he going to start drinking again? Was he having a panic attack? Was he crying?

Mr. Stark swallowed hard, and his brow furrowed like something was hurting him, and Peter wanted to fix it for him so badly it ached.

"Okay, well," Mr. Stark said, not acknowledging what Peter had said. "I'm gonna be in the lab for a while if you need me."

I do, Peter thought pathetically, and c'mon, that was you being dismissed, Parker, but he was helpless to keep himself from asking, "Can I come-- hang out? Later? There's those new webshooter designs."

Mr. Stark blinked, like it was a surprise that Peter had even asked, like he should have known better, but Peter kept his jaw clenched against the impulse to walk it back because he so desperately wanted a 'yes' that he couldn't bring himself to accept the 'no' before hearing it.

"Uhh, yeah?" Mr. Stark said, and his voice sounded too scratchy for the flippancy of it. "I told you, whatever you want, Pete. Use the lab whenever."

He lifted his hand then, like he was going to clap Peter on the shoulder the way he'd done a million times before, and in Peter's daze at that unexpected answer his breath caught and he leaned, just barely, toward the oncoming touch.

But Mr. Stark's brow furrowed again, and he dropped his hand back to his side, awkward.

Peter felt the lack of contact like air being stolen from his lungs, and he couldn't help it.

"Mr. Stark," he pleaded, almost voiceless, and Mr. Stark drew in a shaky breath.

"What, Pete?" he asked, his voice soft and helpless, and the mingled guilt and longing that shivered through Peter at that sound felt the same as every time Mr. Stark had called him baby. "Anything. Tell me."

And Peter couldn't tell him, so instead he stepped forward and wrapped his arms around Mr. Stark and buried his face in his shoulder.

Mr. Stark froze against him, and Peter could hear his heart rate pick up even further from the already too-quick patter it had settled into after that moment in the kitchen, and fuck this was a mistake, even if Peter needed it all the way down to his bones Mr. Stark didn't want it and he should stop, he should say sorry and push himself away--

And then Mr. Stark's arms came up around him and clutched Peter to him, hard.

Peter let out a shuddering sigh and sank into the embrace, knees almost weak with relief as Mr. Stark nearly folded over him in the hug. He smelled like his body wash and coffee and green smoothie, not like yesterday, when he'd been wearing cologne.

It was perfect anyway. Peter felt his overactive senses finally, finally calm down, even as he also felt a bare prickle of tears threaten behind his eyelids. He didn't know why he wanted to cry, but it felt so good, the reassuring weight of Mr. Stark's arms around him, the rise and fall of his solid chest against Peter's.

"Sorry," Mr. Stark muttered, and Peter shook his head firmly where his face was buried against Mr. Stark's shoulder.

"No," he said, and Mr. Stark huffed a barely-there laugh.

"I mean for ditching you," he said. "I…"

And he stopped, hands clenching at the back of Peter's t-shirt, and Peter squeezed him tighter.

"I know," Peter said, because he did. Jack's voice hadn't stopped whispering in his ear until he'd pulled Mr. Stark into that hug.

Mr. Stark sighed, and Peter did his best to catalogue every moment, every sensation of the long pause where Mr. Stark just held him-- the texture of Mr. Stark's shirt under his arms, the press of his face to the side of Peter's head, the gradual calming of his heart rate as they stood together. Peter sighed himself when Mr. Stark gave him one last squeeze, loosening his grip after but not quite letting go.

"Want me to walk you back?" Mr. Stark asked, and there was a part of Peter that wanted to say yes, just for the few extra moments of his company before Mr. Stark disappeared into the lab.

But he was okay. He was, and he didn't need that from Mr. Stark even if he wanted it; didn't need Mr. Stark to chaperone him back to the kitchen like a little kid that had gotten separated from the group on a field trip.

So he shook his head and muttered, "No, I'm okay."

"'Kay," Mr. Stark said, and Peter felt a scrape of stubble at his temple as Mr. Stark pulled out of the hug.

Peter didn't know whether it was a kiss or coincidence, but it sent a warm little buzz racing across his skin regardless, settling the last of his nerves at the thought of having to walk back into the kitchen after running out on everyone.

"Thanks, Mr. Stark," he said softly, lingering for a moment, caught in the thread of mutual understanding between them.

Mr. Stark didn't hesitate to clap him on the shoulder this time.

"Whatever you need, Pete," he said, and then, "See you later."

"Yeah," Peter said. "Later."

And he smiled and pulled himself away, carrying that warm buzz with him. He was going to be okay.

May was waiting for him around the corner in the hallway, face drawn with worry, but she relaxed as she caught sight of Peter's smile.

"I'm okay," he said preemptively as he reached her, and she slid an arm around his shoulders as they made their way back down the hall. "Just wanted to talk to Mr. Stark."

"Okay, honey," she said agreeably. "You don't want to order anything in for breakfast?"

"I want to eat with everyone," Peter said, because he did, and May pressed a kiss into his hair.

Breakfast was a little awkward once Peter returned from changing out of his coffee-stained jeans, but it was okay. Everyone was a little bit on edge-- smiles a little too tight, jokes a beat delayed or a hair forced-- but they seemed like they were doing their best to take their cues from Peter, and not treating him too much with kid gloves, and he appreciated that. Sam lightly punched his shoulder with an apologetic grimace when he set Peter's plate in front of him and seemed to accept Peter's smile in response as genuine, and Steve only made one token protest before allowing Peter to help clean up the kitchen once everyone was done. It was all right.

Peter itched to go to the lab as soon as all the dishes were scrubbed up and put away, but he knew that May had phone calls to make and wouldn't want to leave him, and he also didn't want to be too-- clingy, about Mr. Stark-- so he went back to his suite with May and flopped on his bed while she talked to her boss in the next room.

Scrolling aimlessly through his phone, he almost wished that it wasn't summer break. At least homework would give him something to do, so he wouldn't find himself thinking about--

(Horror curdling in his stomach as he'd caught on, long after Mr. Stark, about what Jack was after. Screaming, "I promise, please stop, he'll listen to me," while Mr. Stark's body jolted on the floor. Breathing in Mr. Stark's cologne and feeling himself start to harden in his hand, humiliated. That fucked-up little thrill scorching through him when he smoothed his palm down Mr. Stark's chest to help him get there, and realized that it was working--)

Peter startled against the bed as his phone buzzed and chimed in his hand, the screen flashing back on from where it had fallen asleep with a text notification from Ned.

wanna hang out tomorrow? I'm feeling an avatar marathon before school starts

Peter put his phone down against his chest and scrunched his toes inside his socks while he waited for his heartbeat to even back out. He didn't wear socks in the suit, so he hadn't been wearing them-- back there. It felt kind of stupid to genuinely take comfort in wiggling his toes, but when Patty had taught him some grounding techniques yesterday and asked him to name four things he could feel, the socks he had been given on the jet were the first thing that had come to mind.

He took a deep breath, and turned Ned's text over in his mind. He and Patty had also talked about-- what to tell people, or if he wanted to tell anyone other than May at all.

(And that was a whole other memory that his mind skittered away from the second it came back to him-- looking down at his knees between split-second glances at May's expression and stumbling through the explanation that the person who had abducted he and Mr. Stark was a creep, and that he hadn't-- done anything to Peter himself, but that he'd made--

"Please don't be mad," he'd whispered, over and over again until May had promised him, and then he'd told her.)

So-- yeah, they'd talked about telling people. Peter wouldn't have thought to bring it up at all, since he didn't really talk about the bad stuff that happened while he was Spider-man, but Patty had asked him what he thought he might want to say to his friends, and-- well, it had made him have to think about it.

sorry, some stuff went sideways with the stark internship

so I'm gonna be spending a lot of time at the tower for a while.

I'm ok though.

That… felt okay. When Peter had said he wasn't sure he wanted to say anything, Patty had pointed out that as much as Peter wanted things to be normal, there was some power in admitting that he was going through something, so that his friends would understand if things… weren't totally normal, in little ways. And that admitting that didn't mean having to go into details, or anything. It felt okay.

oh shit okay!!

can I help? you're not hurt are you?

Peter smiled fondly-- Ned wasn't very good at the double-speak they used to talk about Spider-man, but that was never going to change, so if someone somehow saw their text thread and wondered how Peter might have been hurt in the course of his internship that was just going to have to be okay-- and he responded more quickly this time.

no I'm ok!! I'll tell you if something comes up

ok! lemme know if you wanna screenshare or anything

And then, a moment later:

WAIT

HOW DO I KNOW YOU'RE NOT A BAD GUY USING PETER'S PHONE

AVENGERS ASSEMBLE

Ned was the best.

Peter scooted to where his back was to the massive window making up one wall of his room, overlooking the New York City skyline, and took a selfie to send to Ned with his eyebrows raised.

oh thank god I was about to track your phone

Peter snorted, but his smile faded some as he tapped out a response that he really was at the tower and he'd get in touch tomorrow. Normally-- he would have responded 'okay mr. stark;' the tracker in Peter's suit was a running joke between them after Ned had figured out the parameters of the Training Wheels Protocol. But it didn't feel right to make a joke, now.

That was a little thing, though. So what if he had to-- what, retire an old inside joke with Ned because it felt weird now. It wasn't a big deal.

(Not like losing his virginity. Not like being--)

Peter heard May finish her string of phone calls from the next room, and bounded off the bed like he could physically leave his thoughts behind.

"How'd it go?" he asked, and she smiled up at him from the couch.

"I got two weeks of leave, but don't worry, I can get more if you need it," May answered, and when he sat next to her she leaned forward to kiss his forehead. He scrunched his toes in his socks as she continued, "Is it all right if I go pick up some things from the apartment while you're with Patty?"

"Huh? Oh, yeah, sure," Peter said. He frowned slightly, trying to figure out how to word what he wanted to say, and hesitantly offered, "You don't have to… I mean-- I know you have your own stuff to do, too."

"I know, sweetie," May said, and her smile was a little pained. "But I want to be here for you. If you want some space, though, just let me know, and I can spend a little more time packing up at the apartment."

"No, that's okay," Peter responded, because he really did want May around, but he didn't want her to feel like she couldn't leave him alone for an hour, either. "Just take however long you need?"

"Okay, hon," May agreed. "And I know Tony keeps-- I know you have some clothes over here already, but I'll grab some of your things too. Let me know if there's anything you want me to pick up."

There. She'd brought up Mr. Stark on her own, and while Peter didn't know what to think about her rephrasing to avoid his name-- they'd just had breakfast with him not too long ago-- he couldn't keep himself from jumping on the mention.

"Yeah," he said, distracted. He took a deep breath. "Um-- can we go to the lab?"

May paused. Her smile faded some with surprise, and then reemerged, sympathetic.

"If that's what you want, Peter," she said, gentle, and Peter could hear the implied but. "You don't think it's too soon?"

"Too soon for what?" Peter knew she wasn't saying no-- she'd already said yes, even-- but his heart fluttered with anxiety. "We just talked at breakfast. And he said it was okay; I asked. And-- since I'm not patrolling-- it's a really good time to work on upgrades for the suit--"

"Okay, okay, you big nerd," May interrupted, and Peter let out a breath that had been sitting tight in his chest at the normalcy of her gentle teasing, even if he could still see the concern lingering in her eyes. "You can show me this lab I've heard so much about."

Peter grinned and hopped up, hurrying to put his shoes on while he said over his shoulder, "Um-- FRIDAY, can you tell Mr. Stark that we're heading down?"

"Of course, Peter," FRIDAY responded, and Peter led the way.

Once he got to the lab door, though-- abruptly, he found that the wave of relief and eagerness to see Mr. Stark he'd been riding to get there pulled back out to sea, leaving uncertainty behind. Maybe May was right, that it was too soon for Mr. Stark to want to spend that much time with him-- breakfast was one thing, but lab time was another-- or maybe it would look kind of pathetic that he was bringing May with him, needing an escort like a kid or worse, like he didn't trust Mr. Stark-- but no, Mr. Stark would understand, he'd been so thoughtful about everything, and Peter did want to show May the lab just for her to see it--

May touched his shoulder gently, frowning, and Peter flashed her an automatic smile and punched in the door code before she could say anything. He was okay, really.

Mr. Stark looked up when the door opened and smiled quickly when he saw Peter, and Peter lingered in the doorway, breath coming easier.

"Hey, Mr. Stark," he said, and it felt-- good. Normal. "Is it okay if May's here too?"

"May Parker can sell my industry secrets anytime she wants," Mr. Stark said, sweeping his arms toward their surroundings in invitation, and May laughed as she and Peter stepped into the lab. Mr. Stark grimaced playfully and continued, "By which I mean my lawyers will all have consecutive heart attacks if I don't have you sign an NDA, Mrs. Parker, but I never liked them anyway."

Peter grinned, feeling the persistent buzz of anxiety at the back of his mind evaporate altogether, and beelined for the bots.

"Thanks, Mr. Stark-- May, look, you have to meet DUM-E and U--"

It was nearly perfect. He introduced May to the bots, and dragged her over to what was unofficially his corner of the lab to show her his in-progress projects. Mr. Stark even looked up from his work to make a comment now and then while Peter was explaining things to May-- uh, yeah, just so you know that one's graduate-level work and he designed it last year-- and the praise made Peter flush what felt like all the way down to his toes.

But--

Every once in a while, when Peter would glance over at Mr. Stark between flipping through holograms and breaking down his design tweaks for May, he would catch Mr. Stark looking back, and he looked--

Peter didn't really know. Sad, maybe, though that didn't feel quite right, and he couldn't have said what made him think it anyway. Mr. Stark always glanced away as soon as their eyes met, and it wasn't enough time for Peter to really pin down his expression.

It happened again after Peter had gone through the stuff he thought May would actually want to see, and he'd kept working quietly by himself while she went to the couch in the corner to read. Rather than spotting a flash of movement from Mr. Stark's section of the lab, Peter felt the growing awareness of an absence of movement, and when he glanced that way-- Mr. Stark was watching him instead of his work.

Mr. Stark didn't look away, that time. He held Peter's gaze, but Peter still couldn't figure out what it was that he was thinking-- and then Mr. Stark cleared his throat, and tipped his head to beckon Peter over.

"Hey, Pete, tell me what you think about this," he said, and that was the most normal thing that had happened today, so Peter didn't know why it ignited a flutter of good-bad nerves as he walked over to Mr. Stark's workstation.

Mr. Stark's hands flickered over the worktable for a beat, and then he stepped away, leaving plenty of room for Peter to step into the space he'd left behind. It's not what he normally would have done-- they spent enough time in front of the holo displays nearly shoulder-to-shoulder, leaning in over each other's space to adjust the display and tinker with each other's work, but now Mr. Stark stepped far enough back that he was almost outside of the crescent curve of the table.

Peter swallowed the sting of recognizing the change. He understood, he really did, but it just-- it kind of sucked. Especially after this morning-- he thought he'd made it clear that he wasn't afraid of Mr. Stark being close to him, but maybe Mr. Stark just wasn't wanting to make assumptions, or-- maybe Mr. Stark really hadn't wanted Peter to hug him, and was course-correcting, or maybe he was self-conscious about May--

"Pete?" Mr. Stark asked, startling Peter back to the present, where he'd-- apparently been standing staring at the hologram display without saying anything for too long, oh god.

"Sorry!" Peter yipped automatically, and then breathed through the dizzying swoop, half-nausea and half-awe, that went through his stomach at the auditory memory of I need you to stop with the sorry, because I-- "It's really cool, Mr. Stark, I was just looking at all the… options… Whoa."

In the med bay, Mr. Stark had said something about making Peter fifteen new spider-suits, and Peter had thought that he was joking, a comedic exaggeration to show his dedication to fixing things.

He had not been joking.

"When did you design all these?" Peter breathed, and he reached to touch one of the designs, pulling up its specs.

"Oh, just here and there," Mr. Stark deflected, and Peter could feel his eyes on him as he swiped through the options.

There was a huge variety in the aesthetics-- different colors and distributions thereof, different materials with some looking more armor-like, some more like real clothing, and some slim-fitting like Peter's usual suit, different proportions and shapes for the eyes or the spider insignia. Some of them had barely anything in common with his current suit, but somehow, Mr. Stark had managed to get across-- some kind of Spider-man character that Peter knew would let people recognize him regardless, even with all the differences.

They also somehow had plans for… even more security features than his current suit, and Peter wouldn't have thought that that was even possible, but sure enough: the features weren't coded yet, but Mr. Stark had written up detailed specs for how to integrate a variety of additional distress alarms and self-defense features, including-- countermeasures for unrecognized individuals trying to remove the suit. Which--

"You don't have to pick one now," Mr. Stark said, clasping his hands together and rocking back on his heels, one of his restless quirks. Peter had been quiet for too long again. "I just thought you might want to take a look, do some brainstorming of your own, let me know which ones are total duds maybe."

"None of them are duds," Peter said, and he backed out of the security features to just stare at the rows of suits. He was struck suddenly by the thought that they didn't exist yet, but-- they could. If Peter picked one, Mr. Stark would make it for him.

Mr. Stark would make all of them for him, if he asked, and Peter hadn't even been able to keep one guy from hurting him--

"Hey, May," Peter called, clearing his throat against the threatening burn of tears. "Which one's your favorite?"

May came over, and Peter smiled and nodded and laughed through her commentary until he stopped feeling like he was going to cry. Mr. Stark put in his own observations-- they had fun coming up with names for the different designs, especially the ones that were a little more out-there, though Peter would have worn any of them happily-- but he stayed firmly at the end of the worktable, even after May went back to her couch and Peter started poking through some of the design-specific features. He didn't come closer to adjust or dig through the hologram himself, instead just pointing and verbally directing Peter to tap that, move that, open that one and it'll tell you what materials I was thinking of.

Peter had never been so certain that Mr. Stark did love him, even if it wasn't how Peter might have fantasized about, and he wouldn't have ever imagined that knowing that would hurt so bad.

He still didn't want to be anywhere else.

Peter went back to his own workstation eventually, tossing over his top favorites of the new suit designs, and he was working on tweaking his in-progress webshooters to theoretically work with the suits that were less slim at the wrists when May excused herself to the bathroom.

The door slid closed behind her, and there was nothing different about the not-silence of the lab-- the gentle electric hum of the equipment, the turned-low beat of Mr. Stark's music, the barely-perceptible sounds of weight shifting on a work stool. But it felt like a hush had fallen suddenly, like the bubble of quiet that wraps itself around late-night conversations, unspoken truths able to finally make themselves heard with no other sounds to compete against.

Despite the quiet of the lab, Peter's voice didn't sound abrupt in the air when he asked, "Does Happy know what happened?"

Mr. Stark paused, and he fully dropped his hands away from the hologram he was working on and pushed back from his station as he looked at Peter.

"No," he said, carefully. "I thought he had enough to worry about with patching the security breaches involved. --But you can tell whoever you want, Pete."

"Oh, no, I just wanted to know," Peter deflected. He did just want to know-- there was something so weird, about having this huge experience and not knowing who understood it about you-- but he also… There was a part of him that wondered if Mr. Stark had told anyone at all. Had he had his own equivalent of Peter's talk with May, the day before? How had he found the words for it? Who had helped him?

Mr. Stark dropped his gaze away, picked up a pen, fiddled with it. He glanced back up to Peter when he said, "Rhodey knows."

So he'd talked to someone after all.

Peter felt his shoulders relax slightly from a tension he hadn't realized he was holding, and he said, "Okay. Thanks for telling me."

Mr. Stark nodded, eyes sweeping away from Peter again as if distracted, even though he didn't actually look back to his work.

"Yeah, he's going to be here in just a little while, actually," Mr. Stark said. "Staying for a couple days. So I might be scarce down here, but, y'know, you've got run of the place."

"Oh," Peter said. That-- made sense. Of course Mr. Stark would want to take some time off work-- Peter knew May would have made sure he took time off school, if it was in session-- and hang out with his best friend, after… that. He was glad that Mr. Stark was going to spend time with Colonel Rhodes, it really did loosen up that little ball of stress in Peter's chest to know that he wasn't just going to keep his head down and go it alone, but--

"Oh, cool!" he continued, belatedly. God, he was so spacey, what the hell. "I know he doesn't get to visit a lot-- um, I hope you guys have fun."

"We always do," Mr. Stark said breezily, but his eyes actually lingered on Peter for a moment instead of cutting away immediately. Peter knew he should think of something else to say-- he really was faintly embarrassed, he was being such a weirdo, seriously; that's probably why Mr. Stark was staring at him in the first place-- but found that he couldn't. Not with Mr. Stark actually looking at him. He wished it wasn't with that sad-not-sad expression, but-- it was something.

The moment stretched too long, but it didn't really feel uncomfortable. It was nice, actually, zoning out knowing that this time Mr. Stark was at least doing the same thing, so if it was weird they were being weird together. Mr. Stark did part his lips after a long moment, as if he were going to say something-- but then he cut his eyes over to the door, where May was coming back into the room, and merely shot Peter a tight smile before turning back to his workstation.

It took Peter a beat longer to do the same thing. He didn't get a whole lot of work done in the time that passed between then and FRIDAY announcing, "Boss, Colonel Rhodes is projected to arrive in approximately fifteen minutes," but he did discover that he could still apparently fantasize about Mr. Stark saying-- all kinds of things to him without having to ground himself afterwards, so that was a win.

(Well, kind of. Probably it would have made things easier to use the opportunity to get over his feelings for Mr. Stark, but-- Peter sort of hated to think of losing anything more to that morning in the cell, so.)

Mr. Stark subtly slumped in relief at FRIDAY's announcement, and Peter was glad to recognize that all it created in him was a pang of profound empathy. He wasn't going to be-- weird about this.

He smiled through Mr. Stark rushing to close out of his work and saying his see-you-laters, and then sat back on his stool with a sigh as the lab fell quiet, Mr. Stark's music cutting off in his absence.

"...You okay?" May asked, after a beat.

"Yeah," Peter answered, and he didn't even think it was a lie.

So, of course, he cried through the first twenty minutes of his therapy appointment.

Patty was great; it totally wasn't her fault. She'd just asked how he was feeling, and Peter had answered, "Okay," but then he'd been trying to think of the things that it seemed like she should know, and--

The thought well, the bathroom kind of freaks me out now had led into and I broke a mug at breakfast because Sam used the nickname that he's always used for me had led into it's like I can't stop thinking about it because I know everyone else is thinking about it had led into but I don't even know how to talk to Ned right now because he doesn't know had led into only Mr. Stark knows everything and he's still taking care of me and I feel like I can't do anything for him, and his eyes welled up with tears only seconds after he said that he was okay, without voicing any of it.

Patty didn't call him out on it, though. She passed him a box of tissues, and he sniffled and wiped his eyes and limped through explaining himself.

"I just wanted a hug so bad," he mumbled at one point, frustrated and frowning at the way tears kept bubbling up just when he thought he was done. "Like a little kid or something."

"Seeking comfort isn't juvenile, it's human," Patty said, gently. "And physical touch is genuinely one of the things that we know reduces cortisol levels in the brain. Your body knows that instinctively, even if you aren't thinking about it."

Peter liked that about her. She'd talk to him about feelings, but she also brought things back around to science. It was an unromantic way of looking at emotion, maybe, but-- it helped him to recognize that some of what he was experiencing was just chemistry, when it came down to it, and not something about how he was fucked up in a way that was totally unique to himself.

"I don't want to just take from him, though. Doing stuff just because it makes me feel better," Peter said, twisting his hands together in his lap and thinking about-- Mr. Stark's heart rate picking up as Peter hugged him, and slowing back down as Mr. Stark held him. (Thinking about Mr. Stark's expression before he'd finally leaned down to kiss him, the shadows of cell bars striping his face.) "I want-- I want him to feel better, too."

Patty nodded and hummed, and she was quiet for a long beat before she said, "Being able to help other people is important to you, isn't it?"

Peter nodded, slowly. It felt a little like bragging to put it that way, but-- from the way he always itched to go out on patrol, to the way he'd seen that unreadable look on Mr. Stark's face in the lab and wanted to go to him and echo his words back to him-- anything, Mr. Stark, just tell me-- it was undeniable, probably. He liked to fix things.

"And I think that's wonderful," Patty continued, seeing his nod. "You're a very compassionate person. But something I want you to keep in mind is that helping other people isn't a substitute for helping yourself. Can we focus on how to do that, for a minute?"

So they did. Patty said that she wanted to come back to Peter and how he related to that urge to help people, but she also wanted to give him some immediate tools to help himself throughout the next week, until his next visit. So she sent him some ten-minute mindfulness recordings to put on while he was in the shower, to see if that helped more or less than the grounding techniques he already had, and they came up with some specific phrases he could use to help himself calm down if-- something like what happened at breakfast happened again, and he couldn't just run off to hug Mr. Stark about it. (Well, Patty didn't say that, but that's what it was, wasn't it?)

It was a good session in the end, but he felt absolutely wiped when he was done-- emptied out, but not unpleasantly so. May wasn't back yet, so she must have taken his encouragement to take her time packing to heart, or else the traffic was just that bad. He was flopped on the couch in their suite, thinking about whether or not he had time for a catnap before she got back, when FRIDAY's voice chimed to life in the room.

"Peter, your suit is in the communal laundry room if you would like to pick it up. It can also be sent to the lab, if you would prefer to store it there instead of in your personal quarters."

Oh--

The suit.

Peter guessed that he could have assumed that his suit had been sent from the jet to be cleaned after they'd gotten back to the tower, but if he was honest, he hadn't really thought about it. He wasn't patrolling anytime soon, and he'd been-- distracted all day, so he hadn't been feeling his usual pangs of overprotective concern towards Mr. Stark's first gift for him and where it might be, either.

He didn't like the idea of sending it to the lab, though. He was taking a break, not, like, retired.

Peter let that thought carry him to the laundry room, and then there it was, neatly folded on a shelf near the door with his mask lying on top, just like any other time he'd had it cleaned at the tower to get rid of dirt and sweat and blood.

Never come, though.

Peter wondered who had actually cleaned it this time, seized by a sudden breathless regret that he hadn't insisted on doing it himself-- he'd done his best in the jet bathroom to wipe away the traces of come that had transferred from his stomach to the inside of the suit when he'd put it on, because he'd been too stupid to wipe it off onto his already-ruined boxers when he was hurrying into his clothes, but there was only so much he could do with paper towels and he'd already spent so much time cleaning himself up so he wouldn't get his replacement clothes dirty too and Mr. Stark was waiting for him outside the bathroom--

He heard his breath shudder as he took a breath, throat too tight, and oh, shit, he needed to calm down.

He launched into the first grounding technique Patty had taught him, focusing his senses on the current moment. Five things he could see: the lines of the tile floor, the washing machines and dryers, the fluorescent overhead lights, the whorls in the woodgrain of the shelf, the clothes hanging from the laundry rack at its side--

A black band tee. Expensive dark-wash jeans. And a dark suit jacket, creases and stains neatly whisked away like they'd never been there to begin with.

Mr. Stark's clothes.

Peter reached for the jacket before he even registered the urge, leaning down to press his face to the fabric. It had been washed with the unscented detergent that everything that got sent to the communal laundry was, but-- maybe he was making it up, but he thought there was still a trace of Mr. Stark's cologne at the collar, embedded deeper than the detergent could remove after repeated exposure, maybe.

Peter didn't even think about it, really. He didn't think about how Mr. Stark could notice it missing, and that if he asked, FRIDAY could tell him where it went. He didn't think about how it was a fucked up thing to do, technically stealing, even if it never left the tower--

He didn't think about any of that until after he tugged the jacket from its hanger, tucked it into the folds of his spider-suit, and carried the whole bundle back to his room to shove to the back of his closet.

But even after he thought about it, he didn't take it back. Because--

Mr. Stark and Colonel Rhodes didn't come down to the shared kitchen for lunch or dinner, which was fine. Not everyone always did, and Peter had even had dinner with Mr. Stark in his suite before himself, during times when he was staying over. He knew that Mr. Stark eating in the penthouse didn't necessarily have anything to do with avoiding him, so it was fine.

It could be true that he missed Mr. Stark's company and that it was fine at the same time, he thought. So he helped May put away the things she had brought from their apartment, and he watched A Princess Bride while leaned against her side, and he sent Ned and MJ stupid memes in the groupchat like it was any other night, and it was fine.

As Peter curled up in bed that night, FRIDAY told him, "Peter, Boss says 'good night and sweet dreams.'"

And Peter returned the sentiment, tugged Mr. Stark's jacket tight around his shoulders under the blankets, and thought, maybe tonight they will be.

Chapter Text

Rhodey went with him, when it was time for Tony to be debriefed on what SHIELD had dug up since the day before.

Jack's real name was Scott Westcott, and he was a former Stark Industries employee, but he hadn't been fired-- or at least, not exactly. He was an electrical engineer, and he'd worked on smaller parts of some of SI's weapons development projects over a decade ago, back when that was something they still did. According to the employee file that SHIELD had pulled after IDing him, one day he just hadn't shown up for work and had never come back, and SI had been forced to terminate him after being unable to get in contact about his extended absence.

He'd never made any attempts to get back in contact, as far as could be determined from HR's files, and SHIELD's records showed only that he'd done some time a few years after leaving SI for "accessing illegal images and videos online," which-- Tony wasn't going to think about that. The point was, he'd mostly dropped off the map, and whatever interactions Tony had had with him when he was an employee, whatever they'd said to each other that Tony must have given him a nickname in passing, were inconsequential enough that Tony still couldn't remember them, even with the guy's employee ID in front of him.

"So you're saying I didn't do anything to this guy," Tony said, jaw clenched tight as Maria Hill reviewed the case documents in front of him. "The department he was in-- I must have barely talked to him."

"This is all we have on him so far," Maria said, and there was an uncharacteristic apologetic tint to her voice. "We're still in the process of reviewing the materials that were seized from his hideout, but there's nothing so far showing an immediate link to any accomplices or potential motives."

"Great," Tony muttered, rubbing at his forehead. "Some dead idiot wanted to kill me and I don't even get to know why, what else is new."

He felt a swell of childish upset even as he grumbled his way through the report, a warped mirror to Jack's-- Westcott's-- words, you ruined my life and you don't even remember, a balking at the unfairness of you ruined my life and I didn't even do anything to you.

He wasn't used to that feeling. Things usually were his fault, when it came down to it.

Rhodey laid a hand on his shoulder from where they were both seated at the briefing table, and Tony sighed and waved for Maria to keep going.

Peter's memories of the abduction hadn't been as fuzzy as Tony's, but his report had still been patchy in places. Something about a car that was "glitching"-- illusion or cloaking tech of some kind, then-- something about being attacked by things he could hear but couldn't clearly see when he'd tried to intervene. Even beyond Westcott's slip-ups, it was obvious that he'd had at least one accomplice from the fact that the car Tony and then Peter had been transported in was nowhere to be found in the vicinity of the building they'd been taken to.

Hearing Peter's part of the report-- which he'd made the day of, while Tony was moping in his room, probably-- caused a surge of nausea that made Tony regret only having a piece of toast and half a smoothie for breakfast, but whatever, he had one more thing and then he and Rhodey were getting lunch; it was fine.

"Unless we find the car or something on his harddrive, we don't have much standing to justify a warrant for any potential accomplices. All we can really do right now is potentially confirm alibis for any other dissatisfied former SI employees," Maria explained, and Tony scoffed.

"And that connection's just as likely a big fat nothing now that we know SI didn't actually do shit to this guy, and he left over a decade ago," he said, and Maria shrugged, expression grim.

"It's a direction," she said.

Tony rubbed a hand over his face. He held it there as he finally forced himself to ask the question:

"Was he recording?"

Maria paused.

"...Yes," she said, and Tony blew out a breath. Rhodey squeezed his shoulder.

"So-- we're following up on that, right? Looking for, whatever, places he may have been transmitting or uploading audio or video to-- we know he was being monitored live, he got zapped while I was talking to him before the alarms ever went off," Tony said in a rush of words, even though he knew Maria already knew that, even though he knew that there was no way that avenue of investigation had been overlooked.

"We're looking into it, Tony," she said.

"And we're monitoring online spaces for copies of the video," Tony insisted, and he saw Rhodey look at him with muted horror out of his peripheral vision, so apparently that concern wasn't something that he could assume other people were thinking about.

But Maria nodded, and something in Tony sagged with relief.

"We're poised for an immediate takedown if anything flags our content-matching or keyword monitoring," she explained, and Tony was going to put some of his own tech to work on that-- a day behind, stupid, stupid; what had he been doing yesterday-- but it was something.

"You don't think that's why…" Rhodey cut in, and Tony shook his head.

"No," he said, shortly, thinking of that chair with its restraints, sitting crooked outside the cell like it had been moved there as an afterthought. "They were going to kill me. The rest was just-- opportunistic."

Which felt like an awfully brutal word to use to describe what had happened to Peter-- nothing more than a fluke of timing, that Peter had happened to see the car as he was swinging to the tower, that Westcott was the kind of person that he was on top of being an aspiring murderer-- but if Westcott was to believed, it was true.

Tony couldn't bring himself to ask his other questions, about what SHIELD was doing with the local copy of the video. He could insist that it didn't have anything useful on it, that he wasn't forgetting some other slip that Westcott had made somewhere that could give them a clue, but he thought if he was put in the position of actually having to argue about it he might lose his mind.

He didn't want to know if it was someone's job to watch or listen to the damn thing for scraps. He didn't want to know if there was someone somewhere who might be interested in hearing his defense of no, really, I only told that sixteen-year-old boy that he was beautiful while he was sucking my dick because I thought it might help him cry less about it.

So instead he sat through the rest of the debriefing counting out the beats of his breaths in his head, and then went to the med bay so Helen could check his incision.

She told him it was healing fine. She didn't mention the bruises he had seen in the mirror that morning-- round yellow marks on his shoulders like fingerprints, the uglier wraparound bruise on his upper arm-- and instead just had him go through some range of motion stretches with his shoulders like it was to check the pain in his incision instead, and that was why he liked her.

He pulled his shirt back on, thanked her for her time, and finally turned to Rhodey to ask, "Lunch?"

They piled onto Tony's couch shoulder-to-shoulder like it was college, except Rhodey had rarely eaten salads in college and, more importantly, he'd definitely never razzed Tony about his salad-eating habits in college.

"One, I prefer to drink my greens, thank you, and two, I was literally just at the doctor and am therefore not obligated to hear the words 'sodium' or 'cholesterol' for at least another year," Tony argued as he dug into his burger, and Rhodey rolled his eyes and stole a french fry from his delivery box. "Hey! Hands!"

"Those are actually pretty good," Rhodey allowed as he chewed, and Tony honestly didn't know how he always did it, sliding in amongst Tony's bullshit and navigating it in a way that eluded Tony himself.

"Yeah, they are, that's why I bought them for me, and you're depriving me," Tony grumbled, instead of saying thank you.

"Oh, yeah, you're wasting away," Rhodey said as he sprinkled vinaigrette over his salad. "Speaking of, am I gonna be stuck napping on your couch while you go to SI meetings, or did Pepper make it work?"

Tony chewed for longer than he needed to before he answered.

"We got 'em moved," he said, because Rhodey had insisted Tony take actual time off during their video call the day before, and Tony had bent for that but dodged Rhodey's gentle implications that maybe Pepper should actually-- know. It wasn't her job to take care of him anymore, after all. "She's in Seoul for the rest of the week anyway, so if anything the board was probably glad to reschedule for a time that wasn't All-Tony and No-Pepper."

He took another bite, and mumbled through it like an animal.

"I've still got work in the lab, though," he said. "Just an hour or two, here and there. You can nap instead but you could also come along and make Happy's head explode by turning your charms on May Parker."

"Is Happy sweet on May?" Rhodey asked, and then, "She's in on lab time now?"

"Oh, man, you are really out of the gossip loop; you've got to start coming to the monthly stitch'n'bitch," Tony said, and then shrugged. May was at lab time because Peter was there; Peter was there because--

--Well, Tony didn't know why Peter was there, or at least not while he was also there, but there wasn't much else to say about it.

Rhodey looked at him for a too-long beat to let Tony know he wasn't getting away with that deflection before he asked, "...How'd that go?"

"Well, my embroidery is coming along, but I'm still getting the hang of controlling the yarn tension for knitting," Tony said, instead of answering Rhodey's actual question.

He didn't know what to say. It hadn't gone… terribly, but--

Tony had tried for 'normal,' since that's what May had said Peter wanted, and he really had done his best. Cracking jokes, feedback on Peter's projects, being in the same room without dissolving into frantic apologies, the works. But every word had been forced, that microbeat delayed, because not a single one of his impulses had been fucking normal, and it had taken that moment to get back on track every time.

He didn't know how, after yesterday, he was supposed to watch Peter walk smiling into the lab, and introduce his aunt to the bots like cherished friends, and talk through his work with the light of his passion and brilliance softening the jagged edge behind his eyes, and be normal about it. He didn't know how he was supposed to do anything but be bowled over by how amazingly strong Peter was, by the realization of how thoroughly Peter had carved out an essential and irreplaceable spot in Tony's life, by the knowledge of how easily he could fuck everything up in the aftermath of what had happened.

He'd felt it all so powerfully that it had been hard to think of anything else to say, but he'd already fucked up enough at breakfast-- by the elevator after breakfast-- so he'd somehow, impossibly, kept a lid on that completely inappropriate desire to fuss and fawn and cling, and been mostly-normal, and only stared a little.

Or, well. He'd only stared as much as Peter had, at least, and he probably shouldn't be taking it as a victory that he had just as much self-control as a teenager, but he needed some wins.

But it had been hard. And he knew he was just setting himself up for more of it by planning on going back to the lab with Peter the next day, but he'd seen the flicker in Peter's expression when he'd said that he was going to be scarce, and-- if nothing else, he owed Peter every attempt to keep that expression off his face. So.

"Tony," Rhodey said, stern in the face of Tony giving him the runaround, and Tony dropped his burger back into the takeout box to throw his hands up in exasperation.

"Oh, come on," he complained, "like you and the others don't already have a secret groupchat where you've psychoanalyzed everything that's happened since yesterday."

Rhodey's expression didn't exactly change, but it did go suspiciously still.

There was a beat.

"Gimme," Tony said, and he reached for Rhodey's pockets.

"Do not put your burgerfingers all over my phone--"

"My burgerfingers can do whatever they like in their own home--"

After a truly college-level scuffle Tony ended up wedged against Rhodey's side, leaning in to read from his phone screen after Rhodey relented and willingly unlocked it.

It was honestly nothing, which Tony had suspected, but it was good to confirm. Natasha arranging the dinner groups the previous night. A message from Sam that morning advising that everyone stop using-- that nickname for Peter, because 'Pete and Tony both had a reaction to it,' and a few responding confirmations from the others. And Rhodey was the only one included that hadn't been on the actual rescue mission, so they weren't spreading anything around further than it needed to go. If it was just for Tony's sake, he probably would have been irritated about getting the secret support group treatment anyway, but-- it was good that they were keeping an eye out for Peter.

Tony sighed heavily and peeled himself off of Rhodey's shoulder. He leaned his head back against the couch.

"Pete came to find me after I ran out on everyone," he admitted, closing his eyes. Still disbelieving, he added, "And he asked if I was okay."

"Are you okay?" Rhodey asked.

"And," Tony continued like he hadn't heard it, "he gave me a hug. A hug."

"Sounds like he wanted a hug," Rhodey said, simply.

But he flinched first, Tony didn't say, because Peter's little gasp and shifting of weight still made his gut clench with panic to remember.

"From me, though," he muttered instead, more darkly than he had intended.

"Yeah, from you," Rhodey said, his voice firm and final, like there was nothing wrong with that.

Tony knew what he was getting at. May had said as much too: Peter's not going to blame you for anything, so you're just going to have to deal with that.

And they were right. Peter clearly didn't blame him. He'd flinched when Tony had first reached for him, yeah, but then he'd pressed himself into Tony's arms and practically melted there. It had been the only part of the day so far that had felt right, just letting himself clutch Peter to him and apologize like all his instincts screamed instead of having to filter everything through 'normal,' but it had also felt like the worst kind of wrong, because he only had the two other memories of holding Peter like that, one true memory and one subconscious--

But I dreamed about fucking him last night, Tony didn't say, because how could he?

Rhodey nudged him, gentle, when he didn't respond.

"You sure you don't want to take a break from all that for a while?" Rhodey asked, and the understanding in his voice made Tony want to say something stupid and petty to derail the conversation, but he restrained himself. Peter wasn't the problem, and he wasn't going to let anyone think so.

"No. I'm making him a new suit, so he doesn't have to," Tony said, and he finished his sentence with a shrug and headshake instead of words, but Rhodey grimaced knowingly anyway.

"And anyway," Tony continued, before Rhodey could mention that he didn't necessarily have to work on the suit with Peter there, "the usual routine is good for him, probably, right? And he likes the work. He had some good moments there today; I think he's got even more bounceback than I do."

"He's a tough kid," Rhodey echoed himself from that first call. His tone turned more pointed as he added, "He's also in therapy."

Tony rolled his eyes, and he drawled, "Oh, because I've never done that before however many times, and it's always been so useful--"

"Yeah, and how many of those times did you tell them something they couldn't read on your Wikipedia page?" Rhodey countered, which, touché. Still--

"You say that like it's not universally known that I love talking about myself," Tony deflected breezily, and Rhodey's eyebrows pinched together like he was going to argue further when FRIDAY interrupted.

"Boss, your clothes are ready in the communal laundry room. What would you like to do with them?" she said, and Tony had his own laundry service, so the only reason he would have clothes in the communal room is if--

"Get rid of them," he said, waving a hand. "Have someone toss 'em, incinerate 'em, whatever, as long as I don't see them."

"Understood," FRIDAY said, and Tony didn't actually let himself look, but even in his peripheral vision he could see how Rhodey's expression had softened.

There was a moment of quiet, and then Rhodey asked, "...You want that piña fauxlada?"

Tony exhaled.

"Yes," he said.

The next few days stumbled onward. Tony hung out with Rhodey and a rotation of his teammates, and Happy, once he was finally able to look up from all the background checks and security upgrades he was implementing after the abduction. They ordered in from new restaurants and old favorites alike, watched movies, relived old stories, got too invested in card and board games. It would have been a nice staycation, really, if not for everything about the context. And the frustrating lack of progress in SHIELD's investigation.

Tony took catnaps instead of sleeping through the night, and dabbed concealer under his eyes like he was in his thirties again and going to the kinds of events where it actually mattered if he showed up looking as hungover as he felt. Rhodey was too familiar with his patterns not to notice, and got onto him about it, but he only pushed for more movie breaks that he knew Tony would doze off through instead of nagging him to drink sleepy tea or whatever-the-hell before bed, so Tony figured he was doing an okay job of masking how bad it was.

And he made sure that Peter was having his own, separate good time, by finding May during one of the narrow windows where she wasn't being Peter's shadow and pressing one of his credit cards into her hands. He insisted, "I know, I know, but just for the next two weeks. I mean, buy a house on it if you want, but-- he deserves this."

And May accepted it, this time. Tony always got the feeling that the reason she'd never accepted his offers of money before-- paying the portion of Peter's school fees that his scholarship didn't cover, getting them a bigger place in a nicer area of Queens that wouldn't overstimulate Peter's senses so easily, a car so that neither of them had to rely on the subway-- was because she didn't quite trust Tony not to pull the plug and drop out of Peter's life and leave him smarting at the evidence of his loss. He didn't know why she'd changed her mind. If it was that she'd seen something about how all-in Tony was about Peter somewhere in the midst of the ten minutes he'd spend crying on her shoulder, or if she still didn't really trust him, but was willing to bend to give Peter some good experiences to smooth over the nightmarish one.

He sort of hoped it was the second one, because the idea that what had happened might have made her trust him more was too much for him to handle.

And aside from that, paving the way for May to take Peter to every museum or movie or concert or park or attraction he could possibly want to go to over the next two weeks, he spent more time working with Peter in the lab, of course.

It went… fine. It wasn't exactly normal, but Tony got better at thinking through the bursts of guilt and regret and dizzying fondness that alternately made him either want to clutch Peter to him and tell him how perfect he was and how he deserved so much better than everything life had thrown at him, or to move back to California so he could keep himself as far away from Peter and the risk of hurting him again as possible.

It helped that they had their respective babysitters, and the fact that Rhodey and May got along like a house on fire made the whole 'babysitter' situation feel less ridiculous in the first place. Peter liked Rhodey, and it was nice to see him laugh when May and Rhodey occasionally played peanut gallery to Tony's design choices or implementation troubleshooting or the actual functional utility of some of the features baked into Peter's suit.

There were some hiccups, though.

"...Really, though," Peter said at one point, his keen interest fading into confusion as he looked over the new batch of coding updates for the suit design he had ultimately settled on-- one of the ones that was most similar to his old suit, but with different color-blocking, less blue and more black and deeper red. "When did you work on this?"

And Tony should have known that Peter was too smart not to recognize that even Tony Stark had to be putting hours of work into the amount of progress he was making every day, but he didn't think Peter would be served at all by knowing that that's what he was doing instead of sleeping.

"Oh, I pulled some of it from older projects that I scrapped," Tony explained casually, and it only wasn't a lie in the sense that he considered Peter's old spider-suit scrapped and the two designs shared their base coding.

Peter looked at him for a slightly too-long, doubtful moment before he nodded and moved on-- too smart to accept the lie, but also too polite to call Tony on it, which was good, because Tony wasn't going to stop.

The next time came around when Peter was actually at his own workstation, poking through the in-progress features and working on the ones Tony knew he could handle building on his own-- which, given enough time was basically all of them, since Peter was genuinely a prodigy in his own right, but Tony wanted the suit done by the end of the week.

Tony was doing his own work when suddenly Peter said, "Mr. Stark?", and when Tony looked over his expression seemed halfway between startled and confused.

"What's up?" Tony asked, and Peter bit his lip before he hesitantly asked, "Can you-- come look at this?"

Which was weird, since he always brought his issues over to Tony's station instead of making Tony come to him, and also weird because he cut his eyes over to where Rhodey and May were vigorously debating about some Broadway show as he said it.

So Tony was careful to be completely, non-attention-catchingly casual as he said, "Sure, Pete," and made his way over.

Peter stepped to the side to make room for Tony in front of the table's center, and Tony was picking up that this might be a low-voices kind of conversation, so he let himself step up beside him. He'd been trying to give Peter space-- that flinch still haunted him-- so that if Tony actually needed to touch him for some reason, he'd have plenty of warning, and maybe it wouldn't be-- startling. Peter did seem nervous, but he'd already been like that since he'd gotten Tony's attention, so it was probably fine.

But Tony scanned the information that Peter had up on the screen as he stepped in, to get an idea of what Peter might be having a problem with, and, shit. It wasn't fine.

"You removed your access?" Peter blurted, keeping his voice soft but not so low that it would draw attention in itself.

"Well, sort of," Tony said, and he reached to scroll through the information encoding the biometrics profiles that were authorized to open the suit. He jabbed a finger at one of them. "I'm right there."

"That's for the Iron Man suit," Peter said, and Tony didn't know why he was frowning.

"I can get rid of that too," Tony offered, and Peter looked bewildered, so he explained, "I mean, the only reason it's there is, you know-- worst case scenario, if a fight went sideways and you needed it off for medical attention-- but Dr. Cho and the other docs have access, and it's not like it's totally impossible to cut in an emergency, so--"

"No, I know why it's there, that's-- I'm fine with that," Peter interrupted, and he was still frowning. "I just-- you can put it back? I don't know why it makes a difference if you're in your suit or not."

Tony paused, trying to wrap his mind back around-- whatever Peter's complaint was, here, because it apparently wasn't… what he had expected.

"It seemed redundant," he said slowly, instead of I recognized that I couldn't actually design a chastity belt for your suit and this weirdly helped me feel a little better about it.

"More redundant than 576 webshooter combinations?" Peter asked, but he still looked troubled, even when Tony quirked a smile at the fair shot.

"I've been trying this thing called 'moderation,'" Tony joked, deflecting, and Peter glanced toward Rhodey and May again.

Tony's stomach dropped as he watched Peter take a breath and hold it for a beat too long as if to steel himself, and sure enough--

"You know it would have happened anyway, right?" Peter said in a rush of words, anxious but watching Tony closely, brows knit. "Like-- even with this. It still would have happened?"

Tony looked away, pressed himself back to sit against the curve of the worktable instead of staying at Peter's side. Crossed his arms.

He could have said, it's not about that, but it would have been a lie. And Peter would have known it was a lie, and-- if Peter was going to be brave enough to talk about it, Tony probably at least owed him the respect of not lying to his face in response.

Peter was quiet, watching him. God, he was going to make Tony have to actually say something.

"I thought you'd be more comfortable," Tony said, finally, and that wasn't all of it, but at least it wasn't a lie.

"You don't make me uncomfortable," Peter answered softly. Earnest.

Why did you flinch, Tony didn't ask, because he didn't want Peter to think he had done something wrong, and because he was a coward.

He didn't say anything else instead. All he could think was I'm sorry, and he could at least recognize that as much as he wanted to say it, it wasn't what Peter wanted to hear.

Peter saw that he didn't have a response, and took a slow breath.

"You can-- you can put it back in. I mean, you don't have to, if you don't want, because I know that you do have the suit almost always, but I don't-- I'm not--" Peter stopped, tripping over his words. Swallowed hard, rallied. "I'm just saying-- I trust you. Is all."

And Tony didn't know what the fuck he was supposed to do with that.

"Well, good," he managed finally, clearing his throat, and it was too flippant but none of the other things that came to mind were something that he could actually say. "I trust you too."

He'd just meant for it to soften the sting of his own inability to be vulnerable, a pat response that was nevertheless true, but-- once he said it, Peter's face lit up and softened all at the same time, the lingering anxiety draining away from his expression, and Tony realized that he was a fucking idiot.

Peter had blamed himself, too. Tony knew that-- he knew that, so what the fuck had he been doing, the last few days--

"I trust you too," Tony repeated more firmly, fighting back the horror that he'd let Peter down already. "So if you think putting it back is the right call, I'll do that."

"Okay," Peter breathed, and the raw relief and hope and adoration in his expression did something intense enough that it felt potentially-medical to Tony's heart. "I do."

"It's done," Tony said, hopping up from the table. He stuck his hand out as if for a handshake-- that was fine, right?-- and added, "Pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Parker."

Peter took his hand, absolutely beaming, and it was so good to see him happy, to make him happy, that Tony felt that familiar surge of breathless adoration, and--

The memory that Tony's mind dragged up in response, as if it were at all related, was completely inappropriate. First because Tony hadn't even been able to see Peter's face to know if he was smiling at the time, and second because it was Peter murmuring, "You said whatever I want," while Tony pushed inside of him.

He tried not to let it show on his face. He smiled a businessman's smile, and said, "I'll go roll it back at my desk," and let go of Peter's hand. He didn't know how successful he'd been-- when he got back to his workstation and snuck a glance in Peter's direction, Peter's expression at his own station was pensive, but not hurt or… uncomfortable. So, there was that.

Tony opened up the coding from Peter's suit and added his access back on autopilot, feeling faintly nauseated the way he always did when he actually-- remembered, in specific-- what had happened.

And the way that he always did when he woke up from dreaming about Peter.

The downside to taking several short naps a day instead of sleeping through the night was that it gave him a lot more opportunities to dream. The upside was that it was easier to rouse himself, flinching awake blearily with only the vague impression of lips and hands and heat before he could slip under deeply enough to really remember, and before his body could-- respond.

But he always knew it was Peter, no matter how much of the dream faded away once he woke.

He'd dreamed about Afghanistan constantly after he'd come home, and he still did sometimes, but it wasn't the way it had been before. He knew this stage would more-or-less pass, his subconscious would find new things to torture him with instead of perseverating on his horror about those moments with Peter that it had felt-- good-- and he'd get back to being able to look Peter in the eyes without the guilt of knowing he'd just dreamed about his voice catching on whimpers and the words Tony, Tony--

Tony caught Peter's eye as he finalized the changes to the suit's access list and gave him a thumbs-up, and Peter smiled and nodded gratefully. It was almost normal. Almost, almost normal, and as soon as Tony's subconscious got all this bullshit out of its system it would be normal.

But if his subconscious could hurry it the fuck up that would be really great, he thought.

They finished the suit by the end of the week, like Tony had planned. Peter had been getting to be more like himself over the passing days, but when they all trooped down to the gym so that he could test it out, it was like nothing had ever happened at all. He swung from the elevated ceiling, dipped and dodged and ran circles around the training drones, and tried out some of the new features while May and Rhodey alternated between heckling and shouting support.

Tony mostly sat back and made mental notes about updates he already wanted to make after seeing the suit in action, but once he had a good mental list going, it was hard to think about anything other than how happy Peter seemed. It was truly, absolutely ridiculous the degree to which he would have sacrificed a whole lot more than some sleepless nights to see Peter like this-- laughing, quipping, thriving in his element; he'd told Peter whatever you need, anything you want and meant it. Which was stupid, not just because Tony was apparently getting, what, soft in his old age or something, but also because he knew how little ability he probably had to actually protect Peter's happiness in the long-run, but damn if he wasn't going to try.

He was determined-- determined-- not to forget again that his and Peter's feelings about the whole thing probably had more overlap than he had originally recognized, and to make sure that Peter knew that Tony's feelings toward him hadn't changed, and to support him as best as he could without being overbearing about it, no matter how much Tony wanted to wrap him in a protective bubble instead of a superhero suit.

And he was so busy thinking about that, the things he could and couldn't do to make Peter happy, the things that he thought Peter might need from him or from anyone other than him, that he wasn't prepared for it at all when Peter abruptly swung down right in front of him, pulling his mask off as he landed, and barrelled into him for a hug.

"Thank you," Peter said breathlessly, cheeks pink with exertion and joy alike, eyes wide and glittering and sincere, and he bounded away saying, "May, look at this--" before Tony could even think.

Tony must have looked just as much like he'd been hit over the head with a two-by-four as he felt, because Rhodey and May both shot him amused-but-concerned glances that he studiously ignored by turning to fish some water bottles out of the gym's minifridge. He was fine. Sure, he'd just been knocked speechless by a hug, but he was fine. And sure, the fact that Peter not only wanted to hug him in thanks but had actually gone for it, something he would have been far too self-conscious for before, kind of indescribably touched and broke Tony's heart at the same time, but he was fine. And sure, he was having to recalibrate what he thought Peter's boundaries were for touching-- that was twice now, but Peter had initiated both times, so maybe that was the difference?-- because it's not like there was a non-weird, non-bummer way to ask hey, so, does it freak you out when I touch you now? how do I fix that?, but--

Tony rejoined the group and pressed one of the water bottles into Peter's hand as he gestured animatedly and babbled about the changes to his suit to an uncomprehending Rhodey and May. Peter took it automatically, almost without noticing, and then blinked and fully paused in his rapid stream of words to turn a blinding grin in Tony's direction before launching right back into his graduate-level lecture on fiber design and how he and Tony had developed a fabric that was both breathable and well-insulated.

So, fuck, okay.

His subconscious would get all its bullshit out of its system, and then he would stop feeling like he'd been stabbed through with a spear dipped in heroin every time Peter smiled at him, and then things would be back to normal.

Rhodey left later the same day. He and Tony had one last early dinner, just them, and Tony was so grateful for him, for the fact that Rhodey had never let all the times Tony had hit rock bottom keep him away for good, that it was almost overwhelming. Tony genuinely didn't know how he would've gotten through the week without him. But he did his best at dinner to keep things light and same-old-same-old, because he felt like-- after that buffer week of Rhodey helping him limp through getting back to normalcy, he was ready to take it from there.

He told Rhodey as much when he saw him off, after Rhodey told him to take care of himself and released him from what should have been but wasn't an awkwardly long hug.

"'Course you are," Rhodey responded, and he slapped Tony's shoulder to make up for the hug. "You're gonna start sleeping now that the new suit is done, right?"

"Oh, yeah," Tony said. "Just had to get it out of my system."

He woke up that night with hazy memories of a voice breathing out the words thank you against his lips, and he went to the lab.

It was a quarter 'till four in the morning when he heard the soft hiss of the lab doors sliding open, and Tony blinked hard two times and shook his head to clear the spots from his vision before he turned to look.

It was Peter, which-- the only other likely candidate was Bruce, who valued his sleep too much both as a middle-aged man and as a necessary factor in Hulk-management to be in the lab at nearly 4am, but Tony's mind still blanked out for a beat at seeing Peter, uncomprehending of the unexpected meeting.

Peter lifted a hand to wave at him, hair only a little more tousled than it had been earlier-- he'd been letting his curls run more wild recently, and Tony wondered if he always did that when he was just at home and didn't have anywhere to be-- and looking sleepy and half-lidded in his oversized t-shirt and sleep shorts. He was only wearing socks on his feet, which struck Tony as oddly cute in the beat before his brain came back online.

"Hey, Pete," Tony managed, a little too late. "What brings you down here at this hour?"

"Figured you were up," Peter said through a yawn, and he hooked a foot around a stool as he passed and flopped onto it, rolling it along until he could lean against the far end of Tony's worktable. There was enough distance that he didn't really feel boxed in, but Tony noticed distantly that it was another example of an allowance Peter wouldn't have taken so casually, before.

"At 4am?" Tony challenged, even though he knew that Peter had known.

Instead of saying anything about the suit, though, Peter gestured to his own face and said, "The concealer? I figured it wasn't for like, acne."

Tony blinked again.

"Flawless coverage my ass," he muttered, and Peter smiled, slow and sleepy.

"I mean-- probably no one would be able to tell normally, but my visual acuity…" He said, and Tony heaved a theatrical sigh.

"Yeah, yeah, no secrets from your spider-eyes, I got it," he said. "Speaking of, shouldn't they be resting right now? You look like you're about to fall asleep on my blueprints."

His chest went tight with the thought that maybe Peter was awake for similar-but-different reasons to himself, and he added, "Everything okay?"

"I'm okay," Peter said automatically, and he tipped his head slightly, voice slower as he asked, "Is everything okay with you?"

He'd done the same thing in front of the elevator, Tony remembered. Asked Tony if he was okay like it mattered, like how Tony was dealing with things as a grown man should even register for him when Peter had his own things to worry about.

Tony gestured broadly around the lab, and said, "I'm peachy."

The inquisitive, careful look behind Peter's eyes didn't soften with that reassurance. Which, granted, Tony wasn't exactly being honest, but he had a suspicion that Peter wasn't either, even if he wasn't awake for the same reasons as Tony.

Tony wanted to ask. How Peter was, really. How therapy was going. If he had his own nightmares-- he had to, right?-- and what he did about them. If there was anything Tony could do to fix it for him other than sit back and bite his tongue and try to be normal, because Tony would do that for him as long as it took, but it was killing him a little bit not to be able to give him anything else.

But he couldn't ask, because he wasn't the right person to talk to Peter about it. How was Peter supposed to even answer those questions honestly, when Tony was part of the problem? What was he supposed to say? 'Oh, well, sometimes I have nightmares about being raped in a literal torture chamber, oh wait Mr. Stark that was you?' And if he couldn't be honest then all Tony would accomplish by asking would be forcing Peter to have to feed him the sanitized version, and that would be-- a shitty thing to do. So.

Peter's expression turned more pensive as he seemed to realize that Tony wasn't going to offer up any more details either, and he slowly folded one arm over the surface of Tony's worktable and leaned to pillow his chin on it.

"I did wonder what you might be working on at 4am now that my suit is finished," he said with a flicker of a knowing smile, drooping sleepily over the table, and Tony couldn't help smiling back.

"Do you like it?" Tony asked, blatantly fishing for what he already knew, because it soothed something scraped raw in his chest to hear it.

"I love it," Peter murmured, his voice slow and warm with sleep in contrast to the breathless enthusiasm from earlier.

("I love you too.")

Tony took in a slow breath.

"Good," he said, rough. "You deserve it."

He meant to keep going, add something like you did good work on it too or you were due for an upgrade or whatever, because that was all true, and Peter had earned the kudos. But something about his own words-- you deserve it-- stopped him in his tracks, because when he thought about what Peter deserved-- so, so much more, so much better than what he'd gotten--

Peter blinked slowly like a cat instead of answering, and Tony thought his cheeks went a little pink in the cradle of his arm. He never was good at dealing with praise, and that along with the late hour seemed to leave him at a loss. It was cute.

Tony's mind cast around for something else to think about, something else to say, and he blurted, "Your birthday is soon, right? The week after next? What do you want?"

Peter blinked again, more quickly, and he straightened up just a little where he was leaning on the table.

"Wh… You already made me the suit, Mr. Stark," he said, and Tony shrugged.

"You worked on it too," Tony said. "Can't really call that a present. But, really-- what are you and your friends doing? Any plans?"

Peter seemed to cautiously relax at the idea that Tony was making smalltalk instead of genuinely looking for another reason to throw money at him-- never a safe bet, but he hadn't learned better yet-- and he folded his other arm up onto the table too, leaning his chin back into the pillow of his arms.

"We were just going to go to an arcade or whatever," Peter answered with a little tip of his head in lieu of a shrug. "It'll be fun."

"Uh-huh," Tony said, absently making plans as he watched Peter's eyelids begin to droop again the second he sank back down over the table. "Sure you don't want to get back to bed there, Pete?"

"Tell me about your new project," Peter yawned, and Tony smiled, and did.

He was basically working on an idea for a health and safety monitoring system, like a cross between a FitBit and a Life Alert, if he was honest. Something that could passively monitor vitals, recognize falls or impacts, communicate with emergency contacts-- the biggest implementation barriers would be addressing consumer privacy and making sure to put Legal on making sure that health insurance companies couldn't integrate the systems into employee wellness programs, and then the biggest design choice was figuring out whether he wanted to go with a StarkPhone app or a separate device like a smartwatch, because each had their pros and cons--

Tony had just tapered off of his impromptu product pitch, thinking that Peter had actually dropped off to sleep, when Peter filled the gentle silence with his sleep-thickened voice by asking, "Is this for me, too?"

And it was, of course. Tony had made him a new suit to keep him safe while he was being Spider-man, but that couldn't do anything for him while he was being Peter Parker. It seemed like an oversight.

Tony just hadn't expected Peter to call him out on it.

"Well," Tony said, swallowing. "Yes. If you want to use it, anyway. It would basically just be Karen integrated into your phone or watch, for you."

Peter hummed, non-committal as he looked up at Tony from underneath heavy half-lidded eyes, looking warm and relaxed where he was curled over the table.

"You really meant it," Peter said, slow and soft, his voice barely there even in the quiet of the lab. "When you said you'd do whatever I wanted."

In the medbay, Tony's brain supplied helpfully, because for a fraction of a second he'd gone back to the cell.

And-- there was another part, deeper in his mind, that said, this is dangerous.

But Tony couldn't see any danger here, in doing anything possible to fix things for Peter, and he was never good at listening to that part of himself even when he could.

So he took another slow breath, and said, "I did. I do."

"Well," Peter said, and he finally uncurled himself from the worktable with another yawn and a stretch. "I want you to get some sleep, so I'll go back to bed if you come with me."

To the elevator, Tony's brain supplied helpfully, because for a fraction of a second--

"Really? Rhodey's gone for two seconds and you pick up the motherhenning mantle?" Tony said, and Peter grinned at him with what looked like genuine delight in the comparison.

"Fine," Tony continued, rolling his eyes theatrically. "FRIDAY, set the elevator to drop off Mr. Parker before I sulk up to my floor."

He didn't know why he felt the need to announce that they were getting dropped off on separate floors before they actually got into the elevator. It was what Peter had meant in the first place.

"Science will wait for you," Peter teased as they made their way out of the lab.

"Science is always there for me," Tony replied, on autopilot.

They got in the elevator, the buttons already lit up from Tony's instructions to FRIDAY. Peter paused outside the doors when they reached his floor.

"'Night, Mr. Stark," he said. "Sweet dreams."

Tony had already said it to him earlier, through FRIDAY.

"You too," he said again, anyway.

The doors closed, and Tony sagged against the wall as the elevator carried him up to his own floor, suddenly exhausted with the weight of all the hours of sleep he'd missed over the last week.

Normal couldn't come soon enough.

Chapter Text

Things were pretty much back to normal, and Peter hated it.

Sure, he was hanging out with Ned again, which was great even if Peter still found himself zoning out a lot while they watched movies or played video games, and it was kind of hard to muster the same level of energy Ned did for stuff like school starting soon or college applications. Or for Peter's new suite in the tower, which Ned marveled over for basically an entire forty-five minutes when he first came to visit, and Peter understood but he still thought of the guestroom in Mr. Stark's suite as being 'his' and that was-- an entirely different thing.

And sure, it was great that the Avengers weren't really handling him with kid gloves, which he would have hated more. Sam sometimes checked in with him subtly, and maybe Steve clapped him on the shoulder more than he did before, and Natasha definitely smiled at him a little bit more often which was crazy, but all of that was fine. No one pulled their punches any more than normal when Peter joined in on training exercises, and after that first week, gentle jokes started getting thrown in his direction again until things had almost built back up to the usual level of let's-tease-the-baby-of-the-bunch.

But there was something about that, that-- itched. It's not that he wanted special treatment, because he didn't, and it's not like he actually wanted to talk about what had happened with his teammates, because he didn't. But with everything having gone back to normal so quickly-- it was somehow like he was carrying around this huge secret that wasn't actually a secret because everyone already knew, but even so, he still wasn't allowed to talk about it.

("And I don't want to talk about it with like, Steve, so I don't know why it feels like that or how to get it to stop," he told Patty.)

And then there were the parts that still weren't normal.

Mr. Stark didn't join in on group training himself anymore, though he was sometimes in the gym to monitor everyone's tech and jot down ideas for upgrades or observe the effects of ones that had already been implemented. Peter wasn't sure if that was his fault-- Mr. Stark didn't seem to go to the trainings that Peter skipped, either-- but it was definitely a change that at the very least had to do with-- what had happened, and Peter hated that for him.

And Mr. Stark was still keeping his distance. Not as much as before, where he wouldn't even let himself be at a holoscreen at the same time as Peter, but he was clearly conscious of leaving space between them. And he hadn't actually touched Peter himself since that handshake after they talked about his suit access, when his heartbeat had suddenly gone crazy.

That wasn't the only time, either. Peter tried not to deliberately listen, since that was sort of-- creepy and invasive, and Mr. Stark obviously didn't want him to know what was going on because he always pretended to be totally normal, but-- sometimes Peter would say something, or do something, or sometimes it honestly just seemed like it was because they were in the same room, and he'd hear the unique pattern of that thump, thump suddenly stutter or kick into overdrive.

It felt like it broke Peter's heart every time, and he wondered what was wrong with him that that wasn't enough to make him keep himself away.

Best case scenario, he thought, was that Mr. Stark was just doing his 'I'm a super genius so that means that anything that goes wrong around me is my fault because I should have been smart enough to stop it' thing, which he definitely was doing at least some of the time, and so Peter just needed to-- show him that things were fine, so he could stop feeling guilty, and that panicked patter to his heartbeat would go away on its own.

And then there was the worst case scenario, which--

Worst case scenario was that Mr. Stark actually was on the verge of a panic attack every time he was around Peter, and he was just forcing himself to do it for Peter's sake anyway because he'd meant it when he said whatever you want to a degree that Peter found both gripping and terrifying to look at directly, and Peter was being the worst kind of selfish by hanging around anyway.

Peter tried not to let himself consider the worst case scenario too much. The idea of doing the right thing if it turned out to be true-- moving out of the tower, and letting he and Mr. Stark grow back apart to where they only communicated through Happy and updates to his suit arrived as perky notifications from Karen instead of from his and Mr. Stark's time together in the lab, all of it with the memory of Mr. Stark saying I love you, kid lingering in his mind-- nearly sent him into a panic attack every time he thought about it.

So instead he did the selfish thing, and decided that it had to be the best case scenario, and he could make things fine again if he just tried hard enough to be okay.

"I'll be fine, May," Peter told her, and he watched her mouth flatten with concern.

"I can make the commute work," May insisted again, and she leaned forward on the couch, studying his expression intently. "I don't want you to pull some kind of tough guy thing here, okay? This isn't the time for that. I can make it work."

The problem was that the end of May's leave was coming up, and the logistics of getting from the tower to her work and back every day weren't… impossible, but she already worked so hard, and Peter hated to think about making her have to get up even earlier at the beginning of her day and lose even more free time to travel at the end of it.

Plus-- he'd gotten to spend a lot of time with her over the last two weeks, and as weird and flipped-sideways and kind of painful as they had been, that part had also been really nice. It reminded him a little of summers when Uncle Ben had still been around, and they had the money to actually take a vacation every few years. So they'd had plenty of time together to bolster him back up, straying from the tower to go check out new restaurants or see a movie or just go on walks to see what caught their attention, and he thought that he was ready to ease back from having May around all the time. He was still-- dealing with stuff, but-- he didn't need her to put her life on hold; that would be ridiculous.

And she was still planning on coming over in the evenings for dinner, since it wasn't as much of a haul to go back and forth between the tower and their apartment. And-- he knew he should work on getting used to not having his, like, security blankets around before school started.

But he wasn't ready to leave the tower himself.

"I'm not doing a tough guy thing," Peter said, wrinkling his nose at the thought. "I mean it, it's fine! There's tons of people here, and Mr. Stark said a car can go pick Ned up anytime he wants to come over; it's not like I'm just gonna be by myself all the time."

May nodded reluctantly, but Peter could see that she wasn't convinced. Her expression worked as she found a way to word her thoughts, and she finally said, "I want you to do whatever you need, okay, sweetie? So I'm not trying to argue you into doing something you don't want to do. I just want to understand."

She took a breath, and asked, "Is it-- do you not feel safe at home?"

"No! No, that's not--" Peter said automatically, and then he stopped, because even as he said it he realized that he was lying.

May smiled a little sadly, and nodded again.

"I mean, I get it," she said. "Hard to find somewhere safer than a skyscraper where you're surrounded by 90% of New York's superheroes, right?"

"That's not really… It's not like that, exactly," Peter said, turning that creeping nervousness whenever he left the tower over and over in his mind to try and put words to it. It felt like when he was trying to say something in Spanish that was outside the scope of his vocabulary-- the fact of the feeling was as obvious as anything, almost tangible enough to touch, but even though he knew that the words to describe it were out there, his mind couldn't quite bring them into view.

"It's not… I know that no one's, like, after me; they were just after Mr. Stark," he continued slowly, and his mind skittered away from that thought, because the stuff that had been in that room made it pretty obvious what would have happened to Mr. Stark if he hadn't been there and that was just--

"But," he blurted, "it's just like. If something did happen, I."

May gave him a moment to struggle through it, and when he came up empty, she gently suggested, "It feels better to have a home base."

"Yeah," Peter said, shoulders drooping. He couldn't find any better words for it, himself. "Something like that, I guess."

May wrapped an arm around his shoulders and leaned into his side, tucking her head against his.

"You'll tell me if there's something I can do to make home feel more like home base, won't you?" she asked, her voice soft. "And, when you're ready, maybe you can talk to Patty about it. Because I don't want you to leave until it's the right thing for you, but."

She squeezed him, and he leaned back against her.

"I'm not ready to have an empty nest yet, either. So if it feels like it's going to turn into something longer-term… You let me know, okay?"

She was offering to make it permanent, he recognized. To actually move into the tower, and find a new job that would make the move work, and leave their neighborhood in Queens behind.

He wouldn't ask her to do that-- he didn't even want to do that, regardless of the babyish anxiety-ridden part of his heart that wailed yes, let's stay forever at the thought-- but it made a prickle of tears burn in his eyes that she'd offered.

He hated how much he'd been crying recently, but it felt kind of nice, this time.

("Have you talked about it at all with anyone other than me, since that first day with May?" Patty asked him.

"Well-- no. Not really. Only a little bit, with May," Peter admitted, and Patty hummed meaningfully.)

"Okay," he promised. "But I told you, I'll be fine."

Mr. Stark was also obviously concerned about it, when May informed him about the updated plans at lab time with a sort of deliberate, casual confidence that Peter loved her for.

"If it's about money, I can--" Mr. Stark started to say, but May cut him off before he could offer to cover her for unpaid time off or bribe her hospital with a sizeable donation or straight-out buy the whole thing or whatever ridiculous billionaire thing it was that he had in mind.

"No, it's fine, Tony," she said, and she flashed a reassuring smile at him and then Peter, where he was fiddling around at his workstation and half-heartedly pretending not to listen. "This is the next step in the plan so we're going to try it out for a bit, right Peter?"

"Oh-- yeah, it's fine," Peter echoed, turning a screwdriver over and over in his hands. He blurted, "If-- if that's okay with you, Mr. Stark."

"'Course," Mr. Stark said, but he was frowning. "Whatever you want, Pete."

And sure, he said that, and Peter knew that part of it was just that he was concerned in the same way May was that Peter wasn't ready to be on his own, but-- Peter also wondered if part of that frown wasn't because Mr. Stark didn't want to be alone with him.

Which would suck, but which Peter probably, like, deserved after straight-out asking Mr. Stark to come to bed with him the last time they'd been alone together in the lab.

He hadn't meant to. He'd really just been planning on making the general point that he'd try to get some sleep if Mr. Stark would too, but he'd been so tired, and he guessed it was a Freudian slip because he'd said that instead.

He hadn't even realized until Mr. Stark's heart skipped a beat in shock.

Mr. Stark had played it off, and so Peter had also played it off, since getting Mr. Stark to stop spending all night in the lab for him really had been the point of the whole thing in the first place anyway, and the idea of what else might happen from meeting there alone late at night was just an embarrassing fantasy. It didn't hurt him that Mr. Stark brushed over the awkward, unintentional implication, because of course he did, that was the responsible thing to do.

(It did hurt a little that Mr. Stark wanted to be alone with Peter so little that the idea had worked, because now whenever Peter woke up in the middle of the night with panic clawing at his throat and couldn't help but ask where Mr. Stark was, FRIDAY said that he was in his bedroom instead of the lab. Which was ridiculous, because that's what Peter had wanted, but-- it was what it was.)

And, granted-- Peter also didn't know what it would be like, to be alone with Mr. Stark on a regular basis after everything. He wanted it, to get back to normal, for it to not be a thing he even had to think about, but--

The problem was that even with what had happened, and how awkward things were, and how much he worried about Mr. Stark and what Mr. Stark was thinking and feeling about him and thinking and feeling in general and how everything felt totally off-kilter in a way that Peter didn't know would ever get back to normal--

Mr. Stark was still hot.

It had taken Peter all of three days to work up enough courage and calm alike to try to… fantasize, after what had happened. It had felt wrong, thinking about Mr. Stark when they actually had technically slept together but Mr. Stark hadn't wanted it; reaching down to palm himself through his sleep shorts while wrapped in the jacket that he had stolen, so he'd tried not to. He'd tried to think of other things, other people, but the thing was-- he knew what it felt like, with Mr. Stark.

He knew what Mr. Stark's lips felt like against his, hot and seeking and bordered by the rich scratch of stubble. He knew what Mr. Stark's hands felt like on him, in his hair and over his skin and on his cock and inside his body. He knew what Mr. Stark sounded like when he was turned on; knew what made him gasp and swear and what made his voice turn to gravel. He knew what it felt like for Mr. Stark to call him honey and sweetheart and baby while he made Peter's body light up from the inside out.

He knew what it felt like to have Mr. Stark's cock inside him.

He knew what Mr. Stark sounded like when he came.

So he tried to think about other people, but-- of course the things that he knew, the things he had actually felt, crept into those fantasies. So then it would inevitably turn into thinking about Mr. Stark himself, and Peter would try to make that okay by thinking about something stupid and sweet and romantic happening in the lab or Peter's room in Mr. Stark's suite--

But then, at least half the time, it would turn back into the cell. And Peter would remember what had actually happened while he was learning what all of those things felt like, and his stomach would turn and his sweat would grow cold, and it didn't seem to matter how much Peter tried to overwrite those memories with fantasies about Mr. Stark's smile and soft sweet kisses and what you're beautiful, sweetheart would have sounded like without that note of strained desperation behind it. The fantasies of uncomplicated attraction and budding romance weren't real, and the memories were.

Peter imagined asking for a redo on more than one occasion. He would never actually, of course. But it was nice to think that there might be a way to scrub away what had really happened by replacing it with something else, like painting over dingy, smudged-up walls with a brighter shade of white.

He couldn't do that, though. And he couldn't stop remembering that day in the cell, but he also couldn't stop wanting Mr. Stark, so--

Well, it wasn't like he was going to talk to Patty about that, so. He was just going to have to deal with it.

That turned out to be easier said than done, though, because a few days after May moved out, Peter had to reluctantly admit to himself that being on his own was-- hard.

The first day wasn't so bad. He and Vision experimented with omelets for breakfast, which was always fun even if everyone else that passed through refused to touch them (even though the matcha one was honestly great, and the rest were edible smothered with enough hot sauce.) He spent a little bit of time drafting some designs for systems he could use to incorporate webshooter channels into his actual suit-- purely theoretical at the moment, but he thought he might be able to crack it eventually, and it would be nice to have back-ups if his webshooters got smashed in a fight-- and then he went to the lab.

It wasn't as awkward as he feared it might be. Mr. Stark was in a kind of manic mood with a new project of his own (some kind of personal shielding that he was adapting from alien tech to work with an Earth-based power source, which was awesome), and he grinned and rocked on the balls of his feet and gestured in flourishes as he explained it to Peter, and it didn't leave a lot of room for awkward silence.

Peter noticed that Mr. Stark was still careful not to come too close, even in that state of boundless invention. He would smirk and point at Peter with wordless approval when Peter was able to pick up his train of thought and run with it, where used to he might have thrown an arm around Peter's shoulders and shook him, teasing. But that was fine. He liked Mr. Stark's smile.

After the lab, he went to the gym and put himself through training exercises in his new suit until his arms and legs were wobbly and he was too tired to think too much in the shower. Then May arrived for dinner after her first day back at work, regaling him with joking horror stories about how the place had fallen apart in her absence over take-out and Stardust, and it was fine. The silence of the suite was weird after she left, but it was fine. He had the day's memories of Mr. Stark's smirk to distract him once he went to bed, and maybe it took a few hours of tossing and turning after that to actually fall asleep, but-- it was fine.

The second day started okay, but then it was one of those days where Mr. Stark's heart jumped the second Peter stepped into the lab and he wouldn't quite meet Peter's eyes for the rest of their time together, and then Peter had therapy. So he was already spacey enough that Ned and MJ noticed when they came over for lunch and chitchat over Pirates of the Caribbean, and he thought he played it off okay by blaming it on being tired, but-- when they'd picked the movie, he'd forgotten about how creepy the bad guy was toward Elizabeth in the beginning because he worked with the good guys in the other movies, so--

Ned and MJ didn't press him on it when he came back a full ten minutes later after excusing himself to the "bathroom" to take deep breaths and go through his grounding exercises, but he saw their concerned glances, and yeah, that was a hard one to play off.

He didn't even try to distract himself once it was time to go to bed, since that was sure to end badly after-- earlier. He just clutched Mr. Stark's jacket tight around him until he drifted off right into one of his lonely claustrophobia dreams, so-- that was-- y'know. A bad day, but those happened.

Peter started the third day by seeing a post theorizing about Spider-man's recent absence from patrolling while he was swiping through his feeds at breakfast. It had only been two and a half weeks, but-- that was a longer break than he'd ever taken from Spider-man, except for the time Mr. Stark had taken his suit, and. Well, no one had had to wonder about why he wasn't around after that, with all the news coverage about the ferry disaster.

Some people thought he was taking a vacation, or otherwise preoccupied with his "real life." Some people thought he'd retired. Some people thought that he was being held somewhere by a villain, and some people thought that he was dead.

He put on the suit, but he couldn't make himself leave the tower with it on. So he went to the gym and sparred with Bucky, and got his ass kicked three times in a row, and he would have kept going if Bucky hadn't frowned and insisted they stop for lunch after the third time helping Peter off the ground.

Peter did end up thinking too much in the shower that day, but Bucky was a pretty quiet lunch companion, so he didn't think his spaciness stood out too much.

The distant sounds of New York City were audible to Peter even from near the top of Avengers Tower, like picking out the softest strains of an over-listened song against a hubbub of competing noise through sheer familiarity. They kept him up for a long time, that night.

On the fourth night, he barely slept at all.

The fifth day-- the day before his birthday--

It was mostly that he had too much time to think when it was just him, Peter thought. May had kept him active and distracted through plans and activities (via Mr. Stark's credit card, which she'd tried unsuccessfully to keep out of his sight,) and even when they'd just been hanging out quietly, if Peter had sensed that his thoughts were about to turn somewhere unpleasant he could just bring up any topic and they'd be chattering in no time. And yeah, he hung out in the communal areas of the tower for a lot of the day, but it's not like any of the Avengers were on summer break, and he didn't want to monopolize anyone's free time with keeping him company.

And then there was just that-- when he'd had at least one of the people he loved nearby at night, it had helped him worry less, about… what could happen to them.

On the fifth day, Peter knocked a webshooter prototype off his lab bench somewhere around his twentieth yawn of the hour, and jarred his shoulder against the bench when he popped back up after reflexively diving to catch it.

"You okay, Pete?" Mr. Stark asked him while he grimaced and rubbed at his shoulder, because of course Mr. Stark had to see that.

"Fine," Peter grit out, and he yawned again.

Mr. Stark's concerned frown was really outsized for a bruise that wasn't even going to get to form before Peter's body could heal it away, Peter thought, but then Mr. Stark said, "Are you sleeping okay?"

"Are you?" Peter countered automatically, which was a dick move, and he immediately felt bad. It wasn't Mr. Stark's fault he wasn't sleeping, and it was Mr. Stark's right to not want to-- what, talk about his own sleep issues with a teenager?

Mr. Stark didn't call him on it, even though Peter would have deserved it. His frown deepened a little more, and instead he started to say, "You know, May would--"

"No," Peter said quickly, shaking his head. "No, I'm-- it's fine. May's fine at the apartment; I don't want to bother her. I just--"

I'm just lonely, he thought.

"I just," he said again, looking for different words, because those ones were too honest.

You're the only one who understands, but you--, he thought.

("Is there someone that you do want to talk about it with?" Patty asked him, and Peter hesitated.)

He was so tired.

He said, "Could I… I just. Could I sleep in my old room? In your suite."

Mr. Stark went still.

"I just, I mean, I can keep all my stuff in the new one, and like… stay there, during the day, and dinner with May and all," Peter said, face hot, because he hadn't realized how much he'd wanted it until the words were leaving him, and it was such a babyish thing to want.

"But at night, if I could-- y'know. I," he continued, like there was any way to explain it to make it less embarrassing, and then stopped because of course there wasn't.

Mr. Stark hesitated, expression creased with conflict. He started to take a breath as the conflict settled into apology, and--

"--I just don't want anything else to change," Peter blurted, the words coming to him abruptly in his desperation to at least see it through, to try and get what he needed, if he was going to put himself through the humiliation of asking in the first place.

And, after a moment--

Mr. Stark's tense shoulders relaxed as his breath left in a sigh, and his expression didn't soften entirely, but-- it was enough.

"Okay, Pete," Mr. Stark said, shrugging, his voice light. "Whatever you need."

"Yeah?" Peter breathed, and he was being selfish. He knew he was being selfish, but he also felt like he could fall to pieces with relief, so-- if Mr. Stark really let him do this, he'd just do his best to stay out of his way, and if it seemed like it was really bothering him Peter could always switch back to the new suite. There was-- there was no harm in trying.

"Yeah," Mr. Stark reassured him with a quick lopsided smile. "Gotta get your spider-sleep in. Whatever you want."

"Okay," Peter said, and he couldn't fight back his own relieved grin even as guilt twisted in his gut, but Mr. Stark's face softened the rest of the way at seeing it, so-- that was okay. "Thank you. Sorry I-- just, thanks."

"It's nothing," Mr. Stark said, soft, and then his tone turned more casual. "You already have access, so just head up whenever you're ready. You might not see me because I head up late sometimes, but you already knew that."

"That's fine," Peter said, earnest, and Mr. Stark smiled at him for a beat longer before they both went back to their work.

May asked him about it when she came over for dinner that night, because it turned out Mr. Stark had given her a head's up.

Peter tried not to think about why.

"You're sure you don't want me to move back in? Or I can get more leave if I need to; they would understand," she said, and Peter shook his head, adamant.

"I mean it, May," he said. "It's fine."

And he did mean it. He didn't actually see Mr. Stark that night, like Mr. Stark had predicted, but he heard when he came in-- his soft footsteps, the click of his bedroom door down the way from Peter's, the cadence of his voice murmuring inaudible instructions to FRIDAY.

Peter felt something in himself settle at hearing the gentle sounds of life from the other room while curled up in his own familiar sheets and comforter, and he was out within fifteen minutes.

He slept the whole night through.

When Peter woke in the morning, he was seventeen, and he felt better-rested than he had in weeks.

It was enough to carry him through his shower and getting ready without having to rush, which was rare these days, and FRIDAY told him that Mr. Stark was having breakfast with everyone again, so-- he wasn't avoiding Peter, so Peter couldn't have made things too weird. He was maybe not doing so great at showing Mr. Stark that he was fine, but, maybe by actually getting some sleep he'd start doing better with that going forward.

Peter tried to carry that optimism with him as he went down to the shared kitchen, and--

"Oh, there he is!"

"Happy birthday, Peter!"

"About time, kid!"

The number of people spread across the kitchen and living room wasn't really a surprise, since Peter could hear the bustle of chatter before he got there, but the way every head turned in his direction-- and the way every bit of counterspace was covered in trays and boxes of breakfast food from what looked like about ten different eye-wateringly expensive restaurants-- definitely was.

"Whoa," Peter blurted, breaking out into a baffled smile as his brain struggled to catch up-- well-rested or not, having the full enthusiastic attention of nearly every Avenger was a lot to process for only having been awake for twenty minutes-- and he instinctively sought out Mr. Stark.

He was standing tucked away behind the counter, hiding a smile behind his coffee mug while the others laughed at Peter's early-morning eloquence, and he tipped his mug toward Peter in a parody of a toast when their eyes met.

"Happy birthday, Pete," he said warmly, and then raised his voice and adopted a more pointed tone as he said, "Now get over here and make a plate so these vultures stop asking me when they can eat."

There was a general clamor of mixed cheers and complaints-- finally! and who even gets up past 7:00? and go on, Pete-- and a gauntlet of backslaps and hair-ruffles to get through, but Peter made his way to the counter to start loading up a plate, and said, "There's only one more week of summer break, Sam; I'd be betraying my fellow students everywhere by getting up before 8."

"Teenagers," Sam bemoaned, but he nudged Peter playfully as they shuffled around the counter for servings of breakfast sandwiches on flaky French bread and rich buttery pastries and pancakes with toppings Peter couldn't pronounce.

Mr. Stark kept himself back from the line as the others went through with their plates, which made it easy for Peter to stop off beside him on his way to the couch without drawing too much attention.

"Thank you," Peter said quietly, willing himself not to blush. He was glad that his hands were full, because otherwise he definitely would have had to fight off the urge for another hug, and that definitely would have been too much after basically begging Mr. Stark to let him move back in the night before.

Mr. Stark smiled at him, and instead of responding to the thanks, he asked, "Sleep okay?"

"Yeah," Peter rushed to answer, nodding. "Yeah. It's-- you know, it's more familiar, so…"

"I get it," Mr. Stark said with a little shrug, and he nodded down at Peter's plate. "Remember to tell me your favorites, and maybe I can narrow it down next year."

He was so nice.

"You know this means you have to let me get you something for your birthday," Peter teased, trying to ignore that he was definitely losing the battle against the pink that was trying to creep into his cheeks.

He expected Mr. Stark to make the usual kind of dad-joke out of it-- something about his age, or Peter's age and whether his Gen-Z idea of a gift was a fidget spinner, or already having too much crap and not needing more, or whatever.

Instead, Mr. Stark ducked his head with a little huffed laugh, and said, "Yeah, yeah. I'll look forward to it."

Which. Oh, man.

Peter was glad that Mr. Stark couldn't hear heartbeats, because his heart definitely somehow did a full flip over in his chest not just at Mr. Stark not deflecting his offer, but actually-- accepting it. Like they were friends. Like it wasn't ridiculous that Peter might actually be able to give him something he liked.

Peter tucked away about a million inappropriate thoughts about what exactly he could offer Mr. Stark to revisit later in private (and god, that was horrible, Mr. Stark would probably hate to know he was even thinking about it, but Peter was only human), and swallowed hard.

"You better remember that you said that in May," Peter said with a grin, like he was being totally normal about this, and Mr. Stark waved him away.

"Go eat," he said, smiling, and Peter obediently beat a hasty retreat. As much as he could stand around and flirt with Mr. Stark all day, he was hungry, and well-- he could stand around and flirt with Mr. Stark all day, so someone would definitely notice sooner or later if he actually let himself do it.

And he shouldn't let himself do it, obviously.

So instead he piled into one of the living room's cozy armchairs to eat the best breakfast he'd ever had with his teammates, spread out across the couches and bar stools to a backdrop of chatter and whatever's-on-TV.

It was really nice. Peter was genuinely touched that everyone had shown up for him, filling up the shared space for the first time Peter had seen in a while, and that they were taking the time out of their schedules to actually… hang out. For his birthday.

He knew that it was at least in part because of what had happened, and that was also why no one was making the kinds of jokes that they would have before-- all I always knew you were Stark's favorite or why don't I get a breakfast buffet for my birthday, Tony. And knowing that did put just the slightest hint of a weird cast over the whole thing, over chatting about Peter's plans with his friends later and what AP classes he was going to take this year and jokes about whether he'd develop new spider powers on his next birthday and talking about anything and everything except the reason why they had all made time to be there in the first place.

But weird or not, it really was nice, and Peter was feeling warm and content with both the companionship and the genuinely amazing food by the time plates started getting cleared off to the sink.

"--Hey, Tony," Natasha said abruptly, cutting through Bruce and Peter's conversation on how it would theoretically work biologically if Peter did keep developing new powers as he aged, and she nodded toward the TV with a smirk.

It was I Love The '90s, and the rotating cast of celebrity talking heads were giving their commentary over a montage of pictures and grainy videos of Mr. Stark-- younger, and usually with a drink in one hand and a beautiful woman hanging off the other arm. Back in his partying phase, apparently.

He'd been hot then, too, but Peter personally thought his laugh lines and the flecks of silver in his hair suited him.

Peter turned to grin at him, and Mr. Stark scoffed and rolled his eyes as he dried his hands off by the sink.

"You save the world every other year and everyone still just wants to talk about how good you were at partying in your twenties," Mr. Stark sniffed, wandering back into the living room and leaning on the back of the couch he'd been sitting at before.

"You kind of say that like it's a general-you problem instead of a just-you problem," Bruce murmured, grinning, and Mr. Stark flapped a hand at him as the topic on the show turned away from his history with drinking and extravagant spending and more toward his history with-- well--

"I'm pretty sure that's the same year SI won every award out there for our green energy initiatives, and yet," Mr. Stark said dryly, gesturing at the TV, and his words ended just in time for the current commentator on the screen-- a now-middle-aged actress who'd been involved with Mr. Stark decades prior, Peter vaguely knew-- to shrug shamelessly and say, "I mean, you tell me that sex with Tony Stark isn't the best you've ever had, and I'm calling you a liar."

And--

Maybe it was because he was too cozy from the food and company and the first good night's sleep in weeks, and he wasn't minding his filter.

Maybe it was because the feeling of ignoring the elephant in the room had finally caught up to him, ever-present like the film of humidity that settles over your skin on a foggy day.

Maybe it was because--

("--but I can't talk about it with him," Peter insisted to Patty, who hummed thoughtfully. "He doesn't want to talk about it with me; he could have brought it up a million times and he hasn't, so-- he doesn't want to.")

Peter didn't know even milliseconds afterward why he said it, or why he thought it would be funny.

But he tilted his head to one side, raised a shoulder in a doubtful shrug, and said, "Ehhh."

And then froze at the sound of multiple heartbeats stuttering in a cascade of off-rhythm thumps as every face in the room turned toward him again, marked this time by raised eyebrows or wide, shocked eyes.

Peter slapped a hand over his mouth, face flaring red-hot so quickly it made him a little dizzy, and squeaked a muffled, "Sorry!"

Mr. Stark was staring at him, incredulous and so wide-eyed that he nearly looked panicked, and Peter's mind raced with a thousand thoughts about how he could possibly walk that back when--

The dumbstruck expression on Mr. Stark's face shifted into something else, the corners of his lips wobbling, and then he leaned over and laughed.

"What, really?" Mr. Stark honest-to-god giggled as the team stared. "Even with no other contenders?"

"Tony," Steve cut in, appalled, with Mr. Stark already raising a hand to cover his own slightly-hysterical grin as if he could put the words back in his mouth, and both of them blinked when Peter burst out with a peal of startled laughter.

"I mean, I had just had amateur surgery," Peter said, compelled by the rush of relief that Mr. Stark wasn't mad or upset, that he was actually laughing, and even seemed to maybe need this the same way Peter did--

"The accommodations could have been better," Mr. Stark allowed, voice shaking with repressed mirth.

"The like, bonesaws in the corner were kind of a mood-killer--"

"Not very romantic--"

"There wasn't even a bed," Peter gasped, breathless, and he knew he needed to stop because even though he and Mr. Stark were laughing hard enough to burst everyone was watching and clearly uncomfortable and he was being so, so weird--

He rubbed both hands over his face, trying frantically to get a hold over his hysterical giggles, when Natasha abruptly cut through the team's strained silence.

"A bed's not really a requirement," she said casually, lips quirked into a ghost of a smile.

"Nat," Steve admonished more quietly under the sound of Peter and Mr. Stark's twin shocks of laughter, and even a few startled giggles from the others.

"It's really not," Bucky agreed with a shrug, and Steve rubbed a hand over his face with a sigh and reluctant smile.

"It's really not," Wanda said, earnest and smirking both.

Everyone paused and turned to look at Vision, who looked so startled by the sudden attention that it spurred a new clamor of laughter.

"Man, I didn't need to know this crap about any of you," Sam muttered darkly, lips twitching, and by then the tension was long-dead and buried.

It wasn't awkward at all as the mood in the room segued into throwing jokes back and forth, and then split again into separate conversations, and Peter was relieved to see that no one looked at him weird through chatting and cleaning up and then everyone peeling off to their own plans for the day.

He knew it had been weird. But he almost couldn't regret it, because seeing Mr. Stark laugh and actually talking to him about it, however masked in dark humor, had been such a rush, such a relief, that Peter found he wasn't even worried about what it might feel like the next time they were in the lab alone together. It would be fine.

They would be fine.

Mr. Stark had apparently insisted on Happy driving Peter to pick up Ned and MJ instead of letting them meet him at the arcade for games and dinner, which was sweet, and Peter didn't even question it until Happy finally pulled up behind the arcade building instead of at the entrance.

"Um, I don't think we can use this door, Mr. Happy sir," Ned ventured after they'd all piled out of the car, and Happy moved to approach the employee entrance.

"Ta-da," Happy said, rolling his eyes as he pulled the door open without a badge or key. "Now come on, get in here."

Peter looked at his friends with building confusion and a little spark of tentative excitement, but shrugged, and the three of them stepped through into the hallway of backrooms and employee offices.

"Straight through that one," Happy commanded, gesturing to the large double-doors at the end of the hallway, and Peter heard him lock the employee entrance behind them.

And--

It was stupid.

His Spidey-sense wasn't going off, and Happy looked and sounded and even, like, smelled normal, and there was no reason anyone other than Peter's friends and teammates would even have known what his plans were for the day to interfere.

But the arcade sounded wrong-- too quiet, not filled with a clamor of customers, and they hadn't been able to see in through the windows because of coming in the back entrance, and--

When Westcott had abducted Mr. Stark, he'd used something to make his vehicle look like one of Mr. Stark's cars, and no one knew exactly what had happened that Mr. Stark would have gotten into a car with a driver he didn't recognize.

Peter grabbed MJ and Ned's hands to stop them, feeling idiotic, and hesitated in the hallway as he asked, "Happy-- where did we meet for the first time?"

"What?" Happy said, baffled, and Peter felt his face burn red as his friends gave him concerned looks.

"Can you just tell me?" he asked with a strained smile, and he was being so stupid; May or Mr. Stark had just arranged something special and it was obvious and that was the reason for all the things that didn't seem right and he was going to put a damper on everything by being so fucking weird about it, but what if--

(What if, what if, what if--)

Happy studied his expression for a long moment with a frown, and Peter saw the moment it must have clicked for him: a look of dawning comprehension sliding just as quickly into soft sympathy.

"I picked you up at your apartment to drive you to the jet," Happy said, uncharacteristically gentle, and he rolled his eyes and let his tone turn more gruff for the next part. "And you made a pretend documentary that no one else would ever be able to see in the backseat the whole time."

Peter let out a breath.

"Yeah, okay," he said, letting go of his friends' hands with another wincing smile. He wished he could think of how to use the off-ramp Happy had set up, falling purposefully back into their usual grumpy-babysitter-annoying-charge dynamic, but instead he just said, "Sorry."

"Nah, you're just thinking like Security, kid," Happy said with a shrug, and he clapped Peter on the shoulder as he passed, taking the lead toward the double-doors.

"Is everything okay?" Ned whispered to Peter as they started forward again, and MJ didn't say anything, but Peter could recognize the analytical expression on her face that meant there was a mystery happening that she was determined to solve.

"Yeah! Yeah. Everything's fine. I'll, um, I'll tell you about it later," Peter said in a whispered rush. He still hadn't really told his friends anything except that there had been a mission that had gone badly, but he could-- explain about the car, at least, for why he'd acted so weird and paranoid. That would be okay.

"When you're ready," MJ said quietly, watching him with those dark, observant eyes, and he smiled at her, touched.

"Okay. But, um-- let's go!" Peter said, and headed to where Happy was waiting at the door.

MJ took his hand again as they got close, and shot Ned a meaningful look until he did too, and it was embarrassing but Peter appreciated it because--

Happy pushed the door open, and Peter flinched as a chorus of voices cried, "Surprise!"

And Peter had been halfway expecting it, but his jaw still dropped.

The whole place was decorated from top to bottom. There was a massive buffet table lined with heated trays of steaming food against one wall, and another central table with a three-tier cake surrounded by buckets of game tokens at its center, buttercream depictions of Spider-man's proudest moments of heroics gracing its sides. And, most striking of all-- the prize wall behind the ticket counter had been emptied of its usual knick-knacks and plushies, and instead was lined with wrapped presents of different shapes and sizes, each marked with a tag declaring its value in tickets.

The place was totally empty of other customers or even staff, and the windows had been covered with decorative screens, but May was there, and the Avengers, including Clint and even--

"Oh my god that's Thor," Ned breathed beside him, starstruck, and Peter heard MJ make a tiny sound at the back of her throat as she squeezed his hand hard, and he was so overwhelmed that he barely had the presence of mind to make a mental note to tease her about it later.

"Oh my god, you guys," Peter said, and his friends let go of his hands so he could step forward into May's incoming hug, staring at the crowd of his grinning teammates over her shoulder and barely processing her arms around him. "Oh my god, this is awesome, this is so fucking cool-- oops, sorry May, sorry Cap-- wow--"

"Peter Parker!" Thor boomed, breaking from the crowd to stride forward and throw an arm around Peter's shoulders once May had stepped away. "Happy birthday! It is an honor to celebrate the coming of age of such a fine warrior."

"I'm just here for the food," Clint called, and Peter grinned.

"Thanks, Thor, I can't believe you came all the way here-- thank you everyone, this is so awesome, you really didn't have to-- oh, you should meet my friends--"

Even with the hiccup at the beginning, it was an amazing night.

Peter did introduce Ned and MJ to the Avengers that they hadn't had a chance to meet, and Ned's wide-eyed stammering wasn't a surprise, but MJ's downplayed fluster at meeting Thor and Natasha was a delight.

May explained the rules for the evening-- Peter had to buy his presents from the ticket counter using his winnings, and he could steal anyone else's accumulated tickets if he challenged them to a game and won. Ned immediately volunteered to be his champion and collect tickets on his behalf under the same rules, and MJ griped about capitalism infecting even the leisure time of the masses--

"--but sure, I guess I'll help."

And then it was on.

Peter beat Thor at skeeball, and Sam at Street Fighter, and Happy at the arcade's standard racing game, which Happy railed against as 'unrealistic.' He narrowly lost to Natasha at DDR, and soundly lost to Clint at 1v1 laser-tag (who wouldn't accept Peter's complaints that laser-tag doesn't give tickets), and it took him two tries to beat Bruce's score at Tetris but he managed in the end.

Peter bounced from game to game while nearly everyone else did the same thing around him, all pretending that they weren't adding their tickets to his pile on the counter whether he won or not, and every time he earned enough to buy a present May called over whoever had brought it for him so that he could thank them.

("I'm sorry, Peter Parker, I did bring you a gift but your charming aunt said that I could not give it to you," Thor explained to him solemnly at one point, and May cut in, "Yet! You can have it on your twenty-first.")

But there was one person who wasn't playing.

Peter slid onto the bench across the table from Mr. Stark, and scolded, "This is like… a million birthdays' worth of presents."

"Dunno what you're talking about," Mr. Stark said, looking up from his phone with a press release smile. "Your aunt did all this."

"Oh, sure," Peter said tolerantly, and he nodded toward the cake. "So, Happy says that the cameras were turned off, and the catering and decorating crews got here before everyone else and are supposed to only come clean up after we all leave, and there's the privacy screens in the windows… But what'd you tell the bakery about the cake?"

"Well, I hear that your aunt told the bakery that it was for, uh, Pepper's first cousin twice removed," Mr. Stark explained. "Who is a huge fan of Spider-man. Crazy about the guy."

"Oh, right," Peter said, grinning. "Ms. Potts's first cousin twice removed, who my aunt knows."

"Right," Mr. Stark nodded. He leaned forward, and his smile was less playful and more fond when he said, "I also heard-- from your aunt, of course-- that the bakery said it's the twenty-sixth Spider-man cake they've done this year, 'cause it turns out he's pretty popular, and Pepper's first cousin twice removed isn't the only one who's crazy about him."

Peter blinked and took a breath, and when that still didn't unstick his tongue from the roof of his suddenly-too-dry mouth, he swallowed hard.

Mr. Stark's heart started to beat faster.

"Play a game with me," Peter blurted, and it wasn't a graceful segue, but it seemed to do the trick.

Mr. Stark blinked, and looked down at the top of the table pointedly with a quirked smile.

"I don't have any tickets," he said, spreading his hands above his empty patch of table.

"I know," Peter said. "I just want to. It's just for fun."

Mr. Stark chose air hockey in the end, because of course he picked the game that meant they were standing six feet apart from each other with a solid object between them the whole time.

But Peter still got to watch Mr. Stark smile, and laugh, and pump his fist when he finally managed to get a single shot past Peter's reflexes with the oldest trick in the book-- "Look over there!," and Peter would never forgive himself for falling for it-- so like the rest of the night, cake and dinner and presents and games and friends, it was kind of perfect anyway, and it was almost enough.

("I have a question, Peter," Patty said to him, once he finished listing all the reasons why he couldn't talk to Mr. Stark about what had happened, and why Mr. Stark couldn't possibly want to talk about it with him. She leaned in, making sure he was really listening, and asked, "What would happen if Mr. Stark was telling himself the same thing?")

After the ride back to the tower, and the A New Hope quote-along, and the final birthday well-wishes as his friends and teammates slowly peeled off yawning to their waiting rides or own suites, Peter found Mr. Stark in the lab.

He was working on some actual SI projects rather than personal experiments or Avengers gear, it looked like, and he looked surprised to see Peter but smiled at him all the same as Peter stepped into the lab. It felt a lot like that night two weeks ago now, when Peter had found him in the lab at nearly 4am, except this time Peter wasn't moving with the dulled nerves and sleepy confidence of a half-baked plan he was too tired to question.

"Hi," he said, returning Mr. Stark's smile, and he tried not to fidget with the restless buzz under his skin as he moved to lean against the end of Mr. Stark's worktable.

"Hi," Mr. Stark echoed, his smile quirking with curiosity as he watched Peter come into his space, and god, he was so handsome. It was genuinely unfair.

"Had a lightbulb that you had to chase?" Mr. Stark added when Peter didn't immediately have a response, and Peter never knew what to think about those moments when Mr. Stark acted like it wasn't obvious that Peter was there for him, instead of the actual lab.

"No, I just," Peter said, and faltered, and then said in a rush of words, "Today was awesome. Like-- totally, super-- I just wanted to say thank you, again."

Mr. Stark shrugged, his gaze sliding down and away in a show of casual indifference, but his smile was still soft as he responded, "You deserved it."

"It was so-- nice," Peter said, earnest but tongue-tied, and he straightened up from leaning on the table as he tried to project how much he recognized how thoughtful Mr. Stark was, and how seeing Mr. Stark direct that at him really had been a huge balm to those nerves that always seemed to accompany him around these days, and-- "Everything. The whole day. This morning, too, breakfast was so good and-- sorry, I know I was-- weird-- but it was. Nice. To talk about it? We haven't really talked about it."

Mr. Stark's eyes snapped back to him, and Peter's breath almost felt caught in his lungs as his mouth somehow shaped the words, "Are we-- gonna talk about it?"

Mr. Stark's face didn't betray much, but his heart rate was up, Peter noticed. Just a little. That was-- that was okay. Peter would back off if it got-- if he thought he was really bothering him, but-- big conversations would do that; it was okay.

Mr. Stark took a breath, and asked, "Do you want to talk about it?"

"Yeah," Peter said automatically, without even the thought of trying to filter it, to make it seem more like an idea than a need. He scrambled to correct that, saying, "I mean-- if-- if you want to."

Mr. Stark took another deep breath, bracing, and then it was him who leaned to sit back against the opposite curve of his work table, crossing his ankles but spreading his hands out by his sides, inviting.

"All right," he said. "Hit me."

Except he looked like a man going to his execution, and Peter didn't know how else to fix it but to keep going.

Mind suddenly cluttered with the clamor of every thought he'd had over the past three weeks, every question and observation and plea and reassurance that he hadn't had the permission or confidence to voice--

"You don't call me 'kid' anymore," Peter blurted without deciding to, and then he blinked, because he wasn't sure what had made that particular thought rise to the top of the pile.

Mr. Stark also blinked, and he tipped his head slightly as he studied Peter's expression for an almost too-long beat.

"I thought you didn't like it when I did that," he said finally with a dismissive, deliberately puzzled quirk of his lips that slid into place like the faceshield on his suit.

Peter frowned.

"Since when do you care if someone doesn't like your nicknames?" he asked, and his heart sank with dismay when Mr. Stark raised an eyebrow playfully and started to say, "Okay, one, 'kid' is barely a nickname--"

"Why is it actually, though?" Peter interrupted.

His voice was soft with the almost breathless fear that Tony was going to keep-- dodging, deflecting, lying, because he didn't know what he'd do if, after everything, they still couldn't-- talk.

The playful cast dropped out of Mr. Stark's expression as he paused mid-sentence, lips still parted to speak, and stared. His jaw clicked shut after a beat, and Peter saw him swallow.

His heart was beating faster.

"I," Mr. Stark said, and his hands flexed where they gripped the edge of the table underneath him. He took a deep breath, and shrugged, and fixed his gaze somewhere over Peter's shoulder when he finally continued, "I was trying not to-- I tried not to use your name in front of him. So I called you 'kid' the whole time instead."

Not the whole time, Peter thought automatically even as that knowledge slid into place, even as he was flooded with relief that Tony was actually talking to him. The memory of every you're perfect, baby still shuddered through him sometimes, white-hot and sticky with guilt.

He breathed out a slow breath of his own, shoulders relaxing at Mr. Stark's confession.

"So, then," he said, carefully, and he wished Mr. Stark would look at him so he could read his expression better. "You stopped because… you thought it would bother me? Or because it bothers you?"

There was another pause before Mr. Stark shrugged again, a quick jerk of one shoulder.

"Both," he admitted, and Peter settled back against his arm of the curved table, turning that over in his mind with his eyes on the floor.

He imagined it-- seeing Mr. Stark that next morning, and being greeted with 'morning, kid' instead of his name. Mr. Stark in front of the elevator saying, 'what, kid? anything. tell me.' Hearing the words 'anything you want, kid, whatever you need' in however many variations, with that little word in there to shift it undeniably into the context of provider-and-recipient instead of leaving any room at all for Peter to also have something to offer--

"I think," Peter said, and he paused to shake his head, mouth twisting. "I hate-- I hate that he could-- change things for us. But I think… it would bother me. Yeah."

He didn't think before he huffed a mirthless laugh, still feeling his way through the idea even as he voiced it, and added, "I don't really feel like a kid anymore."

But he looked up in time to see Mr. Stark's expression crack.

"Oh-- no-- Mr. Stark," Peter blurted, and he pushed off from the table to step toward him, hands fluttering as uselessly as his words. "It's not just-- I mean, it's, with the Spider-man thing and everything--"

And Mr. Stark nodded, listening, but his eyes stayed glued to the floor, and the pained groove between his eyebrows didn't smooth away. Desperately, Peter continued, "I mean, it's everything, like even when I hang out with Ned and MJ they want to talk about school and college and I just don't, you know, I have so much other stuff to think about--"

Mr. Stark cleared his throat and Peter fell silent, heart hammering. Mr. Stark straightened his shoulders and looked directly at Peter as he said, "Look, Pete. I know you don't blame me, but I really am sorry. I did-- I did take something important from you, and you deserved better, and I want to do whatever I can to make that up to you."

And it wasn't that it sounded insincere, because Mr. Stark's sincerity was clear in every line of his face, in the dark circles that Peter knew still lurked underneath the dabbed-on concealer under his eyes, in the downturned corners of his mouth. Peter knew that he meant every word, but-- that was the problem, that was the problem, and not only that but the way that it sounded rehearsed, like Mr. Stark had already beat himself up with these words so many times that he had them memorized--

"I'm sorry I didn't-- handle it right. At the time," Mr. Stark continued, oblivious to the red-hot shock that lanced through Peter and made him clench his jaw at the words, the implication that there was something either of them could have done to make things more right-- "And that I've kept messing things up, and-- hurting you. With not thinking about-- Happy mentioned what happened when you got to the party, and-- I really should have been-- I should really be better--"

"What are you talking about," Peter burst out, unable to hold it in anymore, and Mr. Stark looked so perfectly stupefied at the interruption to his stupid self-flagellating speech that Peter wanted to shake him. He did stalk forward another step, until he was just shy of too close.

"You always-- this is the only thing you do that makes me mad; how do you not know that?" Peter said, his heart hammering, and he could see how thoroughly Mr. Stark had no idea what he was saying in the blank near-panic of his expression.

"You're always blaming yourself, like I wasn't there too and everything just happened to me and not you, and you-- you did it with the suit access thing too, like it was your fault, like it only happened because you hadn't built the right features into my suit," Peter explained, rapid, and Mr. Stark's shoulders hunched in like being defended was something he needed to protect himself against, and the swell of contradictory protective anger that rose up in Peter at the sight kept his mouth moving.

"It wasn't your fault," he snapped. "You didn't do anything wrong. It would have happened anyway, okay, because it was him and not you, but you act like-- you still act like I don't want you around or something, or like I'm afraid of you or whatever, like you can't get close or I'll freak out which is so stupid because I'm the one that keeps pushing--"

"You flinched," Tony said in the pause between one word and the next, and then he flinched himself, like his own words came as a shock.

Peter went still, a beat behind in processing the abrupt change of gears, the tidal wave of anger in him warring with an opposing gale of confusion.

"What?" he said, finally, when even after a few moments of heavy silence he still couldn't pin down what Mr. Stark meant.

Mr. Stark closed his eyes and rubbed a hand over his face, but his voice wasn't muffled at all when he said, "The day after. When you found me in the hallway after I ran out at breakfast, I was going to touch your shoulder and you flinched."

Peter's mind picked out the memory and played it back-- standing in front of Mr. Stark with Westcott's voice in his head and seeing Mr. Stark reach for him, and wanting that touch so badly that he gasped--

All of his anger drained away in a dizzying swoop of mortification instead, and Peter retreated a step, cheeks burning.

"That-- that wasn't. A flinch," he said, because he had to, because he couldn't keep letting Mr. Stark beat himself up over scaring him or whatever he was thinking, but he kind of wanted to sink through the floor as he said it.

Mr. Stark stopped short of rolling his eyes, but he raised his eyebrows sardonically with a disbelieving frown in that way that screamed stop bullshitting me without him ever saying a word.

Peter raised his chin automatically with a reflexive stubbornness, and somehow forced himself to say, "It wasn't! It was, like."

He paused, and swallowed hard, the tingling burn in his cheeks creeping all the way up to his ears. It felt so fucking embarrassing to admit, but, like-- Mr. Stark had to know, right? He'd heard Peter invite him to bed. He'd seen-- he'd felt-- the way Peter had reacted to him, in the cell. He had to already know. He just wasn't connecting the dots for this particular situation, but he had to know.

"Anticipation," Peter finally admitted, mumbling it towards the ground.

Tony was quiet for long enough that Peter risked a glance, crossing his arms for the limited strength that could give him, but Tony looked so sincerely lost even with that explanation that Peter realized with a jolt-- maybe he hadn't known.

"It just," Peter started to explain, unfolding his arms. "It just, it was. It was, like, a-- a good sound. I thought-- you wouldn't--"

Once he got started, the rest of the words came bursting out of him, and Peter wrung his hands and retreated another two strides until he was pressed back against the table again as he blurted, "I thought you wouldn't even want to look at me, forget anything else, after I'd been-- such a weird clingy freak-- I thought you'd be embarrassed of me, so when you--"

"No," Tony said, strained, "no, no, Peter," and he crossed the space between them before Peter could process it and reached to gather up one of Peter's hands in both of his.

Peter felt his tension drop away at the warm press of Mr. Stark's hands enveloping his, even as his eyes prickled with tears at that shameful confession, and he took a shaky breath as he looked up into Mr. Stark's pain-creased face.

"No, Peter, never, why would I-- you're perfect," and Peter saw it hit Mr. Stark at the same time it went through him like lightning, the memory of the last time Mr. Stark had said those words to him. Mr. Stark took his own unsteady breath though, and rallied, pressing on, "You didn't do anything wrong. I'm not-- at you-- I'm who you should be--"

"Oh my god," Peter growled, abruptly furious, and he clutched Mr. Stark's hands to his chest as he surged to his feet, so they were only inches apart. "Why are you so hard on yourself-- you're not listening to me, you're so caught up in your weird guilt thing that you're not even-- I don't care if you touch me."

Mr. Stark's expression was a picture of perfect shock.

"I want you to touch me," Peter said, something heavy and relentless in his chest desperate to come out.

Mr. Stark's heartbeat was fast, fast, fast.

"I'd let you do way more than touch my shoulder or ruffle my hair," Peter said, quieter.

He should stop. He knew he should stop. But--

There wasn't any anger left in him when Peter admitted, whisper-soft, "I wish you would."

Mr. Stark was utterly still. He didn't step away, and he didn't loosen his hands around Peter's, and he didn't part his lips to tell Peter what a creepy spoiled brat he was being. He just stared at Peter in helpless shock while his heart banged in his ribcage.

Peter felt like he couldn't control the words leaving his mouth any more than he would have been able to control blood from a wound.

He said, "I-- I really wish you would. I know it's not the same for you, and you don't-- you don't actually want me that way, but I just-- maybe it would help? Both of us? To-- to not have to remember it as hurting each other. I just-- I just want to remember it different."

Mr. Stark blinked rapidly, and his expression pinched even as he stayed silent, and Peter should stop, he should stop--

"It drives me crazy that I know-- that I have all of these memories about what it feels like with you," Peter continued, breathless. "But that it wasn't, it wasn't something we chose, and it was fake, and you didn't want it, and if we just-- if we could do it again, just once-- I could remember it different? We could? Good memories instead of bad ones?"

Peter saw Tony's throat work as he tried to swallow against its dryness, as he tried to begin to formulate a thought against everything Peter was asking of him, but Peter still couldn't stop because finally saying it felt like debriding a wound, like if he stopped now before getting every last filthy shred of infection out it was going to kill him.

"It was, you know, that was my first-- first everything, all of it, first kiss," and Mr. Stark finally made a sound, small and raw and hurt, and Peter had to take a last shuddering breath before he could say, voice soft with helpless finality, "And I just want… I don't want that to be the last time you kiss me."

Mr. Stark at last started to pull his hands out of Peter's grip, and Peter immediately dropped his hands to his sides and gaze to the floor, face and eyes burning with shame. He didn't know why he thought he'd be able to manage talking to Mr. Stark without ruining everything, even after such a perfect day, not when he had all of that lurking inside him-- and now here it was, Mr. Stark was going to kick him out of the lab and his suite and maybe the tower altogether because he just couldn't shut up--

But Mr. Stark didn't step away.

Instead, he brought his hands up to gently cup Peter's face, pulled him in, and kissed him.

It felt like Peter's entire body went haywire, goosebumps sweeping across his skin at the same time warmth flooded all the way out to his fingers and toes, and he reached to curl his fingers into Tony's shirt. It wasn't a dirty kiss at all, not frantic and open-mouthed like-- before-- but it also lingered too long and close and intimate to be chaste.

Tony stroked his thumbs over Peter's cheeks as he kissed him, sweet and soft and perfect, and it was like every fantasy Peter had ever had about being kissed on his seventeenth (or eighteenth, or twentieth) birthday. But it was real. Just as real as what had happened before, but better, and Peter wanted more--

"Tony," Peter murmured helplessly against Tony's lips, pressing closer as he felt Tony begin to shift his weight to pull away, but Tony shook his head and reached to tuck Peter's face down against his shoulder.

Peter understood immediately-- that was all he was getting; a new first kiss was all Tony could give him-- and accepted it with a sigh, sinking into the embrace as Tony stroked one hand through his hair and wrapped the other arm around him.

"That's so much better," Peter mumbled into Tony's shoulder, untangling his hands from his shirt to wrap his arms around him in turn. "Already, that's so much… thank you--"

"Pete," Tony cut him off, and his voice was shaking and his heart was still beating hard, and he cleared his throat. "Pete-- you're… you're going to find someone that makes you feel better, okay? It doesn't have to be me, just because... --It's just gonna take time."

And Peter nodded, because he understood, he really did, and he had already asked for enough, and Tony had already given him enough, but even as he nodded his understanding he couldn't help whispering, "What if I want it to be you?"

Tony sighed, unsteady, and squeezed Peter tighter, and said, "Peter, I can't-- I can't--"

And Peter wondered what he would have said, if he had let himself finish those thoughts. I can't, because you're too young? Because I don't see you that way? Because I can't stand to remember what happened?

But all Tony said, ultimately, was a complete and final, "I can't."

"Okay," Peter said, small, and he gave himself a long moment to just sink into the feeling of Tony holding him, the memory of his lips against Peter's, before the guilt started to trickle back in.

He burrowed more tightly into the hug, feeling stupid and childish and wondering why he ever thought Mr. Stark would be able to see him as anything else, even after what happened, and muttered, "I'm-- I'm sorry."

"Hmm?" Mr. Stark hummed, soft and questioning, and Peter just wanted to say never mind and go back to fixating on how Mr. Stark was stroking his fingers through his hair, but he really owed it to Mr. Stark to at least be kind of an adult about the whole thing.

Peter shifted so that his voice wouldn't be so muffled into Mr. Stark's shoulder, and said again, "I'm really sorry. I shouldn't… shouldn't have put all that on you, um. I shouldn't have… asked you to do that. It wasn't fair."

"Hey," Mr. Stark said, and he gently pulled Peter to where they could see each other, expression creasing with sympathy when he saw Peter's. He cupped Peter's face again, and brushed his thumbs under his eyes as if to catch the unshed tears there, and said, "No apologies. We're fine, Pete. Okay?"

Peter leaned into his hands and sighed. Mr. Stark didn't hate him. They were okay. Peter didn't know how he'd be able to look him in the eyes in the morning, but-- they were okay, and that counted for a lot.

"Okay," he murmured, and then, "At least-- thank you. For-- for listening to me."

"Anytime," Mr. Stark murmured back, and then he hesitated--

--And leaned in to kiss Peter on the forehead.

Peter knew what it was. It was Mr. Stark telling him-- showing him-- that he really wasn't mad, he really wasn't disgusted, even after Peter pretty much threw himself at him, that he still cared about him and wanted him around and Peter was so grateful for that, so relieved, but--

But he also didn't know how he was supposed to want to throw himself at Mr. Stark any less, after that, when he could feel himself actively slide just that little bit deeper into this thing between them that Mr. Stark didn't want to be there.

It was sweet, though. So Peter put on a lopsided smile, and some of the anxiety left Mr. Stark's eyes as he flickered a smile in return, and let Peter go.

"Happy birthday, Pete," he said, and then glanced at the time displayed on the holographic display at his workstation, long-forgotten. He cleared his throat, and said, "You should get to bed."

"Yeah," Peter said, but he lingered a little before actually starting to move, loath to leave the blanket of actual honesty that had grown between them, as embarrassing as it was. He finally took a step back, and said again, "Yeah. Ah… good night, Mr. Stark."

"Good night, Pete," Tony said, and Peter didn't know how to read his expression at all.

Peter didn't dig the jacket out from his closet before he crawled into bed, that night. He'd gotten enough from Tony, and he decided that he needed to work on-- needing him less, now that he'd gotten to actually voice the things that had been building and building inside him, like a boil that needed to be lanced. He didn't need the faint scent of Tony in the fabric to comfort him; he didn't need the fantasy of it being Tony's arms wrapped around him instead. He'd be fine.

So he really did try to handle it himself, when he woke hours later gasping with panic and covered in sweat with the sound of a stranger's voice in his ears, the memory of phantom touches on his skin. He really did. He'd asked Tony for too much; he'd put Tony through too much that night alone, and he could barely stand the thought of being selfish enough to ask for more.

But he wasn't strong enough, in the end. So he pushed himself off of his bed, and stumbled out of his room, and made his way to Tony's door.

Chapter Text

"I'd let you do way more than touch my shoulder or ruffle my hair."

"I wish you would."

Tony wasn't sure quite where he had let things go so wrong.

Well, no, he did have some idea.

"You're not listening to me; you're so caught up in your weird guilt thing that you're not even--"

Peter was right, obviously. Tony had latched onto that one little interaction, that tiny catch of breath when Tony had reached for him the day after, and he'd decided what it meant without even asking-- hell, even if he'd just apologized to Peter in the moment instead of silently dropping his hand away like a coward, Peter could have clarified-- and then--

"--which is so stupid, because I'm the one that keeps pushing--"

And then he'd ignored every cue from Peter, every flashing neon light, that he'd gotten it wrong. Peter had hugged him-- twice-- and leaned into his touch each time with his whole body, Peter had called Tony over to his workstation for a close-quarters, murmured conversation, Peter had invited himself into Tony's space and taken liberties that he never would have allowed himself before and Tony had even noticed that, he'd noticed that, but he hadn't thought about why.

Tony didn't really want to take a look at what it said about his life that he'd had no trouble recognizing the signs that Peter wanted Tony to kiss him, back in the cell, but then he'd found himself totally incapable of recognizing the signs when all Peter wanted was simple affection.

So he'd gotten it wrong, and he hadn't just ignored that need for three weeks, he'd leaned in the entirely opposite direction, leaving Peter with the absence of what he needed and those horrible feelings ("--when I'd been such a weird, clingy freak--") until it morphed into-- that.

Peter looking for other ways to cover up those bruises.

"I don't want that to be the last time you kiss me."

Peter saying things he didn't mean.

"What if I want it to be you?"

Tony shouldn't have kissed him. He knew he shouldn't have; he'd known even in the moment, that he shouldn't feed into this-- fantasy Peter had, that Tony could make him better instead of worse, but--

"I don't really feel like a kid anymore."

Tony could fantasize about being a better man all he wanted-- the kind of man that would have stopped Peter long before he ever had a chance to ask for a kiss, the kind that could have said Peter, I know you're hurting, but this can't be a conversation we have as soon as the word touch stopped being about mentorly affection-- but the truth of the matter was, there was no version of Tony that could have done it any different.

How could he, after that? Peter did deserve better. He deserved a first kiss that was gentle and sweet and tender and everything that he was. And he sure as hell deserved better than Tony, but Tony was who he'd asked, and Tony was so, so bad at not giving Peter anything and everything he thought he deserved.

So Tony had kissed him, and Peter had thanked him, and Tony hoped to god that it did bring Peter some tiny sliver of peace, that it put some of that frantic heartbreak in his expression to rest, because--

"Boss," FRIDAY said suddenly in the quiet of Tony's bedroom, where he was ostensibly tweaking some code on his work tablet but was actually staring blankly at where the screen had gone to sleep ten minutes ago, and then she paused.

She wasn't programmed to do that, so something was genuinely straining either her situation analysis or notification prioritization algorithms, which was-- great. Something really big or something really weird, then.

"Yeah?" Tony prompted, because that would at least force-prioritize whatever the situation was, if that was the problem.

"Peter is outside," FRIDAY said.

She paused again.

"He appears distressed."

Tony tossed the tablet aside and swung his legs over the edge of his bed, and his mind was like a car that wouldn't start as he made his way to the door-- trying to anticipate what Peter was there for, and how he should respond, but he kept stalling out over the word distressed echoing in all the places in his mind that his exhaustion had left empty.

God, he really needed to start getting sleep. But--

("I want you to touch me. I really wish you would. If we could do it again, just once-- I don't want that to be the last time you kiss me.

Tony…

That's so much better. Thank you--")

Tony opened his door, and it took him a delayed beat to process that all he could see was the opposite wall of the hallway before a flash of movement from the floor caught his attention.

Peter was sitting curled up into a ball with his back to the wall, and that flash of movement was from-- him rubbing his face against his knees, as if to dry away tears.

"Sorry," Peter murmured, so soft that it was hard to make out, but Tony still heard his voice crack. "I didn't mean to wake you up."

"Come here," Tony said without meaning to, and he probably looked just as dumbstruck as Peter at hearing his own words, but when Peter uncurled enough to look up at him with wide, wet eyes, he doubled down by holding out his arms.

Peter scrambled to him, breathing out a shuddery gasp as he buried his face against Tony's shoulder, and Tony clutched him tight.

He could do this part. He couldn't do the rest, but-- he could do this part.

He wished he'd been doing it all along.

"I'm sorry," Peter whimpered, again. "I just needed to hear that you were okay."

"What'd I say about apologies," Tony said, trying to get his thinking back on-track, because Peter needed him. He was worried about Tony, for some reason-- "You had a dream?"

Peter made a vaguely affirming noise and nodded, going tense in Tony's arms like it was embarrassing to admit, and Tony rubbed a hand over his back.

"I get those too," he admitted, soft, and he felt Peter start to relax with a sigh.

"I didn't want to bother you with it," Peter muttered, wobbly, resting his cheek against Tony's shoulder. "You already… You're so nice. You've already done so much for me."

Tony's chest squeezed a little at the thought that throwing money at food and presents and birthday cake was anything to get so emotional over when he owed Peter so much more than that for what he'd put him through, but he only said, "It's not a bother, Pete."

"I didn't mean to yell at you," Peter said, like it hadn't been fair. "I didn't mean to… say all-- that isn't-- even what I wanted to talk about, when I asked if we could… I'm--"

"Don't say you're sorry," Tony cut in, and maybe he could identify a little bit with the fierceness with which Peter had snapped it wasn't your fault, because it drove him crazy every time Peter acted like he had anything to apologize for.

Peter huffed a little irritable sound against his shoulder, which was at least better than the shaky hitches of breath and sniffles that he had started with.

"I just-- want to help make you feel better, too," he mumbled, and Tony drew in a breath like it might help him absorb some of the good in Peter that made him say things like that.

"Doesn't really look like I've done too good a job of making you feel better from where I'm standing," Tony muttered in return, and his tone sought to turn it into a joke, even if he meant every word.

"You do," Peter insisted, squeezing Tony tightly, and then he pulled back just enough to look Tony in the eye, keeping a grip on the back of his shirt.

It was different, holding and looking at each other instead of curling into each other's arms. So much that for a second, when Peter's expression shifted from studying Tony intently to creasing with something like desperation, Tony thought--

"You do," Peter repeated himself instead, and his voice was wet again. "You make things so much better. But I don't want-- it's not your job to-- l-look, it's late, I shouldn't have--"

"It's fine, Peter; I was up," Tony said, and even though it set his nerves on edge, he thought maybe-- if he let Peter bleed things off little by little, instead of building and building until the point where he couldn't hold it in any longer-- maybe that would be better, even if Tony was still the worst person to hear it, even if he didn't understand at all Peter's insistence that he could help.

So he said, "You can talk to me."

The breath Peter took as he stared at Tony wide-eyed hitched in his chest like a gasp.

Tony remembered Peter saying it was a good sound and I thought you wouldn't even want to look at me, forget anything else, and this time he didn't make the mistake of letting go.

Peter's eyes shone wetly under the light seeping past Tony's body in the bedroom doorway, but his expression softened, and it was like all the tension drained out of him at once. He relaxed in Tony's arms, joints growing comfortable and loose, and his hands went flat against Tony's back instead of gripping at his shirt with nervous tension.

"Thank you," Peter breathed, and he stayed soft and loose-limbed even as a pinch of concern formed between his eyebrows. "Can I… --I promise I'm not… doing anything. Can I-- come in?"

And Tony did hesitate, just for a second. He trusted Peter, so that wasn't really the problem, but-- the very fact that Peter had felt the need to clarify that he 'wasn't doing anything' was probably a really good reason to gently suggest that they have this conversation in the living room instead.

But he knew how fragile that moment was, too, when you found that necessary, contradictory combination of strength and helplessness and lack of shame to allow yourself to be vulnerable. He knew how easily that bubble could pop, and he himself could feel that draw like an injured animal to retreat to the safe and enclosed walls of his metaphorical den, instead of the sprawling space of the open-concept living room where words carried easily from one side to the other.

Maybe Peter would have been fine with it. He definitely wore his heart more on his sleeve than Tony, and he'd certainly shown that he wasn't as-- reticent-- or, fine, fuck, afraid to talk about things as Tony was.

But when Tony finally let Peter go, he still stepped to the side, and he still said, "Come on in."

Peter sat on the edge of the bed, since that was the only option, and Tony made a mental note to immediately order some kind of huge cozy armchair for the room. Tony sat next to him, and he'd spent so much time being careful to leave extra space between them that it was hard not to be conscious of it now that he wasn't.

"The nightmares aren't always this bad," Peter blurted after a moment of quiet where he and Tony both settled into the situation, and he kept his hands clasped together in his lap, looking down at his knees.

"Usually I just, you know-- wake up and do some breathing exercises, and scroll through my phone until I can calm down, or whatever," Peter continued, and the image of that lodged itself somewhere in Tony's heart that he knew he'd never get rid of, but he just nodded quietly as he listened. "But today was… I mean, today was awesome, so don't, like… get all guilty. But it was busy, I guess, and then I sort of… messed things up by losing it earlier like that, and-- I don't know. This one was bad."

Peter rubbed at one eye and took a deep, shaky breath before asking, "Can I-- talk about it? What happened in it."

"Obviously, Pete," Tony said, gently chiding. He knew it would break his heart to hear it, but he would rather that than leave Peter to sit with it alone, and--

He should have realized it earlier, and he felt like an idiot for being too caught up in his guilt to see it, just like Peter had said. Because, yeah-- maybe he was the worst person to help Peter through whatever complicated feelings he was having after what happened, since Tony was the person who caused them, after all.

But he was also probably the easiest person for Peter to tell. He'd been there. He already knew all the darkest, ugliest details that Peter would probably never want to share with May, or his friends, or maybe even his actual therapist.

It was so obvious in retrospect that he really wanted to slap himself, but-- the best thing he could do to fix those three weeks of missteps was to do his best to listen now.

But Peter frowned at him.

"It's not 'obviously,'" Peter said, actually turning to face Tony directly. "It's-- everyone makes a big deal over me because I'm like, younger, but-- it happened to you, too. If there's stuff that would be-- bad for you to hear about, that's-- you can tell me. You should tell me. That's why I asked."

Which--

"Okay," Tony said after clearing his throat, and it was stupid that he was still so affected by how good Peter was; how deeply he cared and took responsibility for every person in his path. "If that happens, I will. But it's fine."

Peter studied his expression intently for a moment-- still taking responsibility, as if it was his job to figure out if Tony was lying to him about his own feelings, like Tony wasn't an adult who only had himself to blame if he got himself hurt-- and then he nodded slowly, turning again to look back down at his lap.

"You really do… help me," Peter said with a little sigh, and Tony recognized that he was continuing that half-finished thought from the hallway. "I know tonight might not seem like it, but-- last night was like… the best sleep I've gotten in weeks, um. I'm sorry I keep, like, pushing for things, but-- yeah. Having you around really helps."

Peter took a deep breath while Tony let the best sleep I've gotten in weeks flow over him, because he wasn't going to let guilt keep him from actually absorbing what Peter was trying to tell him this time, but-- god, he hated the confirmation that his fears about what Peter might be going through under that can-do disposition were true.

"I… most of the time when I have nightmares about it, I dream that it was, um. That it was him, instead of you," Peter said, voice wobbling, and Tony's throat made a little distressed sound without his input, but he nodded through it to prompt Peter to keep going.

"And I know that's, like, stupid, he couldn't have actually-- not while I was awake, anyway, even with the chip it's not like he could operate that at the same time, so-- so it's stupid, but it's what happens in the dreams, so," Peter continued, like he needed to justify it, like he'd had to talk himself down from the implications of the what-ifs embedded in that shaky string of words enough times that he'd considered it from all angles, and Tony put an arm around his shoulders and pulled Peter against his side without even thinking about it, helpless to do anything else to protect Peter from the inventions of his own subconscious.

Peter burrowed into the half-embrace, tangling a hand into Tony's shirt, and Tony could feel the way his chest and shoulders rose in shuddering waves as Peter tried to take deep breaths around the tears clogging his throat to say, "And that would have been so much worse? So much-- so much worse. I hate, um, I hate that the way it happened hurt you too--"

And Peter stopped there to press his face to Tony's shoulder for a moment with a soft whimper, breath shuddering in his chest, and in that moment Tony would have done absolutely anything to fix it for him.

But Peter pulled himself together, and swallowed hard before he said, voice thick, "But you made me feel so safe. Like, um, like even though it was so awful, we really were gonna be okay, and you were so nice to me even when he told you not to be, and I just…"

"I know I'm like, a fucking mess," Peter said with a little bitter laugh that hit Tony like a shotgun blast, but Peter's voice softened as he kept going. "But if it was anyone else there, I know-- I know I'd be… so much worse, because you… I hate hearing you say that you did anything wrong. You made things so much better. You-- you make things so much better."

Tony could have said a lot of things, then. He could have said I'm sorry or you deserve better. He could have said you're not a mess; you're perfect or tell me what else I can do or I love you, kid, like he had back in the cell. He could have said why me, because he still didn't understand how Peter still looked at him like this, like he was anything special, anything to admire-- over the others, even-- after he'd had time to actually get to know Tony and what a mess he was.

But he didn't. All of those would have been the wrong thing to say, and he didn't know what the right thing would be, and his throat was too tight besides. So he stroked his fingers through Peter's hair where he was cradling Peter against him while Peter sniffled and breathed, and he was quiet.

Peter sighed softly, but his fingers tightened where he was gripping Tony's shirt when he found his voice again.

"Especially when… sometimes," Peter said, and he started soft, but his voice turned strained and cracked as he continued. "Sometimes instead I'll dream that-- that, um-- that he killed you--"

He drew in a breath like a gasp, and just like that he wasn't talking through a trickle of tears, he was sobbing, "Because that's what he was going to do, right? If-- if I hadn't-- all that stuff in the room, he was gonna-- even if we'd gotten there in time, you would've gotten-- so hurt-- he would've killed you--"

"He didn't," Tony said urgently, pushing back a wave of reactive, sympathetic panic, and he reached to untangle Peter's hand from his shirt to press it over his heart instead. "He didn't. I'm right here, Pete, you've got me, I'm okay."

Peter nodded frantically, pressing his palm flat over Tony's chest while his breath caught on involuntary whimpers, and Tony made himself take slower breaths so that Peter could match him.

"I'm okay, we're okay. I'm right here," he murmured again, soothing instead of insistent, as he tried to wrap his mind around how this was what had made Peter break into panic and sobs-- not talking about how Westcott could have assaulted him, not talking about how he'd experienced just that in his dreams, but-- this. Talking about Tony dying. Something that was always on the table; something that Tony signed up for every time he put on the armor.

"We're okay," Peter echoed shakily, and he grew heavier as he relaxed by increments, halfway in Tony's lap from how he'd twisted to bury his face in Tony's neck and Tony had pulled his hand to his chest.

Tony hummed softly in response, and he wasn't sure how they'd ended back up like this-- Peter in tears and pressed against him while Tony muttered reassurances in his ear and pet his hair-- but the parallel didn't feel bad, somehow. Seeing Peter in pain hurt, obviously, and Tony hated the role he'd played in every tear, and he knew that Peter deserved better than what Tony could give him.

But holding Peter here in his bedroom, surrounded by warm blankets and soft lighting and sturdy walls, meant that they had made it out. And god, even if it wasn't nearly enough, at least now he knew what Peter needed from him, and that-- really did come with some kind of bizarre sense of peace, as long and hard as he knew the road ahead of both of them would be.

Peter pulled away eventually, leaning into Tony's side instead of curling against his chest, and he wiped his eyes and let out a last sigh as his breathing evened out.

"Thanks," he muttered, and Tony quietly squeezed his shoulder where he still had an arm wrapped around him.

"So, um," Peter said, and his voice was only a little uneven, and Tony marveled at how he had the strength to keep-- letting himself be vulnerable, after that.

"Being close to you helps, when I have dreams like that. And tonight it was-- bad, because he did-- b-both parts," and Tony had never heard two words successfully used to summarize a thought so horrible before, but Peter kept going like he actually needed to justify needing comfort after that. "And-- so that was why I was outside. I just-- wanted to hear--"

Peter grimaced and shook his head, and said, "I-I know it's creepy, but your heartbeat makes me feel better. And I get-- it's stupid-- I get scared a lot for you when I'm not at the tower, even though I know you're safe, and-- I just-- like to know you're okay. It's-- it's hard to be alone, when it gets like that."

He went quiet, shoulders slumping like it was some kind of shameful confession, and so Tony should have realized he needed to say something right then, but he was too distracted with trying to figure out the easiest way to give Peter access to his vitals to think of it. Tony could probably make some kind of unobtrusive sensor that he could wear under his clothes, and then FRIDAY could broadcast the readings to Karen-- so that came back to getting an app of some kind on Peter's phone to let him access Karen without his mask--

"And I know it's not the same for you," Peter said into the hush that had fallen between them, and his voice was so sad, and it jarred Tony to hear those words again after Peter had said the same thing in the lab earlier. "And it's-- it's harder to have me around instead of easier, and I make things worse instead of better for you, so I'm-- I know you don't want me to say it but I really am sorry, for being-- selfish--"

No.

Tony took Peter's face in his hands to look him in the eyes, heart hammering, and said, "Hey, Pete, no-- no. That's not true. Don't you think that for a-- fucking second."

Peter leaned into his hands like he couldn't help it, even as he closed his eyes to avoid meeting Tony's gaze, expression creased with shame. He swallowed hard and said, quiet, "I can hear your heart speed up sometimes when you're with me, and that didn't used to happen."

And Tony knew that Peter could do that, but he hadn't thought about what conclusions Peter might draw when he could hear the way Tony's heart responded to suddenly remembering Peter saying you said whatever I want or Mr. Stark? I love you too, or moments from dreams where Peter arched his back or pressed kisses to Tony's chest or said please, please--

"That does not mean that I don't want you around," Tony insisted, and it had worked earlier, so he stroked his thumbs over Peter's cheeks until he finally opened his eyes to look at him, helpless. "Things are-- complicated, all right? Sometimes I-- remember something-- and it makes me jumpy, yeah. But that doesn't mean you're-- hurting me by being around. I want you here. As long as you want to be here."

Peter didn't cry again, but his eyes did turn shiny and damp around the edges, and he took a shaky breath before he asked, "...You mean it?"

"I mean it," Tony said, and he let his hands slide down to Peter's shoulders. "Those-- blips-- happen, but… they're worth it to me. Mostly I--"

He took a shaky breath of his own, but Peter was watching him with that soft, seeking expression, and he'd shared so much already, it would be ridiculous for Tony to not be able to do even this much.

So Tony said, "Mostly I… worry about doing right by you. So I overthink, and fuck things up. No, I do, I did; you were right to call me out on it. So I'm gonna-- try to assume less. So we don't end up… thinking things that aren't true."

Peter nodded slowly, and the way the tension drained out of him under Tony's hands was a little hypnotic, Tony's own nerves settling at seeing him relax.

"I don't want to mess anything up for us," Tony said softly, and then with conviction: "And I'm not going to let that shithead be the one that does, either."

"Okay," Peter said, quiet. "Me either."

And then he squeezed his eyes shut for a moment as if bracing himself, but he looked at Tony straight-on when he asked, "Can I stay? Just-- tonight. I'll-- I'll sleep on top of the sheet, or something, or-- I'm not trying to--"

Peter's breath left in a sigh, and so his voice was soft when he finished, "I don't want to be alone."

This is dangerous, that voice warned Tony again, just like it had in the lab a week before, during a different late-night conversation. This will change things.

And Tony didn't question it, this time, because he knew it was right. It would change things. And even aside from that, there were his own nightmares to consider, particularly the ones that tried to pass themselves off as something other than nightmares, the ones that were about Peter, and it was just a bad idea. It was a bad idea, and he should walk Peter back to his room and send him off with another hug, or hell, move them to the living room so Peter could doze off on the couch to a movie if he really couldn't bear to be alone--

But he shrugged casually, like it wasn't a big ask, and he said, "Then stay."

Tony did dream of Peter, that night.

In reality, his mother's childhood home in the Italian countryside was well-maintained by paid staff and a rotation of his mother's relatives, who popped in and out for a vacation, or to get back on their feet after a downturn, or to work on passion projects in the quiet country atmosphere. In his dream, it was run-down: paint chipped and dingy, garden overrun, rooms dull and choked with dust.

He went room to room in his dream, armed with dust cloths and paint cans and buckets of soapy water, and Peter went with him. Swiping away cobwebs, washing grime from the walls and floors, polishing furniture until it gleamed. Grinning at Tony through the windows while he painted the exterior window frames deep wine red. Laughing at Tony's clumsy attempts to clean the ceilings from a stepladder until he relented and climbed the walls to do it himself, eyes glittering with humor.

The rest of Tony's team floated in and out of the dream, and Pepper and Happy, the reality of who was there and why shifting from moment to moment like all dreams. But Peter was always there, even when he was in a different part of the house than Tony, because Tony could always hear the sound of his laughter or the faint cadence of his voice as they worked.

And when the house was finally spotless and restored to order, it was Peter who curled up with him on the couch to admire it, resting his head on Tony's chest with Tony's arms around him.

"I love it here," Peter sighed in the dream, and Tony woke before he could respond me too.

Tony had worried a little when they'd arranged themselves on the bed hours ago, even with Peter over the topsheet instead of under it, even with the near-yard of space between them on Tony's king mattress. It wasn't that he didn't trust Peter-- it kind of broke his heart every time Peter felt like he had to insist that he wasn't trying anything, actually-- but there was what you would do when you were awake and aware, and there was what you would do when you were asleep and driven only by those instinctive impulses for warm and close.

But when Tony woke, a miraculous six uninterrupted hours later, Peter was already gone. And it was Tony who had one arm stretched across the mattress, as if reaching for the spot where Peter had been.

That could have been the end of it. Tony drank his coffee and ate breakfast by himself, and went downstairs to play host to Thor and Clint for the weekend with everyone else. He found Peter sitting cross-legged on the couch, enthusiastically discussing Asgardian science with a beaming Thor while some of the others played peanut gallery, and from the way Peter still lit up every room he was in it would have been hard to imagine that he'd spent part of the night before crying into Tony's neck.

Tony reached to ruffle Peter's hair as he passed by the couch to settle in an armchair, and he said, "Careful, Pete, he'll try to teach you that Earth is made of some ancient steam-giant's corpse if you're not paying attention."

Thor huffed and started to say something about the Midgardian misinterpretation of the creation of the cosmos, but Tony only paid half a mind to listening and egging him on, because he was distracted by the startled, delighted smile Peter turned in his direction at that touch.

"Don't worry, Thor," Peter finally cut back into the conversation after a few rounds of back-and-forth. "Tony's just jealous he hasn't cracked how to go to other planets whenever he wants."

'Tony.'

Tony wasn't going to mention it, and instead fixed Peter with a look of exaggerated offense to chorus of chuckles, but it was Clint who responded first:

"Whoa, when'd you get demoted to mere mortal like the rest of us, Mr. Stark?" he said to Tony, and then grinned at Peter. "Have you realized with the wisdom of age that the Tin Man isn't the coolest Avenger?"

And then it wasn't so much that there was tension in the room as attention-- the others smiled or laughed at the potshot like they would have before, but there was a subtle edge to it, a sense of watchfulness instead of just humor in the way they looked toward Peter and Tony for their reactions.

(It had been there yesterday, too. Happy and Peter's friends may not have known the details, but Thor and Clint were the only two that didn't even know there was a situation at hand in the first place, and there had been some-- moments.

"Jeez, Tony," Clint had said to him at one point when Tony was making the rounds to avoid sitting at a table with his phone all night-- it had felt weird to be both bankrolling the extra-special blowout party and the reason behind why Peter needed one in the first place, but-- "What are you going to do for his eighteenth, rent a yacht?"

And Tony wouldn't have bothered to argue against it, because one: yes, if Peter wanted a yacht-party birthday, and two, he was fine to let Clint think he was blowing his money frivolously on his favorite not-exactly-a-teammate over a non-milestone birthday.

(Well-- not a milestone any of them should care about, anyway.)

But Wanda had overheard, and the glance she shot Tony was a little too knowing as she said, "Peter has been going through a difficult time, recently. It was kind of Tony to put this together for him, I think."

And Tony had seen Clint glance back at Peter, and reassess the things that he had probably originally put in a box labeled 'teenager on summer break with too little sleep and too much excitement': the subtle bags under Peter's eyes, the way he was still only barely bothering to fix his hair, the way he startled more easily than before.

"Oh, yeah?" Clint had asked, casual enough, but with that new watchfulness behind it. "He's okay?"

"I think he will be," Wanda had said, and she'd squeezed Tony's shoulder as she said it.)

In the present moment, though, Peter only blinked in response to Clint's sideswipe at Tony, and he didn't seem at all self-conscious when he tilted his head with a small grin and said, "Well, neither is Robin Hood."

"Hey," Clint said, and Tony laughed.

So that really could have been the end of it. Things were a little different over the next few days-- Tony stopped avoiding Peter's personal space and then some, and Peter's smile took on a shy cast every now and then when Tony caught him staring, and with Tony not avoiding it happening sometimes they were getting ready for bed at the same time and got to say their good nights face-to-face before heading to separate rooms, instead of going through FRIDAY. Peter got a little teary when Tony unveiled the Karen app for his phone, and the part of the app that tracked Tony's vitals with a little simulated heartbeat sound that matched his BPM, but it really wasn't awkward.

Things were fine. It was a new normal that Tony thought the both of them could deal with.

But.

It was about midway through the week when Tony awoke, disoriented, to the gentle pulse of lights that FRIDAY used to wake him when he was having a particularly bad nightmare. But he hadn't been having a nightmare-- or one of the other kinds of dreams, at that-- and so he buried his face in his pillow and groaned, "What the hell, FRI? I'm fine."

"Peter is having a nightmare and calling for you," FRIDAY answered, and Tony was out of bed before she could quite finish her follow-up question: "I do not have a nightmare protocol for Peter. Should I wake him up?"

"I've got it," Tony said, berating himself as he made his way a few doors down the hallway-- why hadn't he asked if Peter wanted to set up a protocol like Tony's; he'd gotten too caught up in designing something new to use what he already had at hand like an idiot--

Peter didn't lock his door, but Tony still knocked quickly before letting himself in, and the fact that neither that nor the faint light filtering in from the hallway woke Peter up already told Tony something about how deep the nightmare was.

Peter was breathing hard, curled into a ball of tension on the bed, and the sound of his whimpers and soft pleas for help hooked into Tony's gut and dragged him forward with a rush of fix it, fix it.

Peter's blankets were bunched up around his waist, and he was wearing something-- weird, that Tony couldn't quite make out in the dim lighting, dark and too heavy to sleep in, had he gone to bed wearing a robe?-- but Tony dismissed it as unimportant as he crossed the room to Peter's bedside and reached to shake him by the foot, able to think enough through his own fog of sleep and alarm to assume it was probably better for Peter not to wake up to a man grabbing his shoulder and looming over his bed.

"Pete, wake up," Tony urged, low and soothing, which was really an achievement because Peter panicking made him want to panic, but he had to keep calm. "You're okay, Peter, we're at the tower, wake up for me."

Peter flinched hard as he came awake, still breathing erratically through those few seconds of disorientation that Tony understood all-too-well himself, before he rolled onto his back with a wobbly sigh, rubbing a hand over his face.

"Oh," he said wetly, shaken, and Tony moved to perch carefully on the edge of the mattress.

"Hey, Pete," Tony said, instead of doing something like reaching to wipe away Peter's tears or immediately pulling him into a hug.

"Hey," Peter sighed, and he slowly worked himself upright on the bed. His tone held too little humor and too much frustration as he said, "Jeez, did I seriously wake you up?"

"No," Tony said, and then every other thought he might have had after that dropped out of his mind all at once, because with Peter sitting upright he could make out that the weird, overly-heavy layer Peter was wearing was a suit jacket.

Instincts formed from three weeks of carefully avoiding anything to make Peter uncomfortable immediately vanished, and Tony reached forward without thinking to pull one side of the jacket open, exposing exactly the tag in the lining that Tony had been expecting to see.

Peter froze, and Tony jolted back-- holy shit, there he was to wake Peter up from a nightmare and then the first thing he did was start pulling at his clothes--

"I'm sorry," they blurted together, and only then did Tony recognize the truly stricken expression on Peter's face-- not with fear alone, but with guilt.

"It's fine," Tony forced out numbly, still reeling but desperate to wipe that expression off of Peter's face. Where had Peter even gotten-- why would he even want--

"It's not fine," Peter said, shaking his head frantically, and Tony could hear the tears overflowing in his voice again. "It's not, I'm sorry, I--"

"Peter," Tony said, desperate, and he reached forward to cup Peter's face in his hands. "Baby, I'm not mad. It's okay. Just breathe, okay?"

And Tony could kick himself over the pet name later-- why did Peter crying do that to him, jesus-- but in the moment it made Peter suck in a breath and settle, blinking up at Tony with huge eyes instead of trying to curl away from his gaze in shame.

"There," Tony whispered, and when he brushed Peter's hair back from his forehead he realized his hands were shaking. "There we go."

Tony took a breath when Peter nodded, small and uncertain, and he needed-- he needed-- a second. Just a second. But he couldn't leave Peter like this, so--

"Okay, listen," Tony said, and Peter nodded again, hanging on his words. "I'm gonna get you some water, okay? And then we can talk. About-- all this. Whatever you need to talk about. Okay?"

Peter made a vaguely affirming noise, closing his eyes, and he curled up with his face to his knees when Tony pulled away, but-- Tony was going to be right back, so it was okay, it was fine--

Tony grabbed the empty water glass from Peter's bedside table, and stepped into his ensuite, and his stomach dropped for the second time that evening.

The mirror over the counter in Peter's ensuite bathroom spanned the entire width of the wall.

The whole thing was covered with a spare bedsheet.

Tony set the glass next to the sink with a hollow thunk, and gripped the edge of the counter while he took some deep breaths of his own and reflected on how utterly fucked he had allowed things to get in just three weeks.

He'd even noticed that Peter wasn't fixing his hair, several times, but he had thought-- oh, Peter's not bothering with it because he's got other things on his mind, like how sometimes Tony skipped shaving if he was having a bad spell. The thought that Peter couldn't stand to look in a mirror had never crossed his mind.

The idea that Peter would be-- clutching that jacket-- wearing that fucking jacket in his sleep, like a security blanket, like a teddy bear-- had never, ever crossed his mind.

He set the sink flowing at a gentle stream, and breathed while he filled the glass, and by the time he left the ensuite his hands were mostly steady.

Peter had taken the jacket off while Tony was getting his water, and it was sitting folded on the bed at his side.

Tony pressed the water glass into Peter's hands.

"Drink," he instructed, and Peter listened without question.

"Okay, come with me," Tony said once Peter set the glass back down on his nightstand, and he held out a hand.

Peter did hesitate at that, starting to reach for Tony's hand but pausing and glancing up at his expression like he was afraid of misreading the gesture before he actually made contact, and Tony reached to close the rest of the distance and gently pulled Peter to his feet.

He held Peter's hand all the way across the room, and out the door, and down the hallway, and then he let go to gesture at his bed.

"You're staying here, so," Tony said by way of explanation, because he genuinely didn't think he had it in him to go back to sleep himself with the image of Peter staying in that lonely little room with that jacket and that mirror in mind.

"Oh," Peter gasped, and the way his expression crumpled in relief disintegrated any last doubts that Tony had about dragging Peter to his room.

Maybe it was fucked up. Whatever. The whole thing was fucked up, and this made Peter happy, so.

Peter crawled into Tony's bed like he was afraid Tony would change his mind, and Tony instructed FRIDAY to set the lights low and followed, staying on top of the covers.

They both leaned with their backs to the headboard, and once Peter was settled, Tony quietly said, "Wherever you want to start. Or we could just sleep, if you want."

Peter drew up his knees under the blankets, and tipped his head back to look up at the ceiling with a sigh.

"...You saw the-- bathroom?" he asked, and Tony hated that he sounded ashamed of it.

Tony hummed an affirmative, and then hoped it was the right move as he said, dry, "If you wanted to redecorate you know you could have asked for help. I'm a pro at designing spaces for hitting rock bottom. Gimme an hour and I can fuck up your feng shui so royally Patty'll get an emergency alert on her phone."

Peter barked a startled laugh, and his eyes were still red-rimmed and bruise-dark, but the smile he tipped in Tony's direction was genuine.

His smiles had a way of lighting up his whole face even in the worst circumstances, drawing attention to his kind and playful eyes and softening the impact of scrapes and bruises and blood; softening the edges of Tony's worry or anger whenever he got himself caught up in something ridiculous and dangerous. All he had to do was smile wide enough to make the corners of his eyes crinkle, and that inevitable rush of ill-advised affection would take the edge off Tony's adrenaline every time.

"You can't exactly give me a corner bar, though," Peter said, and he never, ever would have made a joke like that before, and his grin even tightened a little at the edges like he was worried he'd crossed a line after he said it, but his expression went open and relaxed and beautiful when Tony laughed.

"Oh, I could make it work. Your poison would be like, what, Monster energy drinks? Too much caffeine and too little sleep? Absolute recipe for a panic attack, no alcohol necessary," Tony said, and he loved this, he loved that Peter felt comfortable joking with him like this.

But he wanted to make sure that Peter still got to actually say what he needed to say, and he didn't think they'd get there with jokes. So he looked at Peter and held his arm up and away from his side in offering, and Peter studied his expression for a beat, surprised-- and then moved closer on the bed so that he could tuck himself against Tony's side, and Tony curled his arm around his shoulders.

"I just always end up thinking about… what he… saw," Peter said quietly, head resting against Tony's shoulder. "Like, my-- face, and my body, and-- the shower's bad but the mirror's really bad, so I…"

Tony nodded with a soft, soothing sound that he hoped would balance out the rising patter of his heart at the thought that, even dead, that-- absolute shitstain-- had managed to affect something so foundational as Peter's relationship with his body; his ability to look at his own face.

"Have you talked about that with Patty?" Tony asked, because he could listen, but he wanted to make sure that Peter was getting help in a way that would actually help him to-- unpack that trauma, which Tony felt desperately under-equipped for.

"A little," Peter said with a shrug. "I'm supposed to work on ways to develop, like-- ownership? Of my body? Like, she suggested dancing and yoga and stuff, since normally-- I mean, obviously I have to have a lot of, body mindfulness or whatever when I'm Spider-man, but that's sort of-- its own issue right now."

And Tony understood that viscerally, because as hard as he and Peter had worked on Peter's new suit, and as many defense features and safety protocols as Tony had packed into it, every time he thought about Peter actually getting out there and using it it was like he got a syringe of adrenaline injected straight into his heart, so he tried not to think about it much.

(And-- he hadn't used his own suit since it happened, either. Thinking about it didn't set his heart rabbiting the same way thinking about Peter going back on patrol did, but-- things just would have gone very differently, if he'd had the armor that day.)

"And we're working on, like," Peter continued, with a dismissive swipe of his hand, "Shame."

Tony wondered what it sounded like to Peter, when his heart clenched like that.

"You've got nothing to be ashamed of, Pete," he muttered, unable to get his voice more stern than that against the tightness of his throat, and he gripped Peter more tightly against him. "At all."

Peter shrugged again instead of answering, like Tony didn't know that move, but before Tony could decide if he wanted to call him out on it Peter said, "You can have your jacket back."

"I don't want it," Tony said automatically and with too much vehemence, but now that he knew it still existed he did kind of desperately want to see it burn. But Tony's hangups about it weren't Peter's fault, so Tony tried to soften his tone to where it didn't come across as an accusation when he asked, "Why do you want it?"

"It makes it feel like you're with me," Peter murmured, without even having to consider it, but he did shudder a little and curl in more tightly to press his face to Tony's shoulder. "Sorry, I know that's creepy."

"I don't care about that," Tony said, because it was true; it wasn't like he felt violated by Peter taking it and he didn't give a shit about examining whether or not it was creepy on any other objective or subjective level.

"But," he continued, and his throat was tight again. "It."

Peter looked up at him while he struggled to put the words to it, quiet and trusting and watchful and wonderful, and Tony ran his fingers desperately through Peter's hair because he just absolutely couldn't find a way to soften the words so he had to compensate by being gentle in some other way--

"Peter, I raped you on it," Tony choked out, and Peter-- frowned--

"You didn't," Peter said softly, with perfect confidence, and it was ridiculous, ridiculous--

"Uh, yeah, there was sex and you didn't consent to it and cried the whole time, ergo," Tony scoffed like his voice wasn't trembling and his heart wasn't thundering, and he made a helpless noise when Peter put his palm over Tony's heart as if to soothe it.

"You didn't hurt me, Westcott did," Peter insisted, and his voice was so gentle, and he held Tony's gaze the whole time. "He just used your body to do it, and-- mine to hurt you. Patty-- Patty calls it rape-by-proxy."

Tony rubbed his free hand over his face, shaking his head slightly-- it's not that Peter was wrong, exactly, but it was-- he'd still-- he had a responsibility--

"You'd never hurt me," Peter said into Tony's silence, and Tony's breath hitched in his chest pathetically. "I know you'd never hurt me. You know--"

"But I did," Tony interrupted, and he found the strength to push through that stupid awful hitching and the slight burn threatening at his eyes, at least. "I did that to you, and now you can't use a mirror--"

"You didn't. You took such good care of me," Peter said, and his expression finally creased from that gentle strength with sympathy, his own eyes going shiny, and then he-- crawled into Tony's lap--

"That's why I like the jacket, right? Because you-- because you were so gentle, and nice, and you were comforting me the whole time even though it was hurting you too," Peter said urgently, and he took Tony's face in his hands so that Tony had to look at him, exactly like Tony had done the last time they were together in Tony's bedroom. Tony reached up to touch Peter's wrists, for lack of anywhere else to put his hands with Peter straddling his lap.

"That… doesn't mean," Tony muttered, because the fact that he'd tried to hurt Peter as little as possible didn't mean that he hadn't hurt him, anyone would have done that, he didn't deserve credit for it, but Peter stroked his thumbs over Tony's cheeks where he was cupping his face, and there was something about that and the weight of him in Tony's lap and the warmth of his body pressing so close that made Tony's protest fizzle to nothing.

Peter shook his head, the furrow of sadness and concern and earnest insistence that Tony had put between his eyebrows deepening, and Tony could see every shift in his expression as he decided what he was going to say.

He was so close.

"You made it so obvious that you-- you-- that you love me," Peter said unsteadily, and Tony watched him swallow hard. "Like, care about me. And it's-- it's what got me through it. You were… you were the good part. The only good part."

He took a breath, and leaned in, and Tony closed his eyes.

Peter kissed him on the forehead. Always so sweet, always so perfect, always acting like it was his job to comfort Tony as much as the other way around, like that wasn't messed up and imbalanced and-- so Tony shouldn't have let it work, shouldn't have let the warmth from knowing that Peter and his golden heart had for some reason decided to care about him sink all the way into his bones, shouldn't have swallowed around the lump in his throat and wrapped his arms around Peter and leaned forward to bury his face against Peter's shoulder like he was the kid in this situation.

But he did, and Peter wrapped his arms around Tony in return, and he stroked his fingers through Tony's hair even as he huffed a little exasperated sound when Tony mumbled, "I'm sorry."

"No apologies, remember?" Peter sighed, and it was embarrassing how much it helped when he slowly rubbed a hand up and down Tony's back.

"You just deserve better," Tony confided into Peter's shoulder, quiet. "Than-- than what happened. Than to have to deal with this."

He cleared his throat, and hoped it would be enough to put a veneer of a joke over the words when he said, "And-- and to have to deal with me stealing your, like, PTSD nightmare thunder by making it all about me and my weird guilt thing instead--"

Peter squeezed him tighter.

"Tony, don't," he said, firm. "You came and got me and listened to me and like, hugged me, and you-- you'd never tell me I didn't deserve to feel bad about it or, or talk about it or whatever, that's your weird guilt thing talking--"

"That's different," Tony insisted, but he didn't move, either, so he didn't know why he was bothering to argue about it.

"Oh, why?" Peter asked, and Tony didn't know how he managed to thread the needle of sounding so gentle and so sarcastic at the same time. "Because you're older? Do people grow out of feeling bad when they get kidnapped and threatened with murder and torture and get actually-- actually, like-- sexually abused? Age does that?"

He was such a little shit, and Tony didn't deserve him in the least.

"You shouldn't have to hear about it, from me," Tony tried, because that was the thing, wasn't it, Peter shouldn't be having to make Tony feel better about making Peter feel bad--

"I want to hear about it," Peter insisted, and he curled more tightly over Tony so that his face was tucked down by Tony's ear when he admitted, quiet and unsteady, "I'm so-- s-so lonely, okay? Who else is-- who else could understand, wh-who else is gonna say the stuff I've thought about, how else can I-- can I see it from the other side, if you won't…"

And it wasn't what Tony expected, because Tony expected Peter to stay on the tracks of you deserve to talk about it and I can handle hearing about it and I want you to feel better, too, and he knew that Peter did feel all those things as well no matter how much Tony thought it was bullshit, but what Peter was saying was that he needed to hear it for himself, because it made him feel better, and not so alone, and--

"Okay," Tony said, and he took his turn to rub Peter's back, stroking a hand between his shoulder blades and noticing how quickly it made Peter relax. "Okay, Pete, you win."

"I always win," Peter said wetly, and he sniffled. "Anyway, it was an old nightmare anyway, so no thunder to steal. It wasn't even-- this stuff. It was like, the Vulture."

He said it so dismissively, like a joke-- it's like, a papercut-- but Tony frowned, uncurling a little from their mutual huddle without letting go.

"The Vulture?" he asked, because yeah, that had been like-- big superheroics, bringing down a plane and everything, probably very scary, but Peter had never talked about it before.

"Mmh," Peter said into Tony's shoulder, still relaxing under his hands. "When he like, dropped a building on me. I get dreams where I'm still stuck."

Whatever Tony's heart did in response to that must have been loud, because Peter actually drew back, glancing between Tony's chest and his expression with what looked like confusion.

"You-- …stuck. Under a building, that-- that he dropped on you," Tony said, disjointed, because sue him for not being eloquent when he was remembering Peter whimpering help in his sleep and Tony suddenly had context for why--

"I was okay," Peter said quickly, and he pulled a hand around to press it over Tony's chest again, like Tony's heart was a skittish animal he could just pet into calming down. "I just had to-- y'know-- lift it, so--"

"Lift it," Tony repeated, and he clutched at the hand Peter had pressed to his chest, because maybe Peter was onto something there.

Peter studied Tony's expression for a long moment, biting his lip, and Tony hated making him regret opening up but holy shit-- holy shit, he'd been stuck under a building without his suit and Tony hadn't even known and he would have never known--

"We put impact suppressors in my new suit," Peter said finally, watching Tony with wide, earnest eyes. "And smoke and particle filtration, and supplemental oxygen, and-- crush-level pressures are one of the things that trigger an automatic distress alert, so even if I couldn't talk to Karen, you would know."

"Right," Tony said, taking a breath, and it was ridiculous that he was getting so worked up over something that had happened almost two years ago, and he was worrying Peter, so he needed to hurry up and assimilate this into his worldview and calm the fuck down. "Right, yeah."

He took another deep breath, and he hauled Peter into another hug.

"You're amazing," he muttered into Peter's hair. "'I just had to lift it.' Ridiculous."

Peter all but melted against him, and breathed a sigh against his neck.

"You're one to talk," Peter said, and his voice always got so sleepy the second he relaxed; it was cute.

"I am; I love to talk," Tony answered, kind of nonsensical, but it was fine.

It was a long hug. They were already in bed, and comfortable, and it just didn't seem worth it to move until Peter's breaths started to slowly deepen. And staying up talking was one thing, but Tony couldn't literally go to sleep with Peter curled up in his lap, for a lot of reasons but the least of which was that he was too old for that move not to fully murder his back in the morning.

(He tried to ignore that a lot of the other reasons also had to do with things he was too old for.)

Tony finally sighed and patted Peter gently on the shoulder, and Peter nodded wordlessly and slid off of his lap, crawling back over to his pillow like he was moving through molasses. Cute, cute.

"Night, Tony," he said, curling up under the covers and facing Tony's side of the bed.

"Sweet dreams," Tony wished him, and Peter nodded slightly before his eyes drifted shut.

Tony had FRIDAY cut the lights, and got under the covers but stayed over the sheet-- they were taking turns on that, apparently-- and kept his back to Peter when he laid down, and hoped not to dream at all.

That could have been the end of it, too.

But he knew, somewhere, that it wouldn't be.

Chapter Text

Peter didn't have a single dream after he fell back asleep in Tony's bed, and he blinked awake to the sound of Tony's alarm.

Tony dragged himself upright on the mattress beside him, and it was different waking up together-- not like last time, where it had been a weekend and Tony had ended up sleeping in, so Peter had left before he ever woke up.

That had been surreal, and he'd felt-- such a mix of things. Emotionally exhausted, but also emotionally-- satisfied, after getting to talk to Tony-- and really talking to him, not just getting caught up in snapping at him and word-vomiting about his own sexual fantasies, which Peter still cringed to remember.

He'd felt so many things during the brief moment he'd let himself watch Tony sleep, that morning. Catharsis and affection, unburdened. Shame, and guilt. (Always guilt.) Sweet, utter comfort. That itch, itch, itch of wanting.

And it wasn't that Peter didn't still have those feelings, generally, but as he watched Tony sit up, with sleep-heavy eyes and morning hair and the creases from his pillowcase gently imprinted on the side of his face--

He loved waking up with Tony.

He loved Tony.

"Wow," Tony grumbled, squinting at him. His voice was all gravelly with sleep, and there was that itch, crawling its way up Peter's spine. "Of course you're one of those people that wake up on the right side of the bed. Put those megawatts away; go back to sleep."

Oh.

"I mean, I'm awake," Peter said, smiling even wider, but he didn't sit up. He was warm and comfortable, and his pillow was soft, and he was still pretty sleepy, and he kind of did want to stay.

But he thought it might be nice to have breakfast with Tony, too.

"What happened to betraying your fellow students, four days left of summer vacation, and all that?" Tony asked, and it always made a stupid little flutter dance in Peter's stomach when Tony casually referenced something Peter had said before like that, like maybe he listened to Peter the way Peter listened to him.

"Mmh, good point," Peter agreed, snuggling into his pillow more firmly, and Tony rolled his eyes but he was smiling then, too.

"Go back to sleep," Tony said again, and his voice was a little softer when he said, "I'll see you in the lab later."

"Have a good day," Peter murmured, and he wouldn't have said it quite like that if he'd been more awake, because-- it was a normal thing to say, but it maybe crossed a line a little bit, in this context. Flirting like it was a regular thing for him to be in Tony's bed, and he was sending Tony off to work.

But Tony just hummed an acknowledgement, sliding out of the bed, and Peter dropped back off to the sound of him moving about the room.

When Peter woke for the second time, the room was empty and quiet, but there was something folded up on Tony's half-made side of the bed.

Peter sat up to investigate, still fuzzy with sleep, and--

It was Tony's MIT sweatshirt. Well, one of them-- he had a few, but this was the MIT sweatshirt; Tony wore it all the time.

There was a note on top.

'Trade you.'

And Peter was so sick of crying-- even with happy tears-- that he didn't cry about it.

But it was a near thing.

After that--

It had already been a little bit like a wall had come down between them, after Peter's birthday, after that talk in the lab and that first night in Tony's room. Tony stopped avoiding him, and went back to only shifting to make room when they were working on the same project, words and shoulders overlapping. Tony started touching him again, and--

Peter knew it was just his imagination, or, at least-- if it wasn't just his imagination, Tony didn't mean anything by it other than, like… trying to be nice. But it seemed a little different, now, when Tony would clap him on the back or press a hand lightly to his shoulder to maneuver around him, or nudge Peter's shoulder with his own, or ruffle Peter's hair. Tony's hands just always seemed more gentle on him, now, and sometimes that meant they were feather-light, there and gone, and sometimes it meant they lingered over a touch that might have been more abrupt, before.

It was nice, whether Peter was imagining it or not, and he tried not to get too caught up in that question.

So-- a lot of that had already been there, after the first night. But then after the second time, it was like-- even whatever had been between him and Tony before Westcott, that natural distance that came from the mismatch of age and money and experience… shrank. It didn't disappear entirely, but now-- it felt less like a wall, and more like the threshold between one room and another. Like, sure, there was a division there, but a superficial one-- hardwood to tile; dining room to kitchen-- and when it came down to it, it was really the same space in everything but name.

Peter folded Tony's suit jacket into a shopping bag that was tucked away in his closet, and set it on the corner of Tony's bed with a note reading, 'Deal.'

And then when he joined Tony in the lab--

It was late morning, and the lab's lights were all the way up, everything bright and gleaming with no dimmed bulbs or nighttime hush to soften the edges of reality, and Tony still turned on his stool right away to ask Peter if they could talk about something from the night before.

He wanted to ask Peter if he thought it would be helpful to set up a nightmare protocol with FRIDAY, it turned out. He talked Peter through the possibilities-- pulsing light patterns or sound recordings to wake him up, and then all kinds of things to help calm his emotions afterward, like muscle relaxation or grounding exercises that FRIDAY or a recording could talk him through, or mindfulness meditations or mantras that FRIDAY could queue up for him.

"Customize it however you want; it took me some trial-and-error to find a good routine," Tony said at one point, and then muttered almost to himself, "I should add some of those back in."

And it wasn't that Peter liked thinking about Tony having flashbacks or nightmares, obviously, but-- the fact that Tony was willing to share that with him, without it being a moment of crisis, without it being tucked away in those vulnerable past-midnight hours, was--

So comforting, to have someone to talk to. Such a relief, that it wasn't just a one-way street. And just, so…

Peter had always hoped that he and Tony might actually be friends, someday. And sure, maybe Tony was thinking of this as just another area where he was Peter's mentor, just being some kind of PTSD coach or something, but-- Peter couldn't help the part of him that was so glad that Tony trusted him enough to talk to him openly.

It didn't change, either. The last few days of Peter's summer break went by, and they talked about Peter and May's vague plans-- dependent on how things went for Peter with school being back in session-- to have Peter slowly start spending his nights at the apartment again, one day of the week at a time. They talked about the crazy "mental health" scams and supposed-treatments that Tony was bombarded with by business associates after Afghanistan, Tony rolling his eyes and Peter grinning at his colorful descriptions. And they talked and talked and talked in the lab, about their projects and movies and the best food trucks in the area, like they used to, without that weird added veneer of hesitation and walking on eggshells.

On Saturday, they ate breakfast together, Tony slouching into the kitchen for coffee as Peter scrambled eggs, waffles crisping up on the counter in the waffle-maker Peter fished out of the cupboards.

"Morning," Peter greeted him while Tony paused by the breakfast bar, fixing Peter with a narrow-eyed stare.

"I thought you Parkers couldn't cook. If I ask for some am I going to lose my Saturday to the med bay? Don't tell your aunt I said that," Tony said, and Peter laughed.

"I dunno, are you gonna risk it?" he teased, tipping a portion of the eggs onto a plate, and Tony hummed suspiciously.

"I think I'll live," Tony said after his first bite, once he and Peter were both settled at the bar with butter and syrup and coffee within reach, and then he dropped his teasingly-critical expression to smile at Peter, warm.

The jolt of delight that went through Peter at that expression stayed with him all through their morning chitchat about their plans for the day, and carried him through asking if, once Peter got back from visiting Ned and having dinner with May at the apartment in Queens, Tony would want to watch a movie with him before bed.

And the warm buzz that settled in his skin when Tony said yes carried him through the rest of the day, making it easier to fight back those spikes of nerves he always got when he was away from the tower for too long, and smoothing out the chafe from those moments where Peter bumped up against a reminder that even on a good day, things were different for him now.

He settled on the couch with Tony that night, and that return to a long-gone normalcy, having a movie night with Tony like they used to do off-and-on after weekend lab binges, was such a comfort after a long day of making himself take a step forward, experimenting with being more of himself again, that when Sunday rolled around--

Sunday was-- weird. He and Patty had talked a lot about him being ready to go back to school, and the strategies he could use if he started getting overwhelmed, and even the possibility that if he needed to, he could take a leave of absence after all. So he tried not to tell himself that he was being stupid for needing strategies in the first place, because negative self-talk only keeps us stuck in our feelings of shame, Peter, and tried not to think about how embarrassing it would be if after everything everyone had done to support him he ended up needing to take time off school anyway, and tried to practice mindfulness and acceptance and self-affirmation as he and May spent the day together for their last-day-of-summer routine of a movie and ice cream cones while they walked around the park--

But when Tony went to pass by where Peter was scrolling through his phone on the couch that night before bed, instead of wishing Peter sweet dreams, he paused. And after a long, searching look, he asked, "Nervous?"

And Peter blurted, "Yeah."

So Tony joined him on the couch, and Peter talked through his fears-- that people were going to notice he was different and ask him about it, and it just sucked to have to lie but obviously he didn't exactly want to talk about it either, and he was worried he wasn't really in the right headspace for school because even though he was doing better he was still pretty spacey and his priorities just felt different now, and also he understood why SHIELD and Tony were insisting on a covert security detail because his identity had probably been compromised to someone and he appreciated that they'd been providing one for May too but it just felt so stupid and like everyone was making a big deal over him and it was embarrassing to need and speaking of Tony being nice the app was so cool but also embarrassing to need and--

"It's just so much," he said finally, exhausted, closing his eyes against what he knew could easily become the sting of tears if he wasn't careful, and he tried to focus on the warmth of Tony's hand on his shoulder so it wouldn't.

"It is," Tony agreed softly, and Peter felt his tension melting away despite himself under the gentle sweep of Tony's thumb on his shoulder. Tony cleared his throat and said, "But look-- I'm not gonna tell you this stuff isn't hard, because it's truly a bitch of unfathomable proportions and you shouldn't have to be dealing with it, but. I know you're going to get through it. Because you're you and you're incredible, and you're also gonna have whatever you need to make it happen, between me and May and everyone."

Tony took a breath, and then concluded the way he had so, so many times since that day in the cell, like a mantra, "Whatever you want, Pete. Whatever you need."

And it wasn't a hint, so Peter shouldn't have let himself entertain the thought that it was, and convince himself that it was a fair ask just because surely Tony knew what Peter felt like he needed--

But he still squeezed his eyes shut with a shaky sigh, and asked, his throat tight, "Tonight-- could I--?"

And he was still desperately hunting for the words to finish the question when Tony squeezed his shoulder and said, simply, "--Yeah. Yeah, okay."

So Peter breathed a sigh of relief, even though he knew he shouldn't be making this thing into a habit-- it wasn't Tony's responsibility to fix him, and he should be trying to work on managing his feelings himself instead of leaning into needing someone else to feel okay-- but as he changed into his pajamas and brushed his teeth against a backdrop of spare bedsheet before plodding down the hallway to Tony's room, he told himself that one more time, before going back to real life, back to his normal routine-- one more time wouldn't hurt.

"Night, Pete," Tony said after they both settled into bed, separated only by that stretch of sheets and mattress. "Sweet dreams."

"Sweet dreams," Peter whispered back, already fading from that cozy sense of utter safety, and he fell asleep only moments after Tony had FRIDAY cut the lights.

The first day back at school was always weird, everyone coming back together and either trying their best to fall back into old habits or trying to redefine themselves and their relationships for the new school year. And it was-- a lot, with everyone else buoyed by the excitement of seeing friends and sharing stories about summer trips and summer flings-- and Peter maybe had to bite back a little hysterical giggle at the thought of framing the situation with Tony that way-- so it was loud and chaotic in the hallways, and Peter found himself actually looking forward to the more focused quiet of his classes.

He didn't pay as much attention as he should have, with as much class time as he used to calm down his overstimulated senses instead, and with as distracted as he was about-- well--

("No way Spider-man's dead," Flash had argued passionately at lunch, surrounded by other students wondering about the same thing, so-- people were still talking about it, apparently.

"The Avengers would know, right? Like, he's friends with them? They would have said," a girl said-- Peter thought she might be in his O-Chem class this year-- and there was a general murmur of agreement.

Because it was a good point. What would the team have done, if Peter and Tony had died that day? What would they have told the public? What would they have told May--?

Ned jumped beside him at the crack of Peter's plastic fork snapping in half in his hand, and MJ shot him a glance before loudly saying, "Why are you all so obsessed with Spider-man? He's like, college-age. It's been summer break. I don't think this one's a case for the Midtown Tech Irregulars."

Everyone fell quiet, even though it wasn't as definitive of a shutdown as MJ made it sound, but-- it was MJ, so it really kind of was.

Then someone said, "Do you think Spider-man goes to Columbia?", and the topic moved away from Spider-man's hypothetical death, and Peter smiled at MJ after taking a moment for a long, slow breath.)

He skipped gym-- Patty had arranged a note for him to have permission to show up late after he'd confided in her about being worried about the locker room, but whatever, he could skip outright once or twice without it being a problem-- and spent his time in the library instead, occasionally thumbing open his app for Karen between going back over what he'd missed in his classes, and then somehow, eventually, the day was over.

Happy drove him back to the tower, and Peter stepped through the door to Tony's suite with full intentions of going straight to his guest room and flopping face-first onto the bed before mustering up the energy to call May, but instead--

"There you are," Tony said brightly, looking up from his phone where he was lounging on the couch. "How was it?"

"Good," Peter said on full autopilot, still taken aback, and then he blurted: "Don't you have work until five?"

"It's my company; I work when I want," Tony said, which yeah, duh, and it wasn't like he didn't make up for any short days by working until 10pm on the regular, Peter guessed.

Tony raised an eyebrow sardonically, but his voice held a real question when he gently added, "Unless I'm not wanted."

"--No! No, um, I was just surprised," Peter rushed to reassure him, and he grinned sheepishly, letting some of the like-- delight, at Tony waiting for him-- push away his listlessness.

Tony nodded, indulgent, but his gaze was watchful as he asked, "Long day?"

Peter blew out a long breath.

"Yeah," he admitted, wandering further into the living room. "Not, like… terrible, but just-- long."

Tony nodded and stood as Peter reached the couch, and-- reached out to tuck Peter against him in a one-armed hug, like that was something they did every day, like it was just part of a routine.

Peter let his backpack slide off his shoulder onto the floor and leaned into the hug without consciously deciding to, and god, it was so nice, the toll of the jitters that had stuck with him all day long melting away under the gentle heat of Tony's arm wrapped around him, the places where their bodies touched--

"Wanna talk about it?" Tony asked, quiet, and Peter shook his head against Tony's shoulder with a sigh.

"There's nothing really to talk about. I'm just tired," Peter said, instead of the pathetic truth of I missed you.

Tony hummed an acknowledgement, and stroked his fingers through Peter's hair just once before he pulled back, and Peter fought off the shiver that wanted to rush through him at the feeling of it.

"Okay if I show you something?" Tony asked, tipping his head in the direction of the hallway to their bedrooms, and a spike of curiosity managed to push its way through Peter's exhaustion.

"Sure?" he said, and he grabbed the strap of his backpack to follow as Tony flashed a smile at him and started toward the hallway.

"So, you don't have to use it, and if you hate it I can take it all out," Tony chattered as they walked, and when his pace slowed it was outside Peter's door.

"But it's fully customizable so I don't know why you'd want to do that; seems like a waste of resources if you ask me," Tony continued, stepping through into Peter's room-- and he got chatty like this when he was excited about something but also when he was nervous, and Peter wondered which it was.

Tony paused outside the door to Peter's ensuite, and gestured for Peter to go through, rocking onto the balls of his feet. Nervous and excited, then.

Peter felt a shiver of nerves himself, but-- he trusted Tony, and it was just a room, it was fine. So he stepped through the bathroom doorway and turned on the light, and--

"It's a smart mirror," Tony blurted from the doorway when Peter just stared at the whited-out panel of glass on his wall where there had been a bedsheet that morning. He cleared his throat and said, "I know you might not want to use the actual mirror part for a while, but I thought this was a little less, ah, depression-chic than what you were using before."

There was a tablet on the bathroom counter-- obviously intended as the control device for the mirror-- and Peter reached for it.

"Yeah, so, if you open-- yeah, that-- you can control which areas are obscured and which parts are reflective, so if you just want to check your clothes or you just want to fix your hair you don't have to-- use the whole thing," Tony explained, and Peter dragged a finger over the app's representation of the mirror, and watched as the real thing sprang to life to reflect his body just from the shoulders down.

"You can also control the opacity of the obscured areas, or change the color-- but black is still pretty reflective, so I set the default to white-- and then if you want to use it the way smart mirrors usually are, you can add in other widgets to show the time or weather or your email inbox, y'know, that kind of-- oh, okay--" Tony babbled, and then stumbled to a verbal stop as Peter set the tablet down and crashed into him for another hug.

"You didn't have to do this," Peter murmured against him, his heart beating wildly with a feeling entirely too big for it to contain at the thought that Tony had done this for him at all, that he had thought about what Peter told him that night and figured out a way to fix it, that he had installed that fix here in his suite, like this was where Peter belonged--

"...So you like it?" Tony asked after a pause, like a joke, but Peter could hear the slightly-too-fast patter of his heart as he raised his arms to hug Peter back.

Peter drew back just enough for Tony to see how much he meant it when he answered, quiet, "I love it."

Tony didn't pull away, or look away, or smirk and joke at the praise, or ruffle Peter's hair in a show of casual affection. He just studied Peter's expression with those dark, intent eyes, and swallowed hard, and nodded, jerky. And even though his heart was still thumping away in that tell-tale show of nerves, his grip on Peter tightened instead of moving to let him go.

"You deserve it," Tony said finally, like he had weeks ago in the lab, and Peter wondered just how many calls-and-response, how many mantras, how many patterns they could form between them out of that comfort of predictability. That uncertainty over forging new ground.

And Peter wondered what would happen if he did break the pattern. What would Tony do, if Peter asked why? or what else do I deserve?

Maybe Tony would cement a new pattern, and tell Peter, you're perfect. Maybe he would launch into another speech about all the ways he thought he'd messed up, and how this was the only way to make things right. Or maybe he'd just grin, and tease Peter for fishing for praise, and pull away as Peter shattered this… whatever it was between them, by always pushing for more, more, more.

So instead, Peter only said, "Thank you," and his voice was soft under the weight of everything else he wanted to say.

Tony did look away, then.

"Glad if it helps," he said, and he clapped Peter's shoulder gently before letting him go. He cleared his throat, and said, "I've got the plans for it in the lab, if you want to look at them and-- fiddle. Not that my rush job is too shabby, but I bet you could think of some stuff that I didn't."

And just like that--

Peter knew that things would still be hard, and school was going to be a struggle, and it's not like his hangups and nightmares and need for the things Tony had given him were going to disappear overnight.

But he'd come back to the tower in a funk of dull, resigned helplessness-- that feeling of I know I have to do this, but I really, really don't know how-- and now…

If it was like this-- he could do it.

He could do this.

The week plodded on. Peter didn't crawl into Tony's bed again, but he had breakfast with him nearly every morning and spent time in the lab with him every afternoon, making a perfect buffer on either side of the ups-and-downs of his school days. And it was crazy, that he got to spend that much time with Tony, and crazier-- in the genuine way, where it made Peter feel a little crazy to think about it-- that his little self-indulgent daydream of Tony being a bigger part of his life had come true because of one of the worst things that had ever happened to him.

But it really was amazing, sharing a space and sharing meals and sharing jokes and stories and thoughts and fears, and feeling so much closer, after finally having really, truly talked. It was wonderful.

But when Peter told Patty as much that Thursday in therapy, after telling her about the mirror and how playing with it really was already helping a little to get him used to his reflection again, the smile she directed at him in response was a little sad.

"I know feeling off-balance with Tony was something that was really bothering you, and I'm so glad that things are more comfortable for you now," she said. "But while you were telling me how wonderful things are now, there were parts where you seemed a little emotional. Could you tell me about that?"

Which was the shitty part of having a therapist, because it was literally her job to dig into everything Peter said, even the good things, to make sure he wasn't having unhealthy thoughts about it, and she was good at it, but Peter really, really didn't know how to talk about-- this part.

He swallowed around the lump that immediately formed in his throat, and stumbled through it, somehow. That Tony was amazing, and being close to Tony again was amazing, and Peter was so, so grateful for it and wouldn't change it for the world, but--

"He does so much for me," Peter whispered, finally. "And I'm just like-- a leech or something, and I feel so guilty--"

Patty tried to get him to clarify it. Why he felt guilty for accepting what Tony freely offered, with the kinds of resources that made it easy to give. And he told her that he felt bad for not being able to do anything for Tony in return, which was true, but--

He couldn't tell her the reason that was even more true, because if he said that he felt selfish, she would ask him why. And he would have to say, when we were in the cell, I wanted him to kiss me so bad that he finally did it, but I saw it break his heart.

He would have to say, And even after that, I asked him to do it again on my birthday, and he did.

And he would have to explain about the jacket, and now the sweatshirt, and that look on Tony's face when Peter asked to move back into his suite, and sleeping in Tony's bed, and asking Tony to have sex with him--

He couldn't do that. So instead he said that he just felt bad for not being able to give back, and he and Patty talked about the things that he could do for Tony even without money and genius, and how to try not to think about relationships in exact transactional favor-for-favor terms, and it did still help, a little. He did want to know how to do more for Tony, even if he could never catch up to how much Tony had done for him.

He mostly wanted to know how to stop wanting more from Tony-- how to stop being selfish enough to ask for more-- but if he couldn't talk about that, then he would take what else he could get. He would lean into the good parts, the amazing parts, as hard as he could, and the rest, he would-- handle.

So he kept making breakfast through that next week too, because that was something easy he could do, and he thought it probably wasn't great that Tony skipped having anything more than coffee and toast a lot of the time, but he would always eat what Peter made for them. And most of the time it was simple stuff-- though Peter thought he might actually do decent at getting into baking, so he could make some of those fancy breakfast pastries Tony had ordered for his birthday; it was just chemistry, after all-- but sometimes he would branch out, and--

"What's that?" Tony asked him at the end of the week, pausing by the coffee machine as Peter cut slices from that morning's experiment.

"Oh, it's, um," Peter said with a rush of pleased, anticipatory nerves. "A frittata? With goat cheese and arugula? I thought I'd branch out from scrambled eggs, but like, not too far."

It was one of the things that had been in the breakfast buffet for Peter's birthday, and the thing Tony had eaten the most of and seemed to like the best, so it had felt like a worthwhile experiment.

Tony stared at the cast-iron pan where it sat over a potholder on the counter, and then glanced at Peter before turning back to the coffee pot to finish pouring himself a mug.

"It smells good," he said, and there was a beat before he turned back around, mug in hand and with his eyebrows raised. "Did you have to get up early to make it, Masterchef?"

Peter grinned with a shrug, pushing away the mild flare in his nerves at the way Tony seemed almost taken aback. Tony did nice things for him all the time; he wasn't going to let himself feel awkward about returning the favor.

"Not really?" he said, and explained, "I put it in the oven before I took my shower and everything, and it wasn't very much prep before that."

"Smart," Tony said, and he took a seat at the bar as Peter passed his plate over. He tapped his fingers against the side of his mug rapidly for a moment, thinking, and then he said, "Well, good. I know, most important meal of the day and everything, but you don't have to put yourself out if you want something nice in the morning; we can always order in."

There was a confusing moment where Peter's stomach did a somersault at that we at the same time he had to fight the urge to roll his eyes over Tony seriously trying to take Peter's nice gesture and reverse it into one for Peter instead. Surely it was fine for Peter to wake up ten minutes earlier than normal to make breakfast for both of them if it was fine for Tony to stay up half the night working on secret projects for Peter, or even just like, staying up half the night in general.

(Which, granted-- now that Tony wasn't doing his staying up in the lab, it was just a hunch on Peter's part that he still wasn't sleeping, based on the eyebags he still hid with concealer and the fact that Tony had seemed better-rested the next day those two times Peter could actually account for how much sleep he got, because Peter had been with him--)

But instead of saying any of that, Peter said, "I'm not putting myself out over making breakfast, jeez! It's actually-- it's kind of nice? Having a new hobby."

And it was, really. It was something new, outside his normal routine, but it was-- something that he chose, unlike all of the other changes that left him off-balance and on-edge. And it made him happy, and… Maybe Patty was onto something on more than one level, with encouraging him to take up some new physical hobbies to get back in-sync with his body. Maybe he'd ask Natasha about dance?

Tony looked at him for a slightly too-long moment before he shrugged, that analytical expression fading into a smile, and he finally scooped off a piece of frittata with his fork.

"Okay, good. I'm sure not complaining about the results," he said, and popped the bite into his mouth.

Peter watched for his reaction on tenterhooks, but he didn't have to wait long-- Tony almost immediately closed his eyes and huffed a little laugh through his nose as he chewed, and Peter had no idea what that meant, but when Tony swallowed and opened his eyes his expression was so fond that it set Peter's heart rabbiting in his chest.

"My mom used to make these all the time," Tony confided, soft, and he gestured at Peter's plate with his fork. "Try it; you did good."

Peter did, and it was good. And that made him happy, yeah, but the thing that was really special was--

When Peter used the warmth from Tony's expression, from his voice, to gather the courage to quietly venture, "Would you tell me about her?"

--Tony blinked at him, briefly thrown. But then he smiled again, and shrugged one shoulder, and he did.

That was what Peter carried with him for the rest of the day. That moment of quiet connection, of casual intimacy, Tony trusting him with those tender memories that were everything and nothing at the same time-- not as a mentor, not to teach him anything, but just because it was important to him, and he recognized that Peter was someone who cared.

It got Peter through the rush of Friday classes, the clamor of the hallways and the weird looks when he wasn't quite himself, taking the edge off of everything with the knowledge of what he had waiting for him when the day was done.

So much so that when he was in the lab with Tony that afternoon, in the gap between when school let out and when May would get back to the tower to see him for dinner, he finally pushed back from his workbench, fiddling with a screwdriver, and--

"I think I'm going to go on patrol tomorrow," Peter said, and he heard Tony's heart jump.

Peter looked up, startled, and saw Tony looking back at him, and-- his expression was a little drawn, and his eyes were a little wide, but it didn't match what his heart was doing at all, beating double-time like they were in a battle instead of sitting around in Tony's lab.

"Oh," Tony said slowly, and he tried to take a breath slowly too, but Peter could still pick up on how the sound trembled. "Good, uh-- good for you. Patrolling, huh?"

"Oh my god," Peter blurted, his voice going all wavery at how-- wow, Tony was terrified, but he was trying so hard to hide it and still failing to sound normal, that was just-- "Don't be like that, you're going to psych me out; Tony."

"What?" Tony asked, and he tried to mask his nerves with irritation, but his eyes went even wider. "Don't be like-- what, supportive?"

"You're scared," Peter accused, and he rolled his stool over to Tony's station, desperate suddenly to be close. "Don't just-- oh my god, at least talk to me about it."

Tony's expression pinched with indignation, and he started to say, "I am-- not--"

But then he squeezed his eyes shut and rubbed a hand over his face, drawing in a shuddering breath, and quietly sighed, "Fuck."

And--

Until Westcott, Peter had always kind of… blown off May and Tony's fear for him. It wasn't that he didn't think he could get hurt-- he knew he could, and he had the nightmares to prove it-- but he was comfortable being Spider-man; the risks and the adrenaline were familiar and, just… acceptable, somehow. No different than a firefighter, he'd tried to argue with May once; of course the danger was real but it was part of the job and he loved the job, and he had the tools he needed to face it, and he had a team to call on if he needed back-up.

So while he'd always carried a little bit of guilt for making them worry, it was also-- exasperating. Like they were underestimating him; like they didn't trust him to know what he could handle.

But now, hearing Tony's heart pound away just at the thought of Peter getting back in the suit, watching-- watching his hands shake while he avoided looking at Peter and tried to pull himself together-- and knowing how he felt whenever he left the tower, listening to the rhythm of Tony's heartbeat on his app whenever he got too panicked at school--

It wasn't exasperating. It made Peter's heart ache with sympathy and grief and guilt and love, it made Peter want to crawl into his lap again to try and take that fear away, it made Peter want to cry with knowing that, at least for this, he and Tony felt the exact same way about each other.

"I mean, I'm scared too," Peter said softly, eyes stinging, and he wished that he could reach out to hold Tony's hand.

"I know," Tony said with a little huff, and he dropped his hand away from his face. "I'm trying not to make it worse; I know you miss it. You should go back on patrol. You should."

"I don't want you to feel like this," Peter admitted, and Tony quirked a smile at him, sad and sharp in a way that was all inward.

"Not your problem, Pete," he said, and he was starting to pull it together, that mask almost sliding back into place. "I'll get over it. We made you a good suit."

"Okay, but me being scared for you wasn't your problem either, and you still made me the app and gave me your sweater," Peter said in a rush, unable to fight it back anymore when Tony was still trying to push away even just the sentiment that Peter didn't want him to hurt, while he looked like that--

"That was--" Tony started to say, and if the next word out of his mouth was different Peter was going to scream.

So he didn't let Tony say another word, and instead pleaded, "Tony."

Tony went tense, his sardonic smile flattening out into a taut line, but after a beat he nodded toward Peter as if to invite him to say his piece.

"What's… what's, like, the number one thing that's made you feel better, about-- all this?" Peter asked, voice wobbling all over the place again with his own heart pounding in his chest.

Tony sighed, and said, "Pete, that's not--"

"It's helping me, right?" Peter interrupted, and he could feel the tickle of his cheeks flushing, because-- he was pretty sure he was right, but it was so presumptuous and embarrassing to say; who did he think he was, seriously, but--

But he was pretty sure he was right. So when Tony's expression just went carefully blank, Peter doubled down, and said, "Making… doing all those things for me. That's what… That's what makes you feel better, right?"

There was a long, tense moment where neither of them moved, set to a soundtrack of their thumping hearts that only Peter could hear, but then-- finally, Tony nodded, glancing away.

Peter let out a shaky sigh.

"So," he said, slowly and carefully, and Tony looked back to him like he couldn't help it. "What do you think… is the number one thing that would make me feel better?"

Tony was quiet for a moment, processing that, and then he looked toward the ceiling with that quirked smile again, blowing out a gust of air.

"Pete, you can't fix it," he said, shaking his head, and Peter echoed the motion.

"But I can help. I can-- you can have my vitals up the whole time like I have yours, or you can stay on comms with me, or we can even turn the Baby Monitor Protocol back on, or-- or I can text you every half hour with a check-in, or-- we can do something," Peter said, intent but quiet, and he wished he understood why listening to that made Tony's expression crease with helplessness like Peter was being cruel instead of trying to help.

"You don't have to just… sit with it," Peter added, more uncertain.

Tony still wouldn't look at him, and he was still quiet.

But then he cleared his throat and said, "I'd like that. The, uh, the texting thing. The others are… if I'm too involved I don't think I could--"

And then he went quiet and shook his head again, but it was enough. Peter almost went weak with relief, and he smiled a shaky smile as he said, "Okay. I can do that."

"And--" Tony said, and he finally looked at Peter, something a little self-consciously needy behind his eyes. "Just-- be careful, okay? Please."

Peter breathed out a long, slow breath.

"I will," he said. "I promise."

Peter woke up that night to the sound of shattering glass, and with his senses on high alert in response, he also heard the following sound of a soft, emphatic, "Fuck."

He took a moment to let his heart rate slow down, and then padded to the kitchen, where Tony was kneeling by the counter and picking out the largest pieces of glass from the mess in front of him.

"You okay?" Peter asked, soft, and Tony looked up at him, and-- stared.

Maybe it slipped his mind that Peter was there in the suite, if he was sleep-fogged enough to drop a glass? Peter just looked back, raising his eyebrows, but there was something in the surprise of Tony's expression that was-- just-- something. Something else.

"Fine," Tony said finally, belatedly, and he looked back to the glass on the floor. "No casualties; just some late-night butterfingers. Can you get the dustpan?"

His tone was casual, but his voice was uneven, and Peter could see the way his expression was drawn with tension instead of relaxed with the fuzz of sleep now that Tony wasn't staring in surprise.

He must have had a nightmare, Peter realized, and his heart surged with sympathy as he agreed and went for the dustpan and brush, passing them to Tony over the counter.

"Sorry for waking you up," Tony sighed as he emptied the glass shards into a box from the trash, and Peter shrugged.

"It's the weekend," he said, and now that the floor was clear of glass he moved past Tony behind the counter to get another glass down from the cabinets. "Water?"

"Flaunting your sticky fingers in front of me," Tony accused teasingly, but he nodded, and Peter filled the glass.

They stood in silence for a long moment, Tony sipping at his water while his heart went through that cycle that Peter knew too well, starting to calm and then stuttering or speeding back up as threads of the nightmare refused to be forgotten.

Peter probably could have found something to talk about to distract him. School, or projects that they were working through in the lab, or what movie they could watch that following night, since Tony had agreed to a Saturday movie night last weekend, too.

But he was still a little bit slow with sleep himself, and he also, sort of… Being distracted was only so helpful, when you had to walk back into being alone with only the company of your own thoughts at some point. What really helped was being-- comforted.

So after hearing Tony's heart jump again, and seeing the way his hand was still trembling around his glass, very faintly--

Peter took a breath, and moved to tuck himself up against Tony's side where they were both leaning against the counter, curling to lean his head against Tony's shoulder.

Tony didn't react right away, going a little bit tense next to him-- wondering if he should insist he was okay, maybe, or maybe he really didn't want Peter to touch him like this, but-- Peter had felt how he'd relaxed when Peter had held him that night after his nightmare, curling forward to hide himself against Peter's shoulder almost despite himself--

And then Tony sighed out all of that tension in one slow breath and curled his arm around Peter, hand automatically coming up to card his fingers into Peter's hair, and Peter knew he'd been right to offer.

They didn't talk. Peter didn't know why that was for Tony, but for him, it was that the only thing he could think was I love you, I love you, I love you, pounding through his mind like one of their mantras, and he was afraid if he opened his mouth that's what would come out.

So instead they stood quietly, Peter molded to Tony's side while he pet at Peter's hair, breathing and heart rate and fingers slowly growing more steady.

But when Tony finally peeled himself away, it was with another little skip from his heart.

"Should get back to bed," he murmured without meeting Peter's eyes, moving his water glass from the counter to the sink. He did flicker a smile in Peter's direction after that, at least, as he said, "'Night, Pete."

Something was still bothering him, Peter knew. He wasn't as worked up as he'd been before, but some tension had seeped back into how he was holding himself, how he was only barely looking in Peter's direction. Peter wondered how much sleep he would actually get like that, and, helpless, wondered what else he could do to help.

But--

He had noticed, before, that Tony had seemed better-rested on those days that Peter was with him, even with his sleep having been interrupted by Peter in the first place.

Peter was careful to keep his voice and expression gentle, eyebrows only slightly pinched with empathy, instead of the needy desperation that had been there the last two times.

He asked, "Can I stay with you?"

I love you, he thought as Tony glanced up at him, surprised and hesitant.

"Did, uh--" Tony asked after a beat, and he rubbed a hand over his mouth, restless. "Did you-- did something happen?"

Peter wasn't going to lie. Tony might reject it, if he knew that it was for his sake instead of Peter's, but-- Peter wasn't going to lie, just to spend more time with him. If Peter went back to his room alone right now, the truth was that he would be fine.

"No," Peter said, soft.

Let me help you, he thought, fierce.

Tony stared at him again, and Peter could see the tiny shifts in his expression as he thought through it. Flickers of guilt-- for wanting to say no, or wanting to say yes? Flickers of hesitation-- thinking that Peter was asking to stay with him just because, or recognizing that it was an offer for Tony's sake?

Peter wondered, fondly wry, which one Tony would think was worse, and he forgot to keep the smile off of his face.

"Okay," Tony said abruptly, blinking fast. He reached forward and plucked at a fold of his MIT sweatshirt where it lay over Peter's shoulder. "You should put that back in your room, though; I dunno how you don't get too hot sleeping in that even with just one person."

The quick and casual way he said it took a moment for Peter to even register, so it was his turn to stare for a beat, uncomprehending, but then he smiled with-- amazement, with relief, that Tony was actually accepting something from him-- and he hurried to whip the sweatshirt off.

"I run cold," he explained as Tony turned away, clearing his throat. Which-- had that been weird for Peter to do? It was just a sweater; he had a t-shirt on underneath.

"That explains all the plaid overshirts," Tony murmured vaguely, and Peter rolled his eyes with a smile-- Tony knew that he wore those to hide his webshooters-- and draped the sweatshirt over his arm to follow Tony out of the kitchen.

It was different this time, crawling into Tony's bed and knowing that it was for Tony and not for him, and that Tony had accepted that. Not that Peter didn't take comfort in it, too; he loved being close to Tony, but that's not why he was there. It was a different kind of intimacy, being there to give something, instead of to take it.

And if it worked--

Three times was a pattern, and anything more than that was a habit. But, if it worked-- if Tony was a little brighter that next day, a little more settled, with a little less concealer smeared under his eyes--

If it worked, maybe it would be okay for it to turn into a habit after all.

It did turn into a habit.

Peter's first patrol went fine, and the one after that, and the one after that. Peter set up a protocol with Karen for her to remind him to check in with Tony and May every half hour at first, and now that she was integrated into his phone, he could dictate his texts while he was swinging, or even have Karen send a pre-determined message if he had to be stealthy. It was the normal string of thwarted muggings and bike thieves and the occasional convenience store knockover, and nothing that Peter couldn't handle. He got a little jittery sometimes on the rare occasion that he had to go after someone for dangerous driving, or someone who actually made it into their getaway car before he could stop them, but it was fine.

But he did get jittery. And so did Tony, and-- knowing that it did something for Tony, too, and it wasn't just Peter being selfish, it became a habit.

It happened about once a week, and usually on Sundays. At first because waking up with Tony on Monday helped him feel ready for the school week, and then, as Peter slowly started spending more and more nights each week in Queens, because Sunday was his last night in the tower until the next weekend rolled around. And Peter was glad to be back in Queens, and spending more time with May and Ned and MJ, even if it had been a hard adjustment at first-- he had more nightmares when he wasn't at the tower, and his senses felt like they were in overdrive for almost the first month of the process.

But May was so understanding, and could always somehow read when he needed her with him and when he needed space, and didn't act weird about Peter sleeping in the living room where he felt like he could protect her better, and she always remembered to reset the second smart mirror that Tony had sent to install in their apartment bathroom. And over time, Peter got to where he didn't need it so much, and where he was sleeping in his bedroom more often than not, and even spending the night at Ned's sometimes, and-- it was nice. The return to normalcy was nice.

But being with Tony was nice, too, even once it got to where it was only on the weekends. And, even that-- once Peter started spending three nights a week in Queens, May stopped hauling herself all the way to the tower for dinner on Peter's nights there, which meant Peter got to see Tony for breakfast and dinner, and it was just--

Domestic. And that was Peter's stupid lovey-dovey feelings talking, sure, and it probably wasn't fair to project that onto what Tony was only offering out of a sense of responsibility, but. Peter didn't know how not to project that onto it, when he spent two nights and two mornings a week with Tony, when they had regular movie nights where Tony would let him sit close enough that sometimes he was fully leaning into Tony's side by the end of the movie if he wasn't careful, when he cooked breakfast for them to share every morning that he was in the tower.

When he spent one night almost every week in Tony's bed.

It was nice, and the longer it went on and the more it became a part of Peter's normal, too, the more Peter's thoughts shifted away from what if something happens at the tower and I'm not there and toward what can I try to cook when I see Tony this weekend?, and that was the best change of all.

And then, in the midst of establishing all those new normals and new routines and sinking into something comfortable and familiar despite its newness--

It was nearly Halloween, and Peter was considering whether or not it would be too tryhard to use Tony's 3D printer to make portions of his costume this year while he took a break from patrol, and as he swept his gaze across the city he happened to notice a pigeon on the rooftop across from him.

And before his brain could tune it out as unimportant--

The pigeon glitched.

An hour later and only minimally worse for wear, Peter burst into the gym at the tower, where FRIDAY had told him Tony was monitoring a training exercise with a handful of their teammates.

"Guys! Pause pause pause," Peter urged, pulling his mask off with his unoccupied hand, and he beelined for Tony. Tony met Peter's gaze with his eyebrows raised in question, but Peter saw how his eyes flickered over him first to look for injuries or damage to the suit.

"What, did they announce a Yoda movie?" Sam teased from the air, but everyone did come to a stop, gathering loosely around to hear what was so important that Peter was interrupting training for it.

"No! Oh my god, can you imagine? But no," Peter said, and he hefted his hard-won prize triumphantly. "Look at this!"

"A blown-up drone?" Clint observed skeptically, and-- now that he was back from his family leave Peter had to be more careful about what he said; all Clint knew about the Westcott case was that Tony had been abducted.

"Yeah! That, and," Peter started, and then he dropped his voice a little, growing more serious. "I think it's from Westcott's people."

The mood in the room shifted immediately, expressions darkening and postures straightening, and Peter heard the distinctive sound of Tony's heartbeat speed up even as his face went blank with obscured emotion.

"What happened, Pete?" Steve asked him in his Cap voice, all business, and Peter took a breath and nodded.

"I was on patrol, and I saw this bird on the rooftop across from me? Which no big deal, right, but-- I must have looked at it at just the right time, because I saw it, like-- glitch. Like Westcott's car, y'know?" Peter explained, and Tony reached to take the drone from him like he was snatching scissors away from a toddler, which was both kind of sweet and a little annoying--

"I already had Karen scan it for explosives-- or, well, other than the self-destruct-- and surveillance devices," Peter said, and Tony nodded absently, already turning the drone over in his hands and prying at the half-there casing to get a look at its insides.

"It self-destructed?" Natasha prompted, and Peter nodded, getting back on track.

"Yeah, after I noticed it glitching, I sort of-- I didn't want them to know I realized? So I could figure out what it was doing, like, was it there to watch me, or was it doing something else in that area and I just happened to come across it?" Peter continued, and the approving nods from Steve and Sam spurred him onward. "So I pretended to ignore it, and eventually it kind of flew towards me, but it didn't attack or anything and just went past me, and I tried to follow it while making it look like a coincidence--"

"You followed it?" Tony cut in suddenly, incredulous, and Peter blinked.

"Well-- yeah, for a little bit," Peter explained slowly, and Tony's heart was beating fast. "Well, really, for a while? But I started thinking that, um, it was probably getting… not subtle, at some point, because we were getting further away from areas that made sense for me to patrol, so--"

"Why didn't you call one of us?" Tony demanded, his voice entirely too sharp for the circumstances.

Faltering, Peter glanced at the others, and-- yeah, okay, they were all shooting looks at Tony like he was the one being weird here, that made him feel a little better-- so he took a steadying breath before saying, "Like I said-- I didn't want them to notice me? I didn't think there was a way to call back-up without letting them know, so…"

"You said you'd be careful," Tony snapped, and he abruptly shoved the drone into a startled Clint's hands before rounding back in Peter's direction. Peter's jaw dropped with indignation, but Steve got there first.

"Tony, he did good," Steve said, quiet but firm with a crease of concern between his brows, and there was a flurry of agreement and nods from the others that at least helped soothe some of the swell of offense in Peter's chest.

But Tony rolled his eyes with an explosive snort instead of calming, and he insisted, "It could have been a trap. It probably was a trap, jesus, Peter--"

"Well that's why I stopped, if you'd let me finish!" Peter snapped in turn, and he couldn't believe that Tony would do this-- lecture him in front of everyone like this, like they weren't past that, like Tony hadn't told him that he trusted him-- and he jumped to defend himself. "We were getting too far away from people and I thought it might be a trap, so I webbed the thing to try and at least bring it back to study, and it had some kind of self-destruct--"

"So you webbed a bomb," Tony interrupted again, and this time it was Natasha who warned, "Tony."

"Oh my god, it was fine," Peter said, hiding a spike of hurt under the guise of irritation and rolling his own eyes. "And anyway, it wasn't 'probably' a trap! I was just being careful! It's not like they're even after me; they were after you and I was just, like, like-- a bonus."

Tony flinched, and Peter saw a cascade of winces and tightened expressions from the others, so-- well, okay, that was apparently the kind of thing that he wasn't supposed to say even though it was true; whatever, he was so sick of having to babysit everyone else's feelings about it--

"I just… I don't know what the hell you were thinking, Peter; you said you'd be careful," Tony said again, quieter and less sharp but no less heavy, all I'm-not-mad-I'm-just-disappointed in a way that made Peter seethe. "I can't believe you would go after these guys alone, after--"

And Peter knew that Tony regretted it the second that one word passed his lips, because his eyes went wide and he actually covered his mouth like he had after joking with Peter the morning of his birthday.

But this time it wasn't funny at all.

"After what?" Peter demanded, and the room was silent except for the staggered rhythm of hearts thumping away. "After last time?"

Tony's gaze slid away from him in shame, and any petty satisfaction Peter might have taken in that was canceled out by the way Tony glanced at Clint-- who looked baffled-- clearly worried that Peter was going to say something indiscreet, which--

"Pete, I didn't mean--" Tony started to say, and for once, Peter wasn't in the mood to talk it out.

"Didn't mean that I should-- what, know better, after last time? Last time, when me 'going after these guys alone' was the only reason you didn't die?" Peter asked, and his voice cracked on the last word and his eyes stung with threatening tears and it was so embarrassing to get like this in front of everyone, but his anger ate up that feeling to burn even brighter, tinder for the fire.

"Peter," Steve said behind him, his voice much softer and more gentle than it had been when he was talking to Tony, but Peter was sick of it, so sick of thinking about all of it alone and worrying about what was okay to say and what wasn't and what was okay to feel and what wasn't, and the look he shot Steve was so venomous that Steve went silent, expression blanking out in shock.

"No," Peter spat, and he turned back toward where Tony seemed all but frozen in panic. "No, god, I know you all don't want to talk about it or think about it or-- but I'm right and you know it-- Tony, you would have died, and the only reason you didn't is because I was there too, because I made it my business and followed that car and-- am I supposed to think that was wrong?"

Tony was actually leaning away from him slightly, like he wanted to run, and the part of Peter that usually tidied up his anger and grief and pain into something productive and presentable dimly suggested that he should stop, that he had made his point, but the thing was that he hadn't.

"Am I supposed to-- supposed to think it would be better if I hadn't done it? Am I supposed to regret it?" Peter asked, and Tony's eyes were so, so wide at what Peter was saying, at the way he was nearly shouting, and Peter did shout when he finished, "Because I don't!"

More than one person sucked in a startled breath, and Peter couldn't tell who and didn't care, because the relief of saying it was so powerful and shockingly abrupt that he couldn't focus on anything else but that crystal-clear, illuminating truth.

Because it was true. He hasn't realized until he'd said it, but it was true-- even with all of his missteps, even with the nightmares, even with the guilt and the shame and the tears and all the desperate feelings that he couldn't handle that lead to him slipping into Tony's bed every Sunday or screaming in the gym in front of his teammates--

He didn't regret it. It had saved Tony's life, and he could never, ever regret that.

No one spoke, and no one moved. The others were all watching Tony, and Tony only stared at Peter, helplessly scanning his face for-- something; Peter had no idea what he might be looking for-- until he finally, finally drew in a shaking breath.

"You don't mean that," Tony said numbly, his voice quiet, and then he moved past Peter to leave the gym without another word.

Peter's heart pounded in his ears in the brief silence that followed. He stared at where the gym doors had swung closed, and only distantly registered Clint blurting, "What the hell was that about?"

No one answered, but Sam stepped up beside Peter and nudged his shoulder, frowning as he said, "Hey-- you really did do good getting that thing. Tony shouldn't have gone off on you like that."

It should have been validating to hear, but Peter's system was so shocked by the rapid fluctuation between anger, abrupt bone-deep acceptance, and then anger again that he couldn't really think past the fact that Tony had walked out on him.

"No, seriously," Clint said, and Peter looked past Sam toward him.

He jabbed a finger in the direction of the drone Clint was still holding, and dimly realized that his hand was shaking as he said, "Take that to the lab, please-- I want to look at it before SHIELD does."

And then he turned back toward the door, and said, "I'll be right back."

FRIDAY said that Tony was still in the elevator, so Peter took the stairs. Or flung himself up the stairs, to be more accurate, and he threw open the door to Tony's suite to the sight of the elevator doors closing behind him.

Tony's face was pale, but he still squared his shoulders and jaw with resolve as Peter stalked right up to him, and he made Peter so mad.

"I did mean it," Peter gritted out, meeting Tony's eyes with that same exact resolve. "I do mean it. You don't get to say I don't."

"I don't know what you mean," Peter continued before Tony could say anything. "Do you seriously-- you really think I didn't mean that? That I don't think it was worth it, if it meant you--"

"Don't say that," Tony muttered, and he finally looked away from staring Peter down to rub a hand over his face.

"Say-- what, that it was worth it?" Peter asked, incredulous, and Tony's silence was answer enough.

Peter settled back on his heels, sucking in a breath, and Tony still didn't look at him.

"I don't… I don't get it," Peter said finally, once the ringing silence had cleared out from his mind, and his eyes were stinging again. "You do so much for me, with the-- the mirror and the suit and the app and letting me stay with you and-- and act like it's nothing, like it's an of course, you won't even let me say thank you half the time and I can't-- I can't say that I'm glad you didn't die without you--?"

"That's not what you said," Tony interjected quietly, glancing at Peter and then back at the floor again, still and subdued in a way that Peter had never seen from him.

"Okay, whatever," Peter said, his voice rising again in contrast to Tony's somber quiet. "You would-- you would like, die to keep me from getting hurt, and that's supposed to be okay but it's not okay for me to say I don't regret getting hurt so you didn't?"

Tony looked up at the ceiling as if in prayer, jaw set, and Peter stepped in closer where Tony's back was already almost pressed to the elevator doors, desperate for Tony to give him something.

"You said you trusted me," Peter said, and Tony closed his eyes, brow creasing. "You said that but you won't-- you won't let me do anything for you, you won't let me do this for you even though putting those guys away would be for me too and it's just-- you always say 'whatever you want, Pete, whatever you need,' until what I need is for you to be safe--"

Tony sucked in a shuddering breath as he finally looked at Peter, expression cracking with such raw helplessness that the rest of Peter's words died in his throat, and then he pulled Peter into a hug.

"Oh," Peter gasped, and his anger evaporated like it had never been there at all as he melted into Tony's arms, clutching him.

"I'm sorry," Tony said, still quiet, but Peter could still hear the waver in his voice. "I do trust you."

"I just want you to be okay," Peter admitted into Tony's shoulder, plaintive, and Tony held him tighter.

"I want you to be okay too," Tony answered, and it was always different hearing him so sincere, without a shadow of the performance of 'superhero' or 'genius' or 'mentor.' He sighed heavily, unsteady, and said, "And-- therein lies the problem, uh. Y'know. You did do good, and I freaked out and I'm sorry. But, uh--"

Tony paused, hesitating, and Peter heard him swallow hard before he found the words to keep going.

"You're right, about. What happened. So if you-- if you got hurt for me again, with these guys, I."

He hesitated again, and then huffed an utterly humorless laugh and said in a rush, "I think I'd fully fucking lose it, so if we could-- y'know-- I do trust you but if we could try really, really hard to, uh--"

"Okay," Peter agreed immediately, nodding against Tony's shoulder and gripping him tightly. "I'm not gonna-- stop; you know that, but-- I promise I'll be careful, okay? I will."

"Okay," Tony said, soft, and they just stood like that for a moment, holding each other while Tony's heartbeat slowly evened out and Peter lost himself in the sound of it and the feeling of Tony's chest rising and falling against his own.

Tony pulled away first, but not far. He rested a hand on the back of Peter's neck, squeezing there comfortingly and studying Peter's expression with his eyes dark and soft, and Peter's breath stuttered.

It was inappropriate, and Peter felt his face flush. This wasn't the time-- Tony was still coming down from being upset; Peter was still coming down from being upset, but-- it felt good, and Tony was so close, a pocket of warmth caught between their bodies from the prolonged hug and a pocket of intimacy caught between them from their words, and--

He couldn't keep himself from remembering that the last time he and Tony had talked like this, shouting and heightened emotion fading into soft conversation and close quarters, Tony had kissed him.

Tony noticed. Peter knew he did, because he felt Tony's grip on his neck go slack, and he saw the way Tony's gaze registered something other than what he'd been looking for while watching Peter like that.

But he didn't actually let go.

Instead, he held Peter there while they both stood motionless, that soft atmosphere of apology and understanding between them shifting into something heavy, and Peter heard Tony's heart jump just before he saw Tony's gaze fall to his lips.

Tony took a breath.

"I probably… need to go ahead and make my mea culpas before the whole team eggs my door for being a dickhead to everyone's favorite Spiderling," he said, pulling both his hand and gaze away as he shifted his weight back toward his heels, putting more distance between them.

"Huh?" Peter asked, and then he caught up both to what Tony had said and the fact that he still pretty much had Tony cornered against the elevator doors, and he scrambled out of the way as he said, "Oh, right!"

Tony was back to not looking at him, pulling his phone out of his pocket and opening his texts, but Peter found that he still couldn't quite look away, because-- he saw that, he saw that, what did that-- there was no way-- but he heard it, too, that little spike in the rhythm of Tony's heartbeat that Peter had already heard a million times but that was-- none of those situations had been like that, right, so--

Tony tucked his phone back away after a moment and cleared his throat, and Peter blinked at him rapidly, surfacing from his own thoughts of moments in the lab and moments in bed and moments at breakfast and--

Peter blurted, "You know it wasn't for you, right? Or, not just."

Tony's expression crumpled with unmasked confusion, which-- yeah, okay, fair-- and he said, "What?"

"Um." Peter shifted his weight restlessly, nerves alight with-- questions. Potential. "You said I got hurt for you, but. I mean, yeah, I went after you because I didn't want you to get hurt, but-- that was for me, too? I'd also-- I'd lose it, too. If anything happened to you."

Tony watched him quietly, and he was carrying less of that caged-in tension now that Peter wasn't literally caging him in, but there was a definite edge of caution to his voice when he said, "Gotta say, Pete, that line of thought's pretty ill-advised."

"I don't care," Peter said, and he meant it. "So, um-- if I see any glitchy stuff again, I'll send you and the others a message so you can watch the video feed live if you want, and that way we can be careful about it without giving me away. But I'm gonna-- I'm gonna keep trying to keep you safe. Because that's for me. Even if it's just for me."

It took a moment for Tony to respond, and for a moment, Peter thought he was going to get upset again.

But instead-- Tony sighed, the set of his shoulders relaxing.

And he smiled, crooked, as he said, "Whatever you want, Pete."

They went to the lab together, where Clint actually had dropped off the drone, which is how they ended up having an impromptu Avengers meeting there as the rest of the team filtered in once Tony texted Steve the less-than-promising results of their investigation.

Tony was pretty certain that the base of the drone was commercially mass-produced and nothing special, and that it had been modified for better precision and long-range controls by whoever had installed the projection mechanism. Which is the piece that probably would have been their best clue, if it hadn't been so thoroughly wrecked by the self-destruct that even Tony wasn't able to deduce anything except roughly where in the drone it had been housed.

In the absence of actual information, they'd all moved on to theorizing about what the drone was actually after-- almost certainly recon of some kind, but suggestions were split between the baddies planning some kind of attack in that area of town or having the drone observe Peter specifically.

"Why me, though? It didn't sound like it was a, um-- general, like, anti-superhero revenge kind of thing," Peter insisted. "And why when I'm Spider-man instead of Peter Parker?"

"Do we know they actually have his identity?" Bruce asked Tony. "Unless they have access to some kind of facial recognition system, that doesn't seem like a sure thing?"

Tony winced, and shrugged.

"His picture was up on the SI website as an intern until I took it down," he said, and Peter hated that he sounded guilty over it. "And-- if it's a… hit-'im-where-it-hurts thing, they already have enough-- it's not a hard connection to make. He's in my will."

"I'm what," Peter said, but everyone else just nodded, and Sam asked, "But the surveillance teams for Happy and Pepper haven't reported anything weird?"

Tony said that they hadn't, which brought the questions back around to "why Spider-man" and "why Spider-man instead of Peter Parker" and whether it had been about Peter at all, and nothing really got accomplished except Peter getting the seal of approval for his plans to covertly contact the team and activate live monitoring if he saw any glitchy stuff again. But it did feel-- a little nice, and settled, to get to talk to everyone in a normal way after making that scene in the gym, and to let everyone see that-- he and Tony were okay.

Still, though--

It was only Saturday. But after everything that day-- the drone, and the fight with Tony, and the heartbreak of recognizing just what each of Tony's silences had meant, and-- yeah, okay, that moment of recognizing-- something else, in Tony--

Peter put on his pajamas and brushed his teeth in his own room. But then he went to where Tony had left his door open, and Tony didn't turn him away when he asked to stay, and they settled down for the night.

And it was fine. It was fine.

But.

Peter woke blearily with the room still dark, no gentle light filtering in from the window to announce the new morning. He shifted under the blankets to roll onto his stomach with a sigh, ready to put his sudden wakefulness aside as one of those quirks of the sleeping brain, when he noticed it: restless shifting and a rough gust of breath from Tony's side of the bed, almost a groan.

Peter frowned gently, turning his head on his pillow to face where Tony was curled up on his side, nearly on his stomach, and saw how Tony's hand was clenched tightly in the sheets between them. His brow was furrowed in his sleep, and his lips were parted as he breathed in restless bursts, shifting to press his face harder to his pillow in his sleep.

A nightmare, then, but apparently not one severe enough to trigger FRIDAY's protocol. Peter was overcome with a wave of sleepy sympathy as he watched the tension in Tony's expression, and he reached to gently lay his fingers over the back of Tony's wrist where he was gripping the sheets, with the half-formed thought that maybe a gentle touch would help soothe whatever pain was haunting Tony's dreams.

Instead--

Tony did react to the touch, but when he untangled his death-grip on the sheets, it wasn't to relax and settle into a more peaceful sleep. Instead, he clumsily groped for Peter's hand, tangling their fingers together over the mattress and rolling onto his front with a shift that was all from the hips, and he groaned in a way that was unmistakable and definitely had nothing to do with a nightmare.

Holy shit.

Peter was abruptly wide awake, and he sucked in a breath as he froze under his blankets, heart pounding so hard he almost couldn't believe Tony didn't wake just from the sound of it. But he didn't-- he just gripped Peter's hand in his own as he shifted over the mattress, the pressure of his too-hot palm over Peter's skin almost unbearable in its gentle intensity.

Peter watched, helpless and almost dizzy with it, as Tony rolled his hips against the bed, tensing and relaxing in a way that was clumsy with sleep but still made Peter's mouth go dry. The movement shifted Tony's grip on Peter's hand, pressing it down into the mattress with miniscule changes of pressure, and each shift sent a new frisson of heart-stopping energy coursing along every inch of Peter's skin.

He was harder than he had ever been in his life.

He couldn't think. He should-- he should pull his hand away, and maybe that would wake Tony up, but probably in the state he was in he wouldn't recognize what had actually woken him the same way Peter hadn't realized until Tony had gasped again-- but their fingers were pretty entangled, what if he couldn't get his hand free in time, Tony would definitely freak out-- holy shit, who knew having your hand held could feel so good-- should he actually just ride it out and pretend to be asleep if Tony woke, maybe that was the least embarrassing thing for the both of them--

"Baby," Tony murmured into his pillow, voice thick with sleep and arousal, and Peter's hips jolted against the mattress of their own accord, precome drooling against the fabric of his boxers.

Tony grunted softly at the abrupt movement, the tension in his expression deepening, and Peter didn't even think to close his eyes as Tony's fluttered open.

It took Tony a moment to react. He uncurled first from where his face had been half-buried in his pillow, blinking the cobwebs of sleep away, his grip less firm but still burning-hot around Peter's hand-- and then his puzzled gaze skated past their intertwined hands to find Peter's eyes, and he sucked in a sharp breath.

The moment stretched too long, Tony struck speechless and staring across at him with eyes gone wide with shock, and--

"You were having a nightmare," Peter whispered, breathless in a way that he hoped read as drowsiness instead of desperate, bone-deep want.

Tony didn't respond to Peter's paper-thin cover story. He untangled his hand from Peter's and sat up, turning his body away and swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, his breath unsteady.

His voice was rough when he said, short, "Sorry."

"It's okay," Peter answered, weak. He watched the rise and fall of Tony's shoulders from behind, and he thought wildly of that moment in front of the elevator, when Tony's gaze had dropped to his lips.

He thought of moving forward to press his face to Tony's shoulder and saying, come back. He thought of dragging Tony over him on the bed, and arching up until he could feel the press of Tony's arousal against his own. He thought of pulling Tony into a kiss, and murmuring, this is what I want.

But instead he just watched, quiet, until Tony stood from the bed and made his way over to the bathroom, and shut the door behind him.

Peter flipped onto his back and dragged his shirt up over his chest the second he heard the door latch click into place, and he preemptively bit at his left wrist as he reached to draw his cock out of his sleep shorts with the other hand.

It didn't take any time at all. He'd leaked enough precome to slick over himself that it was already a smooth, effortless glide as he fucked up into his own hand, imagining being pressed under the roll of Tony's hips, imagining Tony gritting out the word baby against his neck. He came hard enough that, after that whited-out moment in the aftermath where he couldn't do anything but muffle his whimpers into his wrist, he had to blot a tissue from the bedside table all the way up over his chest.

He rolled onto his side after he was cleaned up, his back to the ensuite. He could hear water running, but nothing else under the pounding of his own heart in his ears and the sound of his own soft, panting breaths.

He'd pretend to already be back asleep when Tony got back, he decided. It weakened his story a little bit-- if he thought Tony had actually had a nightmare, he'd make sure he was okay before he went back to sleep-- but he didn't think Tony had bought it, anyway, and this would be the easiest way to handle it. They'd fall back asleep on opposite sides of the bed, and they wouldn't talk about it in the morning, and Tony could pretend it didn't happen so whatever guilt thing he was doing to himself about it could just fade away with time. It would be fine.

It would have been fine, but--

When the water shut off and Tony emerged from the bathroom a few moments later, he moved straight past the bed and out the bedroom door, and he didn't come back to bed.

Chapter Text

Tony let the bathroom door click shut behind him and lurched forward, gripping the edge of the counter.

Goddammit.

He had known this might happen. Well, not this, not this precise turn of events, clinging onto Peter in his sleep while he rutted almost to the edge of coming against the mattress like a teenager, but-- he had known, and he had let Peter keep sleeping in his bed anyway, because Peter had asked and that was apparently all the plausible deniability that Tony needed to do something he knew was a bad idea just because it helped him sleep better to have Peter close, and then he'd convinced himself that it would turn out fine after the first few times his dreams had been-- peaceful and domestic and still inappropriate but not as horrifyingly so-- and now this; god, Peter was probably so uncomfortable, he was probably-- he was--

He was probably jerking off, Tony thought with a dull certainty, and he could almost hear the wall he'd built from his denial finally shatter to the fucking floor.

Because it was bullshit. Every second that he'd told himself that Peter wouldn't want him around, that Peter wouldn't want a comforting touch, that Peter would feel betrayed or uneasy if he knew about Tony's dreams; all of it was bullshit and Tony had known that, too. Because Peter had told him, wild with how much he wanted it, all those weeks ago in the lab on his birthday. And Peter had shown him, with the way he stared and blushed and flirted; with the way he shivered and leaned into Tony's touch if Tony wasn't careful to make it as quick as possible.

And even before that-- even during that godawful morning in the cell-- Peter had shown him, when he'd taken himself in hand while he mouthed at Tony's cock, expression glazing over in response to Tony's unsteady stream of praise. When his cock had jumped at the feeling of Tony squeezing the back of his neck. When he'd begged, over and over again but without ever saying anything more than Tony's name, for Tony to kiss him.

Tony had already known even then. Because why else would he have told himself I can't let that happen, when he was already doing something so much more intimate and invasive than a kiss to Peter right at that moment? Why else, if not because he had recognized even then that Peter was going to take something away from it that Tony didn't know if he could follow through on?

--No.

Something that Tony didn't want to know if he could follow through on.

Because that was it, wasn't it? He'd known that Peter wanted him and that Peter had meant it when he said so; he'd known that it wasn't just born of that day in the cell, but he'd lied to himself about it anyway, because if he didn't know then he didn't have to figure out what he thought about it. What he felt about it.

What he wanted to do about it.

Tony's cock ached insistently, too keyed up-- from a dream, jesus christ-- for even the shock of horror that had torn through Tony at seeing Peter awake and across from him in bed to have dampened the-- other-- response to seeing Peter awake and across from him in bed-- god, what the fuck was wrong with him-- and as much as he hated it, well.

First he had to figure out what he wanted to do about that.

He could have waited it out, doing equations in his head and letting biology do its thing. Or he could have taken a cold shower, as desperately un-subtle as that would have been at half past two in the morning.

But with the shards of his self-deception scattered around his feet, instead he flipped on the water faucet for noise, went down on one forearm over the counter, and slid his hand into his boxers.

He tried not to let his mind wander, and he didn't really need it to-- he could've gotten there on touch alone at that point-- but it's also not like he could forget the dream that had gotten him there in the first place. Peter's hand tangled up with his while Tony pressed kisses to the crook of his neck from behind, sprawled on the bed together with every line of their bodies pressed tight over the sheets, Tony rocking gently into him--

But Tony couldn't remember what Peter had sounded like in the dream, because that memory had been swallowed up immediately by the real thing: Peter's unsteady breaths seeming loud and obvious in the quiet of the room and his voice helpless with want. You were having a nightmare, he'd insisted, trying to give Tony an out even in that state; he really was too perfect--

Tony didn't look at himself in the mirror as he washed his hands after he came, and when he left the room, he went straight for the lab.

It was a dick move. He owed Peter another apology, or at least a quick explanation about where he was going so that Peter would know he wasn't mad at him, but-- that opened up a door for talking about it, for Peter trying to insist that Tony didn't need to leave and that it was okay, and Tony-- couldn't handle that. Not right then in the moment, anyway.

So he went to the lab, because he needed a plan, and he always thought better in the lab. Even if it was sitting on the couch with his face in his hands instead of in front of a workbench.

All right, so.

Bizarre Freudian psychological reaction to what had happened that day in the cell or otherwise-- he was attracted to Peter.

That was-- well, it wasn't okay, it wasn't even in the same fucking universe as okay; he was deeply fucked up and going to hell and clearly did need therapy, but the 'fix what's wrong with me' kind and not the 'make me feel better' kind-- but it was… manageable. Contrary to what the tabloids would have one believe, Tony did not have any issue controlling his dick, and this didn't have to be a problem if he didn't let it be a problem.

So he wouldn't. Easy. Frankly horrifying that he even had to have this conversation with himself, but easy.

He did need to make some changes, though, and that would be the hard part, because-- Peter.

He had to stop letting Peter sleep in his goddamn bed, obviously. Stupid of him to have let that start-- the first few times were maybe excusable, because even in the throes of self-disgust Tony couldn't actually imagine telling Peter no when he was upset and scared and desperate for comfort, but the rest? Nothing but pitiful, weak-willed selfishness. Starting with that night in the kitchen, where Peter outright admitted that he didn't really need it for anything but still wanted to stay with Tony anyway-- and Tony had been about to say no, but then Peter had smiled at him, standing there in Tony's MIT sweater and looking so fondly, tenderly exasperated with him, and Tony could count on one hand the number of people who had ever looked at him like that and he'd just had that horrible fucking dream about how Peter's first patrol in the new suit might go and it was excuses, it was all excuses, so he needed to be better.

That conversation might be a little tough in the sense that Tony hated to do anything that might make Peter upset, particularly when it was a conversation they only needed to have because Tony had fucked up by letting things go too far in the first place, but-- he couldn't imagine Peter actually pushing back if Tony told him to stop, so it wouldn't have to be a discussion.

For the rest--

He couldn't ice Peter out again. It wasn't Peter's fault, and it would be shitty to punish him for Tony being-- fucked up and wired all wrong, because Peter did value their relationship even if Tony didn't know why for the life of him. And Peter had been doing so good recently, not bringing so much homework to the tower on the weekends because he was able to keep up in class, and skipping his Saturdays at the tower once or twice to spend the night at Ned's instead, and having fewer and fewer episodes where he just spaced out at his workbench, and he at least said that he'd stopped having as many nightmares, so-- Tony didn't want to affect that by yanking away something Peter had told him outright helped him feel better. He just had to keep it appropriate, and he had some ideas for how to scale back the… entirely-too-domestic mealtimes and movie night cuddling, and he'd just have to-- deal with Peter's disappointment as it came up.

So there were the bare bones of a long-term plan, but what the hell was he going to do about tomorrow.

"Clean up your mess, Anthony," Tony muttered to himself, a ghost of his father's voice in the quiet of the lab, and he picked up a tablet.

He ordered breakfast and had it sent up to his suite for Peter-- breakfast burritos from that food truck he liked. It felt uncomfortably like a move that could be read as bribing Peter into staying quiet, if he was going to be really ungenerous with himself, but-- he just wanted Peter to know he wasn't upset with him. And he wouldn't put it past Peter to actually want to talk about things if Tony actually saw him first thing in the morning-- hell, half the reason he'd come all the way down to the lab is because he hadn't put it past Peter to follow him out to the couch if he'd only gone that far last night-- and Tony couldn't… talk about it.

What that said about his relative maturity to a seventeen-year-old Tony didn't particularly want to examine, but. There it was.

And before that, he also texted Nat to ask if she'd take Peter to some annual modern dance showcase that apparently had excellent reviews and was in town that morning, because she'd been teaching Peter some basics of ballet as a new hobby and it wouldn't be entirely out of left-field, and because the physics exhibit he'd originally planned on asking Bruce to take Peter and his friends to wasn't open on Sunday. Because-- Tony wasn't going to freeze Peter out, but the longer they could go without seeing each other that day specifically, the easier it would be to pretend it had never happened, and then they'd have a whole week to forget about it before Peter was back at the tower.

Nat texted him back right away even though it was way too early for most people, but it was nothing crazy for the two of them.

Is this you saying sorry with dollars instead of words?
Because then no.

Rude.

Sorry-with-words achieved multiple times already.

Covering my bases.

It wasn't actually an apology, since Peter had lost every trace of bitterness toward him the second Tony had grabbed him up in that hug yesterday-- and the way Peter would forgive him anything as long as Tony cleared the incredibly low bar of validating his feelings was too much to handle the thought of, sometimes-- but Nat didn't need to know that.

His phone lit up:

You know he'd rather spend the day with you.

Why had he messaged Nat about this instead of getting Clint to take Peter and his friends to paintball or something? Well, no, Clint had been watching the two of them like-- well, a hawk-- during the impromptu Avengers powwow in the lab, so Tony probably couldn't ask for a favor without being extorted for an explanation for-- that fucking scene he'd made in the gym by being a condescending panic-driven asshole-- and that wasn't happening.

So instead he had Nat being too observant and drilling right into the heart of the problem, and he just had to hope that she would take pity on him if he deflected.

Weird spider club is a strong contender.

He's not mad at you.
Unless you pissed him off again after the meeting.

That was on him for thinking the words "Nat" and "pity" in the same sentence, clearly. Tony rubbed a hand over his face, and typed out:

Can't a man eat crow in privacy?

There was a longer delay before Nat responded this time, so apparently the kernel of honesty that it was at least partly for himself instead of solely an apology to Peter was-- something. It might just make her want to kick his ass, though, since self-pity wasn't really a good look for him even under just the circumstances Nat was aware of.

But:

If Peter turns it down I'm not forcing it.

Tony breathed out a sigh.

Thank you.

Peter texted him too, once he got up-- just a thank you and a burrito emoji-- so good, he wasn't feeling too skittish to get in touch. Tony snuck back up to his suite to put on some real clothes after he knew Nat and Peter must have already left (and god, wasn't he pathetic,) and he stripped his bed to wash the bedding like that could somehow erase the previous night's mistakes.

Nat somehow kept Peter out until a little past three-- Tony was going to have to order her some of those Romanian pastries she liked-- so he had plenty of time to gather himself enough to be normal by the time Peter showed up in the lab that afternoon.

"Hey, Pete," he said distractedly like it was any other day, and he fiddled with the hologram he had up at his table for a moment longer before spinning to face in Peter's direction. "How was your thing with Nat?"

"Oh, good," Peter said with an edge of surprise, tipping his head slightly. "Some of the performances were really weird but Natasha said these things are just like that. But a lot of it was cool."

"Good. You know, you're really defying boundaries with the whole nerd-jock-theater kid thing you have going on now," Tony teased, and Peter wrinkled his nose. Cute.

(Ugh.)

"I am only that first thing," Peter protested, and Tony raised his eyebrows.

"You're learning dance, you're basically a gymnast and you can lift a semi-truck. Nerd-jock-theater kid," Tony insisted firmly.

Peter rolled his eyes good-naturedly and wandered over to his workbench-- without noticing the project Tony had set out for him; he was smart as a whip but not always the most observant-- and said, "Those things aren't skills-based. They're, like, a state of mind."

"You're telling me that throwing yourself off of buildings for fun and spending a significant portion of your free time getting into fistfights isn't a jock-like state of mind?" Tony countered, and he tried to ignore how startled Peter looked when he left his own workspace to wander over to Peter's.

"...Well. No. It's like." Peter paused, clearly trying to think of a way to complete that thought, and he couldn't quite repress a smile as he finally said, "Punk."

Tony barked a startled laugh, and Peter grinned, and he was so fucking cute but Tony had to stop letting himself think like that--

"Okay, punk," he said, and he gestured to Peter's bench. "You're kind of failing to live up to your nerd cred here, but I'll give you a pass anyway. I thought you could tinker with these today and then maybe come back with some plans for them on Saturday?"

"These" being the small collection of nanoparticles Tony had placed in a case on Peter's desk, and Peter's eyes nearly bugged out of his head when he finally saw them.

"No way," Peter gasped, and he looked back and forth between Tony and the case in disbelief. "Seriously? Oh my god, what if I screw something up, aren't these like-- a million dollars-- I can't just have them to play with--"

"Sure you can," Tony said with a shrug. "FRIDAY's gonna keep an eye on you while you work with them; it'll be fine. Make something I didn't think of."

He saw the protest overcoming the awe in Peter's expression, and quirked a self-deprecating smile as he cut Peter off before he could voice it, hoping Peter would recognize the apology in his words: "Use 'em to keep yourself safe, right? Think of it like a present for me."

Peter's jaw clicked shut against whatever refusal he'd been about to make and he blinked rapidly, his shock softening into an expression of-- utterly earnest gratitude and affection and vulnerability, and oh-- Tony had known that it was a grand gesture, that was kind of his thing, but it was a grand gesture about science and that wasn't supposed to-- do this--

"Thank you," Peter said softly, like Tony had given him something vastly more important than an exciting new science project, and Tony couldn't stand to hear him say that at the best of times and much less when Peter was watching him like that, like he was seeing right through Tony to recognize something that Tony didn't even know was there--

"Uh-huh," Tony said, and, "well, have fun, I've gotta," and he gestured vaguely over his shoulder and turned and strode purposefully out of the lab.

Fuck.

The problem was that Peter was too good.

Not just in the sense that Peter was too good for Tony, too good to care as much as he clearly did about keeping Tony's respect and consideration, like Peter wasn't already a better person during what were supposed to be the most self-absorbed years of his life than Tony was with nearly fifty years' worth of hard lessons under his belt-- though that was true too, and sometimes Tony wanted to shake Peter into realizing it, wanted to grab him by the shoulders and list off all the reasons why Peter didn't have to thank him for a goddamn thing and the best thing he could do for himself if he insisted on keeping Tony around was take whatever Tony gave him without a second thought and use it to make himself better and better and never look back--

But if Tony did that, Peter would just blow him off. Try to earnestly tell Tony that he was wrong, that he was good, that the things he did for Peter were more than just the bare minimum that Tony owed him for being selfish enough to drag Peter into his life in the first place. He might even get upset to hear Tony lay it out, the way he had those months ago in the lab. Because that was the problem: Peter was so good that he couldn't recognize when other people weren't.

And no matter how afraid Tony was for Peter that that kindness was going to hurt him someday, there he was-- always a loaded springtrap despite himself, iron teeth of ego and cowardice and impulsivity and narcissism ready to close on whoever strayed into his path, and too selfish not to let Peter carry on at his side despite that inevitability.

He had to make it worth it. So that someday when Peter got sick of being glanced and grazed and gouged by those teeth that Tony had never quite managed to file down-- he could look back at the suits and the hours in the lab and the college fund, and at least think that it hadn't been a complete waste of time.

Tony ordered Indian for dinner, because Peter had said at some point that he'd never had the chance to try it before. He was tempted to make it a team affair, but he wouldn't be able to use the team as a buffer forever and he thought it was probably too soon after his scene in the gym for it not to be a little tense, so-- might as well bite the bullet. He could see if Peter wanted to do a movie, too, since they hadn't had a chance for their usual Saturday movie with the unexpected drone dissection and Peter having to report to SHIELD, and that would let him knock out adjusting their boundaries for-- everything-- all in one go.

But part of establishing boundaries was also defining what was okay, and Tony wasn't going to ice Peter out again, so when Peter finally came up for dinner, wandering over to the table and asking, "What smells good?"--

Tony said, "Indian," and reached with forced casualness to briefly ruffle Peter's hair in greeting, with his heart pounding and his instincts screaming don't touch and the image of gleaming spring-loaded teeth caught in his mind.

The last time he had done this-- reached out to touch Peter casually the day after his birthday, to prove he'd listened to him the night before-- Peter had brightened and grinned, recognizing the gesture for what it was.

This time--

Peter leaned into the touch slightly, like he always did, but he looked-- confused. Not just surprised, like he'd been in the lab, when he was maybe actually expecting Tony to be more distant, but actually confused and verging on concerned, and-- Tony didn't know what the hell to think about that.

But the touch was there and gone, and they sat around the table for Tony to tell Peter about what they were eating and for Peter to tell Tony what tinkering he'd done to get his feet wet with nanotechnology, and-- Peter was a little subdued, maybe, especially for the topic. A little more thoughtful and a little slower to respond, zoning out while he picked over his food or-- watching Tony carefully sometimes, like he wasn't aware he was doing it. Which-- there had been the whole thing last night, and the whole thing in the gym before that, and then Tony outright bailing on him that afternoon, so. Fair enough. It would smooth over, probably.

And then there was a lull in the conversation where they just enjoyed their food-- Peter really liked the saag paneer-- before Peter abruptly said, "I'm not mad at you, you know."

Tony paused.

Shit. What was he talking about? No, Tony already knew he wasn't still mad about the gym, so--

"You were pretty mad yesterday," Tony said slowly, playing dumb.

Peter shrugged.

"You were being a jerk," he admitted, and then grimaced. "I'm sorry for yelling at you, though."

Tony scoffed, a hopeful trickle of relief spreading through him-- maybe they were just going to talk about the gym after all-- and said, "Please. I've had worse, and for much lesser offenses."

Peter didn't laugh, or even crack a smile. He just watched Tony closely again for a moment, like a puzzle he was trying to solve, and then shrugged a second time.

"Okay. But, still-- I wanted to tell you. That I'm not mad about what happened. Or like, uncomfortable," he said, fuck, and then he smiled at Tony crookedly. "I just thought it was important for you to know."

You should be, Tony thought.

I'm sorry anyway.

How are you so good?

Why are you spending it on me?

How am I supposed to take care of what I don't deserve in the first place--?

"You know, you're actually allowed to hold a grudge for more than five minutes at a time," Tony said instead, because pretending as if they were talking about anything else was the only way he could possibly get through this conversation.

"I will if you ever do anything worth holding a grudge about," Peter said, still with that crooked, sad smile, and-- god. What was Tony supposed to do with that?

"Ye of too much faith," he said, eyebrows raised like it was a joke, and then he changed the subject by asking if Peter had ever seen The Thing.

Peter let him get away with it. And not only that, but after they cleaned up dinner and then got settled in for the movie-- Tony had been all prepared to linger in the kitchen so that he could choose a seat second, ensuring an appropriate amount of personal space for the both of them, but Peter went and chose to sit against the far arm of the couch himself, on the opposite side from Tony's usual spot.

Nothing else seemed off. Peter listened with interest when Tony told him about the practical effects in the movie, and gasped and cringed and groaned in half-disgust and half-delight at all the appropriate parts, and enthused over the atmosphere and the writing in the aftermath. He was perfectly himself, just… on the other side of the couch.

And then, when it was time to pack it in for the night--

"Well, good night," Peter said with a yawn, and he plodded to his room and closed himself in, and he didn't show up at Tony's door.

The next weekend was the same. Peter was-- well, he was a little quiet, maybe, but otherwise he was… normal. But the before-Westcott normal, where he'd come stand shoulder-to-shoulder with Tony at a holotable, sure, but he'd wait until Tony invited him over to do it instead of taking that liberty himself. And he kept his distance on the couch, and he cooked with Wanda in the communal kitchen for dinner on Saturday, and he still didn't show up at Tony's door.

He did still make breakfast, though. He genuinely seemed to like it, which kept Tony from insisting on him taking a break, and he'd really taken to baking. But-- before, he would always wait to eat until Tony got up too, and they would chat over breakfast and dishes and start their days that way.

This time, when Tony wandered into the kitchen on Sunday morning, Peter was already taking the last few bites of his breakfast, and he only chatted long enough to finish washing his dishes before he wandered off to go patrol.

It was… exactly the sort of thing Tony had been planning on doing, to get their relationship back on-- recognizable and appropriate mentorly grounds. So it was great, honestly, that Peter was making it easy, but-- Tony had no idea why he was doing it.

He wasn't mad. That much was obvious, between Peter going out of his way to tell Tony so right before he started putting that distance in place, and the way he still lit up when they ping-ponged ideas about his nanite project around in the lab, and the way Tony still caught him staring-- almost more often now than before, the way he'd kept zoning out over and over again the first few weeks after-- everything with Westcott.

It was different, though. Not the fluster of before-Westcott, that Tony had pretended was teen awkwardness rather than teen infatuation, and not the slow, shy smile from after their first real talk in the aftermath. It was more of an apologetic grimace these days, as the weeks moved along, and Tony didn't like it. Not just because Peter had nothing to feel apologetic for, but also--

Tony's only other real theory was just that, smart as he was, Peter had realized-- what a bad idea it was, to keep leaning into… this thing between them. That it was unhealthy, and that he deserved better, and that there was nothing to be gained from-- toeing the line of a truly inappropriate level of intimacy with an old man-- god, why had Tony needed that to happen to look at it honestly-- and that he would be better off if he stopped. And Peter was smart, so he probably had realized and Tony was glad for it, but it just didn't… gel, with the way Peter seemed so-- withdrawn and resigned and apologetic sometimes, these days. Surely Peter would realize that-- if things between them had been messed up for a while, it was Tony's fault and not his.

But Peter did like to take things on that weren't his responsibility, and, case in point: the goddamn drones.

It was nearly three weeks from the first one that Peter ran into another one on patrol, near where the first one had been and disguised again as a bird. Pretty much the entire team piled into a briefing room once Peter's alert came in and Tony pulled his suit footage up on the monitor, and while they all honored their promise not to crash Peter's potential recon opportunity, Tony did send a suit to stay on standby in a nearby neighborhood.

Three suits. Whatever.

The bird looked totally normal on video, which raised some interesting questions about what exactly was different about Peter's vision that allowed him to see through the illusion, and maybe if Tony could run some tests to figure that out he could reverse-engineer the tech itself and build a way to disrupt it-- and those were the thoughts that Tony let percolate in the back of his mind while he watched the video feed to distract himself from the panic wanting to claw its way out of his chest.

It went about the same as the time before. Peter pretended to take a break from patrolling to play on his phone while he was actually texting the team as they talked to him over comms, and Tony wished that he had invested more in stealth technology so he could-- have a suit sneak up and rip that damn drone open to get a look at its insides before it could self-destruct-- and then the bird hopped off the roof to flutter toward the ground, and Peter's arm shot out to web it.

"Sorry, panicked," Peter said through his comms now that he knew he'd been made, and he slung the bird-- drone-- up into the air and away from any buildings or civilians before it self-destructed with a relatively small pop.

"Menace Spider-man explodes defenseless bird," Tony said in his best J. Jonah Jameson, because he'd never found anything better for overcoming white-knuckled anxiety than cracking jokes, and Peter groaned.

"That's totally going to be everywhere by tomorrow, isn't it? I just didn't want it to go off on the ground," he sighed, and the team teased him by rattling off bird-related headlines as he swung a few blocks over to pass the drone off to one of Tony's remote suits, so he could swing back to the tower hands-free.

It was… pathetically difficult not to pull Peter into a hug once he got to the lab, where Tony and the others were already waiting to take the drone apart and go in circles about the motivations of whoever was behind it. Tony managed not to, though, the hypocrisy in acting on his protective instincts toward Peter like he himself wasn't a sharp edge for Peter to slip and cut himself on itching at the back of Tony's mind, and helping him keep his hands busy with tools instead.

But it was a feat, especially with how Tony could see his own frustration and helplessness mirrored in the set of Peter's face and shoulders when the destroyed drone revealed nothing new, and the group kicked around theories based on mere hunches and burnt out leads-- the SHIELD agents that had been sent to investigate after the first drone appeared hadn't found anything unusual, no accomplices had been identified from going through Westcott's belongings with a fine-tooth comb, nothing actionable had shown up from SHIELD's investigations into suppliers for the parts Tony suggested would be used to make sophisticated projection devices…

Tony knew he would be racking his brain over it the rest of the night regardless, but after Peter went nearly ten minutes without saying anything at all, just tugging at his hair in a restless fidget and listening to the others' theories with his eyes downturned-- Tony finally said, "Okay, I'm calling it; we're not solving this tonight so everyone get out of my lab."

Peter shot him a glance that was part grateful and part resigned, and the others seemed to take Peter mumbling something about a shower and heading toward the elevator as another stamp of approval to let the subject drop, and soon everyone had shuffled their way out of the lab--

Except Clint.

"Barton, I know you have an excuse for poor listening skills, but I did say get out," Tony said, because maybe he was giving himself too much slack for being a jerk now that he was back to mostly-sleepless nights all seven days of the week instead of just the six.

Clint casually flipped him off before flopping onto a work stool.

"What's up with you and Peter?" Clint asked without preamble, and Tony rubbed both hands over his face.

"What do you mean," he asked tonelessly, because he didn't want to fucking do this.

Clint shrugged.

"I dunno. He's quiet, you're bitchy, and there was that whole thing with you two screaming at each other in the gym that no one wants to tell me about," Clint listed off, spinning on his stool idly, but he stopped and pinned Tony with a look before he said, "And I already thought it was weird that I got a redacted version of the case file for your thing with Westcott? So then it's extra-weird that it doesn't mention Peter being there. When he obviously was."

Clint paused to give Tony time to answer, and when he didn't, he pressed, "What the hell happened, Tony?"

Tony actually thought, for half a second, about telling him.

Clint had kids around Peter's age. If no one else blamed him-- or at least didn't have the guts to say so to his face-- Clint might finally be the person to tell him that he'd fucked up. That he'd handled it all wrong, that he should have refused and damn the consequences, that he should have found some other way to charm or threaten or bribe or fight his way out of the situation before ever resigning himself to hurting Peter that way. That he shouldn't still be letting Peter fight his battles, and that everyone else was being insane for letting Peter hang around him at all.

That it was his fault.

It might be a nice change of pace, to let those words in his head finally take on a voice other than his own. It might be nice, to get to let someone else's feelings about the whole thing guide his actions, instead of having to take responsibility for himself.

But Peter was the one who'd asked for the file to be redacted.

Tony sighed and dragged his fingers through his hair in frustration, and he said, "It was-- it was a fucking lot, okay? Peter didn't want to have to go over it again every time someone new got involved in the case. It's just-- don't bother him about it, please."

Clint was quiet for a moment.

And then he blurted, "Westcott was a pedophile. It's in his record. Even SHIELD can't redact that. Well, they probably could, but they didn't."

Tony froze, and then closed his eyes, exhaling slowly.

Of course Clint did his own research.

"What do you want me to say, Barton," he said once he gathered himself enough to look at Clint again, and Clint looked worried instead of tight with anger or disgust, so-- he was making the simpler assumption rather than recognizing Tony's role in the whole thing, then.

"I don't know," Clint said after a beat, frowning. "I've picked up on-- I know he's seeing a counselor. But."

He took a breath, and then his attempted humor and growing frustration and genuine concern all piled up into a trainwreck together in his voice as he said, "You two seemed okay in the lab right after that big blow-up before. He was sticking pretty close to you. But since then he hasn't really been himself, and-- hell, Tony, if that's on you and there's something you could do to fix it, could you get over yourself and do it already?"

Tony couldn't help it-- he actually scoffed a laugh, bitter, because Clint didn't know what the hell he was asking for, but there must have been enough self-deprecation in it that it didn't put Clint on the defensive, because Clint's expression softened instead of growing stony.

"...And if it's not on you, then-- come on, Tony," Clint said, imploring, concerned. "Clue us in. What do we do to help?"

"If I knew the right thing to do for Peter, I would have done it," Tony said, lying through his teeth, smiling sharply and spreading his arms in a performative shrug. "Feel free to pass it on to me if you manage to crack that particular nut, Barton."

Clint studied his expression closely for a moment, and then blew out a sigh.

"Oookay, I clearly stepped in it here," he announced, and clapped his hands to his knees to push himself up off his stool. He paused before actually leaving, though, to say: "But I know we all want the same things here, Tony. We all want Peter to be happy, and I bet everyone would be pretty thrilled if you got a lot less pissy, too. So maybe keep that in mind, huh?"

Tony waved him off silently, and once Clint left he put his head down on the desk like a grade-schooler. He recognized the olive branch for what it was-- Clint knew he wasn't making Peter sad on purpose; Clint wanted him to cheer up too; Clint was reminding him that he had help-- but it was a little hard to see past the rest of it, because. Well.

They really didn't all want the same thing when it came to Peter, did they?

The weeks dragged on, and it was more of the same. Settling back into the old-normal was-- bizarre, and jarring, because it wasn't really the same with Peter being quieter and less enthusiastic by those ever-so-subtle degrees, but-- he was still doing well in school and going to his appointments and going out on patrol and hanging out with his friends, so Tony didn't feel like he could bring it up when all evidence pointed to it being related to their-- weird-- thing that wasn't a break-up but was frankly damning on Tony's part that 'break-up' even felt close enough to be worth clarifying that it wasn't one-- what was wrong with him, what was wrong with him--

So, Tony didn't bring it up, and, just-- Peter was smart. Eventually, he'd move past this-- thing-- and he'd realize that Tony wasn't worth dimming his light for, and he'd get back to being himself, and it was just going to-- take some time. The whole situation was complicated, and Peter was young.

Too young. For any of it.

(What was wrong with him?)

It seemed like it was time for Thanksgiving faster than Tony could think of an excuse to get out of the annual Avengers dinner for the majority of them that didn't have much other family to celebrate with, and he wasn't quite enough of a coward to fake sick. So he drew as deeply as he could from his well of experience with making sparkling conversation and putting on a good show while hungover as hell, and did his best not to let on that sitting two seats down and across from May Parker made him want to crawl out of his skin with guilt, and for most of the night everything was going fine.

And then Happy casually mentioned Tony's upcoming business trip to Cairo, and Peter's head whipped in his direction so quickly that it actually made May and Bruce jump on either side of him.

Peter's voice was just a little too loud when he blurted, "What? When?"

Shit.

"Tuesday," Tony said, compelled by the open dismay in Peter's expression, and why hadn't he realized that Peter was going to freak out about this? Well, no, he had a little, but he'd thought as long as he was back by Saturday it would be-- a conversation, not a crisis--

"It's a four-day trip," Tony explained further, like volunteering more details made up for the lapse in judgment, and he turned toward Happy. "A three-day trip. We can do it in three, right? We can."

Happy frowned at him skeptically, and said, "You already talked Pepper down from five."

"That's right," Tony muttered, pursing his lips, and Peter looked back and forth between them.

"What time does your flight leave?" Peter asked, face drawn with barely-suppressed panic, and Tony had to fight back the absolutely ridiculous urge to reply whenever you need it to.

Instead he looked at Happy, because he didn't remember that kind of shit and would have to ask FRIDAY otherwise, and Happy attempted to put on a half-way soothing voice when he answered, "Wheels up at 7:45am. After a full security sweep, and it'll just be me, Tony and Pepper on the plane, kid."

Peter's gaze cut to the side while he visibly turned the details over in his head, and then he turned to May and said, "I can miss homeroom, right? Once? Just once."

May hesitated and glanced at Tony, and Tony rushed to cut in even though he knew it was the wrong thing to say: "Pete, it'll be-- fine--"

"No-- no, come on," Peter said over him, voice wavering, and by then every other conversation at the table had already ground to a halt. "I'm the only one that can see through the projections; what good is it going to do to have SHIELD or Happy do a sweep?"

He grimaced and added, "No offense, Happy," and Happy grumbled something indistinct but raised his hands with a conceding shrug.

"He has a point," Barnes said quietly from further down the table, and Steve picked up his thought the way he always seemed to and added, "What did SHIELD have to say about security on your trips until we get things handled?"

"Are we doing work talk on Thanksgiving? Is that what we're doing?" Tony complained, but he knew he owed Peter an answer on this at least. So he allowed himself a miniscule sigh before he said, "They said that I'm Iron Man, and that Peter can't-- you can't take off school every time I have a trip somewhere, so there's not much sense in getting that started," pivoting partway through to address Peter directly.

"Just until we crack the projectors, though," Peter insisted, not even calling Tony out on the fact that he was definitely presenting his own piece of the conversation and not SHIELD's, and his expression was pleading but also a little bit set in that way that implied he was going to show up to watch over the flight's departure whether he had permission or not, so--

"You're already haggling your way up from 'just once,'" Tony pointed out just because he could, but he really would-- feel better about having Pepper and Happy on board, knowing that Peter had checked things over first, and he hated to leave Peter feeling scared.

He shrugged casually, like the whole thing hadn't turned into another-- if smaller-- scene, and said, "But if you want to come give the plane your Spidey stamp of approval I'm not going to say no. If May is okay with it."

"I'm okay with it," May said immediately, and she smiled at both Tony and Happy, only a little tightly. "It's important that you two stay safe. Right, Peter?"

"Right," Peter agreed, nodding vigorously, and-- he relaxed into his chair with a slow breath, but Tony didn't like how much tension was still in his expression.

"Better not be late then, kid," Happy teased gruffly, and Peter shot him the tiniest of smiles, so that was something.

Dinner managed to get back on track after that somehow or another, so it wasn't completely awkward by the time May and Peter were leaving. Tony had to look away when he reached out to clap Peter on the shoulder to send him off, because there was still something-- too open, too vulnerable in Peter's eyes to handle right then, and he told himself he could remind Peter about the app and the plane's on-board WiFi and all of those things later, but he still felt like an asshole about it.

Peter stayed at the tower on Sunday and Monday instead of his usual days that week to simplify things for Tuesday morning, and if he was jittery at the tower, it was nothing compared to the airfield.

Happy took Peter through the plane and presented it like he was giving Peter a lesson on how to do a security sweep, which did at least keep him distracted and listening intently, but Tony could see how tightly-wound he was, and-- well, Tony had never seen someone try to tell Happy Hogan 'let's just do one more sweep' before, so it had to be pretty bad. And Peter totally bungled introducing himself to Pepper, distractedly rushing through the niceties and too on-edge to be his usual polite and dorkily-charming self, and she turned to raise an eyebrow at Tony over Peter's head as Happy was helping her into the plane.

Christ. He did not need Pepper asking him about Peter; that would be even worse than Nat.

"Hey," Tony said to Peter, putting the thought of what Pepper might be able to drag out of him on a ten-hour flight out of his mind for now. "Pete, relax. You did good, okay? You've got your super spider-eyes and you were being shown the ropes by the best."

Peter drew in a shuddering breath and nodded, but he still looked halfway terrified, and-- Tony remembered Peter's first day back at school, and how he'd skipped work himself to spend all day distracting himself installing Peter's mirror, his nanite casing house a reassuring weight against his chest.

It had been awful, and Peter had just been in a different part of the city, not halfway across the world.

"A message every hour until we land," Tony reminded him, and this time it didn't feel terrible to reach and put a reassuring hand on Peter's shoulder, but the way Peter's entire posture changed like a wilting flower soaking up fresh water under his touch sure made him feel-- something.

"Yeah," Peter said, nodding again. "Yeah, I know. Thank you for doing that. Um--"

Peter hesitated, and then-- threw himself forward for a tight hug, his face buried in Tony's shoulder for all of a second before he wrenched himself back, quicker than Tony could even respond to.

"I'll see you on Saturday," Peter said with a quick, wobbly smile. "Um. Have a good trip."

"See you then," Tony said, and he watched as Peter retreated back to the car where-- some SHIELD agent-- was going to drive him to school.

He finally boarded the plane, and if Happy and Pepper were very conspicuously not looking at him in a way that suggested they had been talking about him right until he came on board, at least they weren't talking to him about it.

The trip was a mess, but not because of anything nefarious.

No, it was all on Tony this time, something that Pepper could have written a book on and seemed to maybe be in the process of brainstorming on their flight back to New York.

"I sort of thought we were past the point of me needing to apologize to every person you interacted with on a trip. Fifty percent, sure, seventy percent when you're in a mood, but one hundred! It's been a while, Tony," she said from behind her laptop, fingers flying across the keys while she presumably worked on damage control for the worst of Tony's blunders.

"You don't have to do that, Pep; I'll send them an anniversary gift next month and it'll blow over," Tony tried, and Pepper shot him a look fit to kill, but she did close her laptop.

Tony sighed.

"Does it make it better or worse that I wasn't actually trying to be a dickhead this time?" he ventured, putting a reminder in his phone to buy a gift. "Honest-- honest mistakes, all around."

He could practically hear Pepper roll her eyes, so, that answered that.

"Is it an honest mistake if the only reason you're distracted enough to forget which investor you're talking to is because you're glued to your phone like a teenager?" Pepper asked, and Tony pulled his phone in a little closer to his chest. "I may as well have made another excuse for you not to come, for as much help as you were at the meetings."

"I helped," Tony defended himself vaguely, and he thumbed open his WiFi-connected messaging app to send Peter his hourly check-in-- it was the middle of the night in New York, but Peter had asked him to anyway. "I said the thing about the-- the, uh-- whatever thing they were working on--"

"Yes," Pepper said with dangerous faux-patience. "You did. At the very end of a four-hour meeting, completely disregarding and overshadowing the work the rest of the team had already put into it and embarrassing the department head by making it sound oh-so-obvious, when if you hadn't been playing on your phone--"

"I bought them all dinner! And their teams!" Tony protested, because come on, who went into a business meeting without expecting a bunch of wasted time anyway; at least he'd made up for it.

"Tony," Pepper warned in that tone that meant excuse time was over, and Tony sighed again and put his phone away.

"You were completely disengaged all week, and it put me in a position of having to run interference with our associates in Cairo instead of strengthening that relationship, which was the whole point of the visit," Pepper said, and Tony nodded.

"I was," he admitted, and Pepper nodded in turn.

"And you've been snappy, and rude, and if you keep needling at Happy the way you did all week he's going to have to change the dosage on his blood pressure medication," she said.

"The thing about my CPAP was actually hurtful; you know I'm sensitive about that," Happy put in from where he'd been watching the conversation like a referee.

"I-- yes, okay, that was mean; I'm sorry, Happy," Tony granted, and he really had been a dick recently but he hadn't quite-- realized--

"And even back at SI, you've dropped every single project you've started in the last three months within two weeks, and for the last month it's been within two days," Pepper said, and Tony frowned.

"That's-- what about the-- no-- okay, yeah, the-- the math is checking out on that," he said, and yikes, that was embarrassing.

"And that's despite the fact that you clearly haven't been sleeping and have been spending that extra time on work instead," Pepper continued, with Happy nodding along across the aisle.

And well, that just wasn't relevant; not getting work done was a problem whether he was sleeping or not, and Tony almost opened his mouth to say so-- but it was no-excuses time, so he just pursed his lips and narrowed his eyes instead of nodding along with Pepper's complaints.

But wait, no-- instead of getting irritated with him Pepper's expression softened, and that's why she was bringing up something personal instead of work-related, this whole lecture wasn't about work at all, it was a bait-and-switch--

"And I'm willing to give you as much time as you need to process and get back on your feet, Tony," Pepper said, gentle. "But nothing has gotten better since August, and if anything things seem to be getting worse, and--"

"You're abusing no-excuses time," Tony accused, his chest tight, and-- dammit, he had to calm down; Peter had never asked him about the spikes in his heart rate history before but he still didn't like for Peter to see that they were there--

"--And that's fine," Pepper said over him. "Things are going to take the time that they take, and if you need to sit out on these trips for a while longer that's okay, but we're worried about you--"

"I'm fine," Tony insisted, gripping one of the armrests of his seat and taking slow, deep breaths.

"You're not fine," Pepper said, so bluntly that it was almost a scoff. "And that is okay, but Tony, if bottling it all up and locking yourself in the lab hasn't helped so far then maybe you need to try something different. There's--"

"I'm not going to therapy, Pep; SHIELD already tried that," Tony cut her off, rolling his eyes like the conversation was a minor annoyance instead of about to make his heart pound out of his chest.

"It's helping Peter," Happy interjected, and his face was solemn. "Or it was. He started acting weird around the time you started getting worse."

Tony couldn't contain a flinch, because-- okay, apparently even the people who hadn't been there for the Big Selfish Gym Blow-Up could see the correlation, and maybe he'd been-- downplaying how obvious it was that Peter was unhappy, but what was he supposed to do--

"And it doesn't have to be therapy," Pepper continued when Tony didn't respond. "We can help, Tony, the people that care about you, but Rhodey said that you'll barely even talk about it with him, and--"

"Oh, so you've been gossiping with Rhodey," Tony snapped, and he was being stupid and reactive and defensive because he knew they were just worried and he knew that Rhodey wouldn't have told them anything Tony didn't want them to know, not without asking, but-- god--

"--And I don't know why," Pepper said firmly, because she was always so good at ignoring the ways he tried to dodge and deflect and escalate until the original point had been lost. "We want you to be happy, Tony, and you aren't even on your way to happy, and you won't let anyone help you-- god, Happy said that Peter had to argue with you just to come check out the flight even though he was obviously terrified and since when does that boy have to actually ask you for anything before you'll do it--"

Tony left his seat and strode a short way down the aisle, stopping to grab the shoulder of an adjacent seat and tugging his fingers through his hair with the other hand, feeling angry and panicked and transparent, so transparent; he should just tell Pepper to drop it and she would, she would if he asked, if he hid then they would let him hide and he could keep pretending that there was anything okay at all to preserve within this whole fucking thing--

"Just… tell us how to help, and we will, Tony," Pepper said softly from where she was still sitting when Tony waited too long to respond, and she sounded a little shaken.

"You can't," Tony insisted, and his voice came out less angry and more desperate than he'd intended, even as he threw out one hand in a vehement rejection. "You can't, all right? There are no answers for what happened or what to do about it and I don't need you or some shrink to tell me that--"

"It doesn't have to be about answers, Tony, just talk to us. Or to Rhodey, or-- someone," Pepper argued, and Happy agreed, urging, "Come on, Tony."

"You don't want to know," Tony said, and that at least came out just as bitterly dark as it had sounded in his head.

"Try me," Pepper challenged him, and she was still shaken but she also had resolve, and Tony knew what she was doing. Putting that challenge out there for Tony to explain himself, to explain why it was so impossible, why they shouldn't want to touch his bullshit with a ten-foot pole. One last-ditch plea for Tony to just talk to her because she did want him to be happy and she did love him, in her way, even if they'd never been able to make it work, and in that moment Tony hated it because everyone kept blaming him for the wrong thing, kept blaming him for not trying to be happy instead of blaming him for thinking he had any right--

So it worked.

"Fine," Tony snapped, and he didn't move any closer because he didn't know if his knees would carry him, but he did finally turn back around. His heart was pounding and his blood was boiling and his body was in chaos, but the words came to him with perfect clarity the way they always did when he was like this, when he did things like say I'm Iron Man or give out his address on live TV--

"Fine. If you have any advice or answers or platitudes then I would love to hear them, Ms. Potts," he simpered, sardonic. "What should I do about getting kidnapped by yet another mad-fucking-scientist, implanted with an electroshock chip, and forced to fuck my sixteen-year-old protégé? Because--"

Because I'm all ears, he'd been intending to say, but hearing himself actually say the words, he realized as if a thousand miles from himself that he'd never actually said it out loud to anyone other than Peter, and his throat abruptly closed against saying anything else.

Pepper covered her mouth. All the color drained from Happy's face.

"Wha… With Peter?" Happy asked numbly after a long silence, and Tony made an unintelligible croak in response and collapsed onto the nearest seat.

"Boss, you're having a panic attack," FRIDAY said through the plane speakers. "Please breathe in for a count of one… two… three… four…"

It felt like it took forever for him to come out of it this time, FRIDAY's instructions getting drowned out by the sound of his own voice, Peter's voice, Westcott's voice echoing in his ears, but-- eventually it started to feel like the air he was taking in was actually filling his lungs, and he came to the awareness that Pepper was sitting in front of him and Happy was across the aisle.

"There you go," Pepper said, and she sounded a little teary. God, Tony really was the fucking worst. "Here, there's water if you--"

"No," Tony mumbled, rubbing a hand over his face and just letting it rest over his eyes, shuddering out a sigh. He really did have to go and make everything about himself, didn't he?

"Sorry," he said into the fragile, frozen silence, and he waved his free hand, directionless. "Shouldn't've…"

"No, Tony," Pepper said, her voice more firm. "No, we-- we asked about what was going on with you and you told us. God, I'm so sorry."

Not this again.

"Why didn't you say anything?" Happy asked, audibly choked up, and Tony knew it wasn't a real question.

But.

"Because it was my fault," Tony said, and he shrugged.

"No," Pepper and Happy started to protest together, but Tony finally pulled his hand away from his eyes to shake his head, shrugging again.

"It was. Even Peter knows it, even if he won't actually blame me. He was only there because I was, so," Tony said, and he spread his hands apart as if in a revealing flourish-- 'there it is.'

"You're not responsible for some-- some psycho's plan," Happy nearly growled out, pushing his voice past the emotion in it, and Tony waved a hand dismissively, quiet.

"Tony, seriously--" Happy started to say, but Pepper reached across the aisle to pat his knee and he fell quiet.

Pepper took a breath, and offered Tony a mini water bottle again, and this time Tony took it. It was cold, which helped cut through the fog a little.

"You said… Peter didn't blame you," Pepper prompted quietly, and Tony hummed an affirmative while he cracked open the seal on the bottle's lid.

He took a swig, and told himself it was the cold making his eyes sting.

"Said it was worth it, since the guy would've killed me if it was just me," Tony said. He closed the bottle again before it could spill from how his hands were shaking.

Pepper made a soft sound and covered her mouth again, blinking rapidly, and Tony heard Happy suck in a ragged breath.

"Kid loves you so much," Happy mumbled, voice wavering, and Tony couldn't pretend he wasn't crying anymore.

"I don't-- he's too--" he forced out, and then stopped, covering his eyes again with a trembling hand.

"Tony," Pepper sighed tearfully, and he heard it as she moved into the seat beside him to take his free hand in hers and Happy moved into her spot, the two of them surrounding him with support and understanding and why didn't they get it, why couldn't they see--

He got a hold of himself, eventually. Longer than it should have taken, when he didn't really have any right to cry about it in the first place, but Pepper and Happy were still sniffling by the time his breathing had leveled back out, so he hadn't taken too long to get a grip.

"I don't know what I'm supposed to do with that," Tony mumbled, finally, once he could clear his throat past the lump that wanted to block it. "What do I do with that? He said he doesn't regret it. How do I… what do I… It's such a fucking mess."

Pepper pressed some napkins into his hand and then passed another stack to Happy, and Tony didn't have any idea where she'd gotten them from, but he swiped numbly at the tear tracks on his face anyway.

Happy blew his nose loudly, and after another few moments for clearing his throat and sniffles, he said thickly, "Is that why you've been so weird? Did you… what, did you fight about if Peter… if Peter should blame you? That's-- that's bullshit, Tony."

His voice got all tight again at the end, and it would've been funny under other circumstances how pinched his expression got when he was trying not to cry. But it wasn't other circumstances, so Tony just mumbled, "Not exactly."

"Why is it a mess that he doesn't regret it?" Pepper asked, her voice so gentle that it was almost jarring to hear in contrast to the way she'd zeroed in on Tony's messiest wound with surgical precision.

He stared at her dumbly, speechless with the fact that-- as obvious as it felt to him, to the point where he was honestly taken aback that she had even asked-- he didn't immediately have an answer.

"Isn't it good if he's… getting better? Doing okay?" Happy picked up Pepper's thought when Tony didn't respond, so it wasn't obvious to him, either.

Which was insane. It was-- it was--

"Of course it's good if he's getting better," Tony said, and now his mind was gnawing on it too, trying to figure out how to put it into words, scratching a tiny rip in that fog of shock and misery. "Of course it's… I want him to get better. I do. But-- but, it's."

He blinked rapidly as pieces of thoughts and feelings and impulses came to him half-formed, and he knew he sounded insane, but he stumbled through it because it felt like all of those pieces would scatter away like grains of sand if he didn't actually put words to them:

"If it's just-- if it's just, one more bad thing that happened to him. But he's gonna-- he's gonna be okay, and he's going to move past it, and he's gonna-- be just as amazing as he was always going to be anyway-- and if he-- he doesn't… regret it. Then. Then, I."

Tony stopped, because he couldn't finish that thought even as the words came to him-- but Pepper knew him too well.

She frowned, and squeezed his hand, and as much sympathy and concern and support as there was in her voice, there was also the barest thread of exasperation when she asked, "Why do you need to feel guilty about it, Tony?"

She always was a step ahead of him.

Tony swallowed hard, and this time when he didn't answer, it wasn't because he couldn't find the words. They were there in his mind, plain as day, but-- even as ridiculous as he could see that they were, looking at them head-on, they still felt true.

Because, he thought. Because if I'm still beating myself up for my mistakes, then maybe the universe won't feel like it has to rub my nose in them.

Because if I'm still sick over hurting him, maybe it won't happen again.

Because, maybe if I don't let any of the bruises heal over, I can hold them up as proof: 'See? I learned my lesson. I'll be good. I won't do it again.'

He looked away, and Pepper breathed a sigh, patting his hand.

"Peter was speaking for himself when he said that it was worth it. What happened to him was worth it to him," Pepper explained, quiet and pained, but firm. "You're trying to decide if what happened to him should be worth it to you, but you can't decide that, Tony. You can only decide that for what happened to you."

Tony could recognize the truth in it. He was-- trying to make decisions for Peter; trying to force Peter's feelings into a shape that was easier for him to handle.

But, still:

"He should hate me," he murmured, and Happy scoffed wetly.

"Never," Happy said, and his expression was as earnest as his voice was firm. "You know that, Tony."

He did.

He just wished that someone else understood that that was the problem.

They filled up a row of seats to recline back in, and watched movies and played music and talked for the rest of the flight, and sometimes the conversation would skirt back around to Westcott and Tony and Peter, but most of the time it didn't. Tony did ask Happy to try not to be a total wreck the next time he saw Peter, and Happy agreed, but with a pinched expression that told Tony all he needed to know about how that was going to go.

And Happy would see Peter before Tony did, the next day when Peter got picked up for his weekend at the tower, so.

Hey Pete. Just as a head's up, Pepper and Happy
abused our ten-hour flight together to stage
an intervention about why I've been such a prick
for a while now, so they know what happened.

Figured I'd let you know.

Sorry.

Peter responded right away, just like he had all week, messaging back and forth across a six-hour time difference.

it's okay

I'm glad you talked to someone

thanks for telling me.

And Tony only sent back a thumbs-up, because after that flight he was utterly out of things to say.

He was as bad as Peter about staring, that weekend. Not-- like that-- but he should still have tried harder to knock it off, because it was still-- he was a grown man, goddammit. But after their awkward reunion hug, where Tony knew that Peter wanted to burrow into it just as badly as Tony wanted to fully wrap him up and hold him close, and instead they settled for a lingering side-hug--

"Why do you need to feel guilty about it, Tony?"

It was obviously ridiculous to think that he could keep anything else from happening to Peter-- to keep himself from winding up hurting yet another person that he cared about-- just by feeling guilty about it. It was nothing more than magical thinking, the distortions of a man scrambling for control over the uncontrollable, and there was-- the faintest part of Tony that wanted to actually believe that, instead of just to know it. To let himself feel the stirrings of a bare thread of hope when he watched Peter, that maybe someday Tony could see him without the sting of having done wrong between them.

But--

"Why is it a mess that he doesn't regret it?"

There was another answer to that, wasn't there? It wasn't just that if Peter didn't regret it, then Tony didn't have to feel guilty about it.

It was also that-- if Peter could forgive him that-- then what else would he forgive?

How bad would it have to get, before he finally moved on?

So Tony stared despite himself, caught by thoughts of a future where there was no fragile layer of hurt hanging throughout every room he shared with Peter, and caught by thoughts of iron teeth and blood and broken ankles.

The hazy lack of focus that fell over him every time he remembered-- anything from the plane-- cleared by the following weekend, at least. So they had those two days of the old-new normal, of lively conversations cut with strained silence, of touches on the shoulder and movies from opposite sides of the couch--

And then, the following weekend was the start of Peter's winter break, but when he made his way into the lab on Saturday, his face was drawn with tension instead of relaxed with all the promises of a break.

Tony finally asked if everything was okay after Peter barely bothered to give a vague non-answer to his question about Peter's plans with his friends over the break, and after he sat at his workbench for fifteen minutes with his eyes downturned, fidgeting with the case for his nanite project instead of actually working on it. And Peter brushed him off and insisted he was fine with a too-small smile-- sad, not sullen, which made it impossible for Tony to entirely brush off. That, and the fact that it had taken Tony multiple tries to get Peter's attention in the first place, and that should have been impossible given the whole-- spider-hearing thing.

But Peter obviously didn't want to talk about it, so Tony did his best to be patient and let it drop and just let his worry bubble and boil in its own separate spot in his mind when Peter gave up and left the lab after less than an hour, and when he picked at his food and hummed noncommittally in response to just about every question throughout dinner.

But when Tony offered to put on Return of the Jedi for their movie night in an only mildly desperate bid to cheer Peter up, and Peter winced and said no--

"Okay, Pete, come on," Tony said, tossing the remote down on the couch between them and turning away from the TV to face Peter fully. "This is bodysnatchers-level not you. I'm worried I'm about to hear that Ted's in traction after a Lego-building accident or something; what's going on?"

The dull listlessness left Peter's expression, replaced by bitter irritation-- so whoa, okay, leading with humor had been the wrong way to go there-- and Peter snapped, "Whatever, like you even care."

Which.

"What," Tony said, because there was no clear winner coming out on top as he cycled rapidly through confusion and hurt and panic and even a little bit of hilarity, and that felt like it covered all his bases.

But Peter groaned immediately and rubbed his hands over his face, drawing his knees up to his chest afterwards to bury his face in them, and his voice was small when he said, "Sorry, no, I didn't mean that. I know that you-- I know."

"Peter, what the hell happened?" Tony asked, panic winning out once Peter took his words back, and he moved closer on the couch without thinking about it. "What did I do? Listen, I can talk to Happy if he's been--"

"No," Peter interrupted him insistently, even as he stayed locked in his huddle. "No, it's not-- it's not actually about you, I'm not mad you talked to Happy-- I'm sorry, I shouldn't have-- I just…"

He drew in a shuddering sigh in the cradle of his arms, and muttered, "It's so stupid. I'm-- I'll be fine."

"Peter," Tony urged, and Peter curled up more tightly.

"No," he said, voice wavering. "I can't keep-- crying to you every time something-- because I can't be normal about it, okay, I can't, and I know you don't want--"

Snap went the springtrap in Tony's mind, over the wet, ragged sound Peter's throat made when he took a breath to whimper, "I'll just-- go to bed early, okay? I just need to…"

Tony was out of excuses. Any other person would have been able to figure out what to say, what to do that wasn't over the line. But he was Tony Stark, Perpetual Fuck-up, and he couldn't be normal about Peter, either.

And even though he knew that-- even though he knew the right thing to do, if even being just this close to Peter was still hurting him; even though he knew he should take himself and his indiscriminate iron teeth as far away from Peter as possible--

He reached out to drag Peter closer to him, and he said, "Baby, come here."

He heard the stutter in Peter's breath-- and Peter was crying, so that shouldn't have made him think of that moment in front of the elevator, Peter flushing under his touch and swaying forward, always so open with his wants-- but Tony didn't have time to beat himself up over what was wrong with him before Peter uncurled and flung himself forward, wrapping his arms around Tony and burying his face against his chest.

Tony clutched Peter to him, and they were quiet for a long moment where Peter sniffled and gripped Tony like he was afraid Tony would pull back at any second, and Tony held him back just as tight to prove that he wouldn't.

It should have felt bad. The knowledge that he'd messed up again and hurt Peter somehow, and the resignation that he was going to keep messing up because he couldn't control himself, couldn't do what was right, couldn't help but keep pulling Peter close even though he knew he was flirting with disaster every time-- he should have been drowning in regret and self-loathing, but--

He clutched Peter to him, and breathed in the scent of his shampoo and felt the warmth of his body, and he thought, I should have done this after Cairo.

"Sorry," Tony said. He knew it was out-of-place, but he had to say it: an apology for leaving Peter wanting, for the mixed signals, for making Peter feel like he couldn't talk to him.

Peter shook his head slightly, and his arms finally loosened a little where they were locked around Tony, but he only melted into Tony's side instead of pulling away.

"I'm not mad at you," Peter repeated himself, quiet. And then, even more quietly, his voice wavering slightly: "I missed you."

Tony's throat made a little pained sound that got away from him before he could squash it, and he weakly objected, "I'm right here."

"You know what I mean," Peter murmured, resting his head against Tony's chest.

He did.

Tony didn't say, I missed you too. But he did raise one hand to card his fingers into Peter's hair, and Peter sighed and went even more relaxed and boneless against his side, so maybe that was enough.

"What happened, Pete?" he finally asked softly, after he thought Peter had calmed enough to talk through it, and Peter made an impatient noise and turned his face in towards Tony's chest.

"It really is so stupid," Peter mumbled, but that wasn't a please drop it, and Peter really was so much braver than Tony when it came to talking about this stuff, so Tony just hummed a nonsense soothing sound and waited for Peter to talk.

It didn't take long. Peter eventually drew in a bracing breath, and haltingly said, "Before Happy picked me up today… I had some errands to run, so I was… coming back on the subway, and."

He paused and swallowed hard, and then continued, "There was this girl who had this huge suitcase with her, and I helped her with it when she was getting off the train, and-- I-I know-- I know she wasn't being creepy or anything, so it's stupid, it's so stupid, but some lady from the train said-- something about me, like-- my muscles or whatever-- and it just-- it made me feel gross. L-like--"

He stopped again and shook his head hard, and pivoted. "And it just. Stuck with me all day, I guess."

Peter blew out a frustrated breath and shrugged irritably as he concluded, "So-- that's it. That's seriously it. It's-- so stupid."

Tony counted his breaths for a few moments to wrangle his response away from the thought of some person creeping on Peter on the subway and towards Peter himself, curled up against his side and needing reassurance, and he said, "That's not stupid, Pete."

"It is, though," Peter insisted, curling his fingers into Tony's shirt. "It's-- she wasn't being weird, and even if she was, so what, it's-- she was an old lady, and I'm Spider-man, it's not like--"

He shrugged and shook his head again instead of finishing the thought, but Tony heard where he was going with it regardless.

"Okay, one, I don't trust that you're not giving this old lady too much credit; take it from someone that's been to a lot of parties with rich handsy old ladies," Tony said, smoothing his hand over Peter's hair to take any sting out of his words. "Second, c'mon, Pete, you know that's bullshit. Having super powers doesn't mean you can't feel gross about it when some stranger slobbers all over you; ask Steve. He's been to plenty of his own rich-handsy-old-ladies parties."

Peter went quiet, taking that in. Tony held him while he thought, and tried not to let his own mind drift too far towards the logistics of funding a sexual harrassment ad campaign for the New York City subway, because he should probably ask if that would make Peter uncomfortable first and he needed to stay focused.

"I guess," Peter said finally, but he still sounded frustrated. "It's just… it still feels like I'm… overreacting. Because-- because it wasn't actually about her, right? It was about-- him-- and how he made me feel, and he's dead, so why do I have to get all weird if someone-- acknowledges that I have a body--"

Tony closed his eyes for a moment and held Peter a little more tightly, useless, and said, "That's normal, Pete. Our brains-- make associations, and then they stick around-- I can't tell you how many things used to set me off, this time of year. If I'm not careful some of 'em still do."

Peter shifted to look up at him, his self-directed frustration melting at once into startled sympathy.

"I'm sorry," Peter said softly, and he was so good Tony could hardly stand it.

Tony smiled crookedly and shrugged, and he said, "It is what it is. I wish it wasn't normal, but it is, so you're in-- well, maybe not good company…"

Peter huffed with exasperation, like Tony had hoped he would, but he also-- moved, and slid fully into Tony's lap instead of just half-way, and tucked his face close to Tony's neck.

"You're great company," Peter murmured, and then he sighed and slumped with exhaustion. "But it's just-- I know it's normal, I guess, but I just-- I hate it. It sucks. It was, I was thinking about it all day; I'm so tired--"

I love you, Tony thought with sudden, startling clarity, and after a frozen beat, Peter looked up at him.

He looked confused, instead of elated or upset or shocked, which reassured Tony that he hadn't actually managed to fuck up collosally enough to say that out loud-- because that would have been such a criminally fucking mean thing to do, because Peter-- had a crush-- fixation-- whatever it was-- and Tony did love him, of course he did, he already knew that, he'd even said it to Peter back in the cell, that wasn't new but it wasn't how Peter might want to hear it because Tony was just reacting to how hearing Peter talk about his hurts made him desperately want to protect him so he'd thought I love you, because he did, and Peter looked at him because--

Because he could hear how Tony's heart was thundering away in his chest, Tony abruptly realized.

"M'sorry you're tired," Tony managed to force out, finally, and Peter's eyebrows pinched with growing concern, fuck. "You shouldn't-- have to deal with that. I'm sorry."

"Why are you scared?" Peter demanded, looking halfway scared himself, and he pressed his hand over Tony's chest, always so concerned--

I love you, Tony thought again, a little dizzy, and he forced a dry laugh as he said, "Just-- had a thought-- we're talking about some heavy stuff; I didn't mean to distract you, Pete, sorry--"

Peter opened his mouth to respond--

"Boss, you're having a--" FRIDAY chimed in, and Tony gesticulated frantically and snapped, "I know honey; cancel protocol--"

"You're having a panic attack?" Peter said with incredulous panic of his own, and Tony warbled a sound of mixed frustration and dismay and rubbed a hand over his face.

"Tony--" Peter started, and then he stopped.

He took Tony's free hand and pressed it over his own chest with a slow, deep breath, and said, "FRIDAY, restart the protocol, please?"

She did, because Tony hadn't bothered to program authority tiers into the panic attack protocol, so he sat there with Peter in his lap and took deep breaths like a fucking idiot when he was supposed to be the one comforting Peter, jesus christ, what was wrong with him--

"It's okay," Peter said soothingly, over and over again once Tony had found the rhythm for his breathing and didn't need to follow Peter's anymore. "It's okay, Tony, you're okay."

It was humiliating, and as soon as Tony felt like he could without setting himself off again, he groaned, "Fucking-- christ, Peter, I can't believe I made your thing about me again, I'm--"

"Don't say you're sorry," Peter said over him, and he took Tony's face in his hands, and Tony was so startled that he actually shut up and looked.

Peter smiled at him crookedly once he made eye contact, part sympathy and part relief and part-- humor?-- and he smoothed his thumbs over Tony's cheeks as he said, "You really are good company."

And then he fully grinned, eyes crinkling at the corners with it, and he started to giggle helplessly, and--

I love you, Tony thought, and oh, fuck, and he had to laugh, too.

They both fell completely to pieces, clutching each other weakly and crying laughing, and if Tony was still panicking a little he thought maybe Peter was too from the way he kept gasping, "Sorry, sorry, are you actually okay, oh my god," through peals of laughter.

Peter ended up slumped against Tony's shoulder by the time their mutual hysteria finally faded, and he took a huge, stabilizing breath before he asked, "No, really, are you okay?"

"I am actually fine," Tony answered, and he knew he shouldn't be. He should still be panicking; he should be making plans; he should be dissecting this new reality atom by atom to pack it away into boxes to make it survivable.

He said, "But if all of this means anything I think it's that we need to go the hell to sleep; let's go to bed."

He didn't mean to say it like they were going together, but Peter drew back and looked at him with such raw, undisguised hope that he couldn't take it back.

Fuck it, anyway. One more night wouldn't hurt anything any more than the rest of it.

So they got ready for bed, and as Tony watched the faint shape of Peter curling up on his side of Tony's bed in the dark, he thought, I love you, and he thought, I'll figure it out in the morning.

He didn't.

Oh, he thought about it, sure. He thought about platonic versus romantic love (oh, fuck,) and he thought about how to force one back into being the other, and he thought about how probably the only ways to do it were to either force so much distance that the feelings had to fade or to deliberately sour himself toward Peter 'til they spoiled, and he thought about how he definitely was not going to do either of those things.

So then that day passed, and then more, and he thought about Peter and what he wanted and what he deserved, and the answer was still certainly 'better than Tony,' but then-- Tony ended back up on the thought that Peter would get over him eventually; he would. If Tony just kept things right where they were, eventually Peter would meet someone else that could actually give him a real relationship, and Peter would move on, hopefully only one undiscussed half-relationship worse for wear. And that was-- maybe that was fine.

Because Tony also thought about how Peter was happier now that they were-- close-- again, so much so that everyone else could see it, too, to the point that Clint actually clapped Tony on the shoulder after lunch one day without saying anything else, after Peter had entertained the whole room for a half hour with his usual fountain of chatter and quips, and-- if it made Peter happy, wasn't it okay? Tony's feelings didn't matter; the fact that he had some-- stupid, childish feelings about the idea of Peter moving on someday didn't matter; Peter was happy, so that was--

It was an excuse, and Tony knew it, and he knew he was being selfish and a coward and an absolute scumbag all over again, and he did have another panic attack or two about it.

But every time he watched Peter smile, without it fading into quiet listlessness afterwards, he couldn't quite find the strength to try and change.

So he kept chatting with Peter over increasingly-excellent breakfasts, and slinging an arm around his shoulders when they watched movies in the evening, and letting him crawl into his bed at night, and they made it all the way until New Year's Eve.

Some idiot blew up their apartment by leaving a candle too close to a curtain when they had a truly ridiculous stockpile of fireworks inside-- and Tony could be mean about it because they weren't even home when the place blew, so they were fine-- and Spider-man was one of the first people on the scene, and he called Tony for help with search and rescue when the rest of the complex went up in flames.

Tony sent all the suits he could, and ditched the Stark Industries New Year's Gala to go himself, and it was weird being in the suit again.

But it felt right that it was for Peter.

It took hours. Not just the search and rescue, but making reports to the fire department and police afterwards, and then sticking around to help calm down the panicked residents and reunite pets with the proper owners and arrange temporary housing, which Tony threw money at by buying up all the empty rooms in the nearest three hotels and telling them to let the displaced residents check in under the name of their half-melted apartment complex.

Peter was so exhausted by the time he finally let Tony drag him back to the tower that he actually did let Tony carry him, and he swayed on his feet once Tony set him down on the roof.

"Wow, you look really good," Peter mumbled fuzzily when Tony let the suit melt back into its housing case, like Tony's hair and tux weren't absolutely ruined with sweat, and Tony tried not to let himself think it was cute as they headed into the elevator.

"You should at least shower and change, or the smoke smell'll give you a headache by morning," Tony cautioned as he pushed open the door to Peter's room for him, and Peter grumbled unintelligibly in a way that suggested he was going to flop onto his bed and pass out in the suit instead. Tony left him to it.

He was pretty much dead on his feet himself as he peeled off his tux and just left it crumpled on the floor, but he did manage to be thorough enough to wash his hair three times in the shower, and the time that it took was maybe why Peter was already curled up on his bed by the time he came out of the bathroom.

Peter had apparently been too tired to walk over and crawl in from his side, so he was curled up much closer to Tony's side than his norm, and Tony didn't have it in himself to care. Though Peter had stolen his pillow instead of dragging over his own-- with damp hair, even-- and that was just rude.

Peter's eyes fluttered open as Tony climbed under the covers beside him, and he rolled onto his back as if to scoot to make more room, and--

Tony was tired.

That was his only real excuse, his only real explanation, for why he suddenly rewound in time by several years, to the last time he'd been regularly sharing a bed with someone he loved-- oh, fuck-- and why he got his wires so thoroughly, thoroughly crossed, operating on muscle memory--

He said, "Night, Pete," and he reached to cup Peter's face, and he curled down over him--

And stopped only inches away from a kiss, frozen by the sound of Peter's sharp inhale.

Peter's eyes were wide, no longer heavy with exhaustion, and Tony was close enough that he could tell Peter was holding his breath, because he would have been able to feel it against his lips otherwise.

Tony didn't move. He should have, but he couldn't think, pressed halfway over Peter and trying desperately to find whatever it took to pull away, or to make a joke and play it off, to kiss Peter on the forehead like that's what he meant to do the whole time, to do something other than hover with his hand against Peter's cheek and panic--

And finally, Peter's expression gentled from shock into fond exasperation, and he leaned up to close that short distance and kissed him.

It was a short kiss. There and gone, just a good-night kiss, the exact thing Tony was going for before he-- came to his senses-- but the feeling of it lingered against his lips like they'd kissed for hours, and that feeling stayed even through Peter rolling onto his side and dragging Tony's arm over him like a blanket, so that Tony was curled up against his back.

"Peter," Tony said finally, weakly, and Peter drew his arm more tightly around himself.

"Can we talk about it in the morning? I'm so tired." Peter's voice was heavy and slow with sleep, but Tony recognized an echo of his own helplessness in it, too. "Let's just… just for tonight. Okay? And then we'll talk."

And Tony never was any good at telling him no, so he squeezed his eyes shut and held Peter to him and said, "FRIDAY, lights."

The room went dark, and Tony could feel the way that Peter's breaths deepened as he fell into sleep from where his back was pressed to Tony's chest, and Tony didn't think there was any possibility that he would be able to fall asleep himself with Peter held to his chest and the feeling of his kiss lingering on his lips--

But eventually, between one wild thought and the next, he did.

Chapter Text

Peter woke feeling remarkably fresh and clear-headed, considering how exhausted he'd been the night before.

But then, he woke up with Tony's arm still wrapped around him, so maybe that wasn't a surprise.

Peter closed his eyes and drank it in. The rise and fall of Tony's chest against his back, the warmth of his body and the weight of his arm across Peter's ribs. The scent of his pillow and the softness of his sheets. The way his sleeping breaths were gently stirring Peter's hair, ticklish. The utter, utter safety of being there in Tony's bed, with Tony warm and peaceful behind him.

He knew it might be the last time he would have this, so he wanted to savor it.

They were going to talk about it. No more pretending that they weren't getting closer and closer, every weekend that Peter spent curled up at Tony's side; no more Tony pretending he didn't remember Peter telling him how close he wanted to be all those months ago. No more double-speak, and no more playing dumb, and no more guessing.

Peter was so tired of guessing. And if finally, finally talking to Tony, and putting it all out there, and refusing to let Tony sidle away from it only confirmed his worst fears instead of his secret hopes, then at least he wouldn't be guessing anymore.

He tangled his fingers with Tony's where Tony's hand was tucked against him on the bedspread, and stroked his thumb over Tony's knuckles, and etched every single second into his memory while he waited for Tony to wake.

Tony's breathing changed first, and then he shifted, instinctively tucking his face into Peter's hair and pulling Peter a little tighter against him-- and Peter knew when he'd really come awake by the jump in the rhythm of his heart. Just like in front of the elevator, and like so many other moments where Peter hadn't been able to understand what he'd done to make Tony so anxious.

He thought he understood now, but. He wasn't going to guess.

"Good morning," Peter said softly, still sweeping his thumb over Tony's hand, and if Tony felt more tense along the line of his back than he had before, at least he didn't pull away.

"...'Morning," Tony mumbled in return after a beat, and Peter knew that the nice thing to do would be to let them both wake up and get ready for the day and at least have some coffee, but--

He was nervous, too.

"So… does last night mean that you're not just doing this because you feel bad for me?"

Peter heard Tony suck in a breath, and Tony actually clutched him a little tighter as he said, "I-- what? No, jesus, Pete."

Peter closed his eyes and squeezed Tony's hand, and said, "You wish we weren't like this, though."

"Peter--" Tony's voice was a little desperate, and he finally untangled himself from Peter and started to sit up, and Peter took a steadying breath as he followed suit.

They sat across from each other on the bed, and Peter worked to commit the image of Tony with his ridiculous bedhead to memory even as his own heart thumped away in his chest, because this might be the last time, it might be the last time--

Tony rubbed his hands over his face, part stress and part helping himself wake up, and Peter really should have waited to start all this but he couldn't. He couldn't.

"I just… want you to have something better, Pete," Tony said finally, once he'd gathered his thoughts, and he did at least meet Peter's eyes as he said it. "I'm not-- I'm not just… forcing myself to-- put up with you, or whatever you're implying with that; I can't-- you can't actually think…"

It was Peter who dropped his gaze to his lap, then.

"...You look sad, sometimes. When we're together."

There was a sting of shame to admitting it. He'd recognized that, even from the beginning, and had still asked for so much regardless. And sure, maybe Tony had looked even more melancholy when-- they'd been more apart, when Peter had been trying to give Tony space, but-- it didn't change that Peter had known somewhere that Tony was unhappy, and had never actually tried to ask him about it. To see if he could fix it.

"Because--" Tony drew in a shaky breath, and Peter glanced back up at him even in his shame, unable to keep himself from checking whether it looked like Tony would actually panic. Tony managed to rally, though, even though his face was creased with-- regret and shame and frustration of his own, and he said, "Because, you're gonna go off to college next year, Pete, and meet other people, and-- you're gonna regret all this time you spent-- doing this-- with an old man instead."

Peter filled his lungs, and raised his chin, and looked Tony in the eyes as he softly asked, "Falling in love?"

"Pete," Tony said, pained, rubbing a hand over his face again, and it hurt.

"What?" Peter asked, trying for unbothered and unimpressed, trying to cover the sting from knowing that saying that made Tony so unhappy. "We're-- we're basically dating already, Tony, just without-- the physical part. Why is that… What else was going to happen?"

Tony wouldn't look at him, his eyes fixed on the bedspread and a grimace pulling down the corners of his mouth, and he didn't answer.

"I just-- I don't understand," Peter said, helpless, his paper-thin veneer of composure crumbling. "You-- you want us to be normal, but then it didn't make you happier when I tried, and you didn't want me to fall in love with you but you keep doing all this stuff for me and you pulled me over to you after I said I'd keep trying to be normal and you-- you were going to kiss me last night--"

Tony outright flinched, and that was exactly what Peter was talking about; how was he supposed to know what Tony wanted if Tony was cringing away from the things he'd done himself?

Peter shook his head a little frantically as he said, "--So every time I start to think 'oh, he's just doing this to make me happy' you do something else and I think 'no, he wants this too' but you don't, you get so upset, and I don't-- I don't know what you want or how I should act around you or how to make you happy or if I should just go away and I'm-- I just want to know what you're thinking, Tony, please."

Tony cringed and raised his gaze to the ceiling-- still looking anywhere but Peter, and it hurt-- and said, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize," Peter insisted, and he couldn't help leaning forward, desperate for Tony to look at him. "Just talk to me."

Tony did glance at him then, just briefly, and Peter could hear how fast his heart was beating but he could also see the panic in Tony's expression this time, and he reached out impulsively to grip Tony's hand.

"Just talk to me," he repeated, softly, like if he gentled the desperation out of his voice it could settle Tony, too.

Tony squeezed his eyes shut, and took a deep breath, and blurted, "I-- thought you'd want space. Eventually. I didn't think it would-- get like this."

That sounded heart-breakingly close to 'I figured I could keep you pacified and wait it out until you moved on' to Peter's ears, but Tony was at least talking now, so he tried to keep the tremor out of his voice as he asked, "And when… I didn't want space?"

Tony looked at him, finally. So shamefaced and hopelessly resigned that it made Peter's heart leap with sympathy, but Tony finally looked at him, and Peter had never heard his voice sound as small as when he admitted, "I didn't want to stop?"

Peter's breath caught.

"I'm selfish, Pete," Tony said, still soft, almost a sigh, but he pulled his hand away from Peter's and his voice grew sharper and more abrupt as he repeated himself. "I'm selfish, and you're so wonderful that everyone in the damn building perks up when you're here and you still want me around for god knows what reason, so what else was I going to do? Have some self-control? Of course not."

His words were sarcastic, but he didn't make a performance of it the way that Peter had seen him do once or twice before-- he didn't smile a sharp smile, and he didn't spread his arms to put himself on display in a mean-spirited parody of his public persona. He just raked a hand through his hair in frustration, and even that died out of his voice when he took a bracing breath and said, defeated, "I knew it was hurting you and that you deserve better, and I didn't stop because I didn't want to. So there you go, there's your mixed signals."

'I didn't want to stop.' 'You're so wonderful.' 'I didn't want to stop.'

Peter's heart pounded, and he swallowed around the lump in his throat as he asked, shaky, "Why… why is it selfish, if we… want the same things?"

Tony looked away again.

"You know why," he mumbled, dark.

"No, I don't," Peter said, his voice rising. "I don't, because you won't say anything and I just have to guess but I can't know unless you actually tell me and I want to know! I want to know what you think and not just what I think you think and-- you still haven't actually said if-- h-how you feel about me-- so no, I don't know why, I don't know if we're even talking about the same thing because you won't--"

"Okay!" Tony blurted over him, agitated and shaking his head. "Okay, fine. It's selfish because no matter what we might-- want-- we can't have anything else, Pete, you know that, and so I shouldn't have acted like-- I shouldn't have acted like that. No one would let-- the others would probably freeze me back up in Cap's iceberg and sink me to the bottom of the ocean just over what's already been going on, and-- and you deserve better than being an old man's dirty little secret, okay?"

"Don't I get a say in what I deserve?" Peter countered, and he knew it was weak and immature because Tony was right, there would be-- it would be hard, and they would have to hide it, and there were so many things that could go wrong but Tony was saying-- Tony was saying he wanted--

"No!" Tony said, throwing his hands up in exasperation. "No, because you have-- some kind of self-esteem issue where you don't value yourself properly--"

"Don't be a dick," Peter warned weakly, only sparks left over from that warm and wonderful flare of hope that had spread through him the second Tony had said I didn't want to stop; had hinted that Peter wasn't just indulging in wishful thinking by recognizing that maybe-- the times when Tony looked at him and his heart started to race, the times that his hands or his eyes lingered on Peter just a little too long, that maybe they were because he felt the same way.

"I'm not even trying to be a dick, so that's another great reason why it would be a bad idea to date me," Tony said, and he did spread his arms in an exaggerated shrug this time, and Peter closed his eyes.

"Who has the self-esteem problems, here?" Peter asked, trying to wrestle back a shred of legitimacy to fend off Tony's ironclad self-deprecation, because-- that was the thing, wasn't it? If Tony really, truly believed that he was somehow bad for Peter, and he wouldn't listen to Peter enough to convince him otherwise, then-- that was it.

Tony shook his head and sighed.

"It doesn't actually take self-esteem problems to recognize that this is a bad idea," he said, and his voice was softer, like an apology. "You're seventeen, Pete. I'm old enough to-- it's thirty years-- and that's without the whole…"

His expression turned urgent, pleading, and he said, "I was your first, non-consensual sexual experience; that's not-- we can't just pretend that doesn't matter."

Peter drew in a shaky breath, rubbing his hands over his face, and then sat back. If this was it, then-- this was it. So he had to make things as clear as possible, no ambiguity, no asking himself after the fact if he could have made Tony understand if only he had thought to say this or been brave enough to admit that--

"Okay," he said, voice trembling. He wasn't going to cry, because whenever he cried it made Tony panic, and he wanted this to be a clear-headed conversation.

Last chance.

"Okay. So then-- we can stop, but-- for me that means… I can't-- I can't go back to how things were before, when I was trying to give you space; I can't do that again. It was-- I missed you too much, so having you right there but not being able to be close was just-- I can't do it."

And it was true, maybe, that a lot of what had made it so miserable was not knowing what Tony was thinking. Turning Tony's actions and words and tell-tale heart over and over and over in his mind to try and put it together-- Tony sleeping better when Peter was with him, Tony giving Peter anything and everything he asked for and a million more things that he didn't, Tony's heart skipping a beat when he made Peter smile and Tony's eyes dropping to his mouth, all of those little signs that maybe, maybe, maybe Tony wanted him.

But then, also-- Tony's heart racing dangerously fast when he reached to ruffle Peter's hair, the day after his dream. Tony brushing it off or looking away or even outright walking away from him every time Peter said thank you. Happy wetly telling him, "Tony loves you, kid, he just doesn't have his head on straight right now," the day after the business trip to Cairo. Natasha telling him, "The only person that can talk Tony out of one of his ideas is Tony, especially if that idea is that something is his fault," the day she took him out, after Peter vented to her about Tony always, always blaming himself.

Tony telling him, "Peter, I raped you on it," when they talked about the jacket.

So not knowing Tony's actual feelings on any of it had been part of what hurt, especially when Peter let himself get too worked up about it and started thinking things he knew weren't true, like and maybe he's just been babying me the whole time and never wanted any of it at all, maybe he's just been waiting for me to go away, and that wasn't a problem anymore.

But. Part of what had hurt, too, was that sinking realization that-- maybe it didn't matter, if Tony wanted him back or not. Because maybe it could be true that Tony did, and it could still be true that Peter was-- bad for him-- hurting him-- by holding him that close anyway. If Tony really was afraid when they were together. If he really did look at Peter and see someone that he had raped.

And that was still there. That unbearable, miserable thought, that maybe he had everything he'd ever wanted within arm's reach, that maybe Tony did want him and miss him and-- love him-- that maybe Tony did want Peter in his bed and in his arms and in his life, someone essential, all the same things Peter wanted-- but that they still couldn't have it. Because Tony couldn't forgive himself-- because no matter how much Tony cared about him, Peter still made him unhappy--

That was still there. That thought wasn't fixed. That thought was true.

Peter cleared his throat-- no crying, no crying-- and swallowed hard, and said it.

"So if we're going to stop, for me that has to be-- everything? I'm-- I'm gonna just have to stop coming to the tower, and you guys can call me in for missions and stuff, and I can send the suit for repairs but I can't-- be here, like this-- and we won't ever really-- we won't be able to be close again? Even like-- even like how things were before Westcott. That's not-- I can't. I can't do that again."

Tony looked absolutely gutted, and Peter hated hurting him, but he couldn't let that make him stop because-- it was true, everything he was saying was true, and he had to say it now.

"Or," Peter continued, forcing himself to blink back the sting in his eyes and trying to take a deep breath in a way that didn't sound like a sniffle. "Or-- well, no-- I was going to say, y'know, we could keep doing this, this stupid-- halfway thing, where I get to pretend like I'm your boyfriend and you get to pretend like I'm not, but I-- I can't do that either? I can't just keep-- waiting and hoping and pressing for more and hoping you slip up or give in one day even though I know it makes you feel awful, because-- because doing that makes me feel awful and it's not fair to, to either of us, so I just-- that's not-- we can't do that anymore. So that's not, um, that one's not an option."

"Pete," Tony said softly, squeezing his eyes shut, and Peter could just tell that he was about to apologize or tell Peter that he didn't have to think about what was fair to Tony or something stupid and self-loathing like that, so he shook his head hard and rushed to cut him off.

"Or," he said, and he had to push to get the words out, his voice choked and small. "You could… let me make my own choices, even-- even if they might turn out to be mistakes-- and we could… try. And-- and we could deal with all the hard and awkward parts together, instead of apart, and we could… still have something, and have it be something… real, even if it's-- not perfect, and it takes work? Instead of-- instead of having to… go our own ways. I know… that's the one I'd want to try."

Tony stared down at the bedspread, mouth flat and brow creased, and he didn't say a word.

His heart was beating hard.

Peter breathed a sigh, and offered one last, shaking prompt as he said, "I just… don't know why you'd pick the one where we're definitely unhappy… instead of the one where there's a chance? If… if there is a chance, for you."

Tony looked up at him then, resigned, and said, "I literally don't see a single chance of me being good for you in the long-run."

That wasn't what Peter had meant, but Tony didn't say it like a shut-down. Not like he was trying to hurt Peter, or to force an ending to the conversation, or even like he was trying to make an argument.

He said it like an admission of guilt. A shameful confession of a personal failing, and Peter couldn't bear it.

"...Because of your self-esteem issues?" Peter asked weakly, anything to make Tony smile-- and Tony did at least huff a breath of laughter, some of the shame and misery gentling in his expression.

"Maybe partly," Tony allowed, but when he sighed it dragged down the set of his shoulders. "I don't exactly have the greatest track record with committed relationships, and that's under the best of circumstances. But this is about as far away from that as it could be, Pete, and-- you've already got too much stuff on your plate that's hard or complicated, okay? You deserve something that's not complicated."

His expression creased again, frustration and regret and self-hatred, and he said, "You already have enough things to sneak around about, you don't-- you don't deserve for your first relationship to be one of them. You deserve-- someone that can take you out to the movies or dinner or hold your fucking hand in front of your friends; you deserve someone who-- who you can have new experiences with, okay, someone who you can figure things out together with, someone who's going to be going through it with you when you get too drunk for the first time and who you can have-- stupid Facebook fights with about things that don't matter--"

"No one uses Facebook anymore, Tony," Peter cut in shakily, because he couldn't stand how hurt Tony looked and he had to interrupt it somehow, and his eyes were wet because Tony was-- Tony was--

"See, this is exactly what I'm talking about," Tony exclaimed, throwing his hands up. "You deserve someone your age, someone who's still young enough to-- want to go out dancing or to concerts or whatever with you, nerd conventions or video game release parties or I don't know, Peter, I'm not a teenager, you deserve someone who would be growing with you--"

He was so adamant about it, almost pained, as he laid out everything that he felt like Peter deserved, and a lump grew in Peter's throat as it became more and more obvious that Tony wanted to give him those things and was almost helpless with how he knew that he couldn't, that the reason he looked so hurt was because he wanted to be wrong, and if he-- if he wanted that--

Peter threw himself forward and kissed him, and Tony made a helpless sound and said "Peter," against his lips, but when he reached for Peter it was to pull him closer.

"I don't want that," Peter murmured against Tony's mouth, kissing him again. "I want you, and you want those things for me, and that's just as good--"

"It's not," Tony insisted, his palm going flat against Peter's shoulder instead of curling into his shirt, and Peter drew back.

"Then-- then tell me to stop," Peter said, desperate and hoping, hoping, hoping that Tony wouldn't. "Tell me, and I will, okay?"

Tony stared at him, frozen.

And when he finally moved, he took a shuddering breath and passed a hand over his face, glancing away to gather himself, but he didn't say 'stop.'

When Tony looked back, he said, "Pete, we couldn't tell anyone. Not for years, jesus, let's just do the math real quick-- you won't be within my good ol' half-your-age-plus-seven 'til I'm nearly fucking seventy, that's ridiculous. And I can't-- I won't force you to be a secret, where you can't talk about it with your friends or your aunt-- especially not with how things happened-- I won't, so we can't."

"I would-- I mean-- I would tell Patty," Peter said, and Tony looked thrown for a loop, like that hadn't occurred to him. "So I'd have-- someone to talk to about it. And, like… make sure it was healthy? So it wouldn't just be… us in a secret bubble."

Tony didn't answer immediately, but-- his quiet was still startled and uncertain but considering, thoughtful, not reluctant in the way that meant he was just unwilling to say what he was thinking.

Peter felt a flicker of hope, and took the chance to press onward.

"I mean-- we couldn't do years because a bunch of our friends are superspies, but-- I think it makes sense? To sort of-- keep it quiet for a little while, to figure out if it's even-- y'know-- a thing, and then-- if we think it is-- we could figure out how to tell people. Right? You could even come see Patty with me, if you needed to-- to not feel like you were hiding it," Peter said, and Tony groaned, rubbing a hand over his face.

"Pete, you have to understand the problem with wanting to start a relationship where our first date would be couple's therapy," he said, and Peter couldn't help a wobbly little grin, even if Tony had a point--

"But would that help?" he asked, and Tony just looked at him, long and quiet, while the dim sparks of Peter's hope flickered even brighter.

Finally--

Tony sat up straighter, shoulders no longer physically weighed down by guilt and resignation and regret, and his voice had a hedging tone as he said, "I'm worried I would lie to you for your own good."

Not like a shut-down. Like a negotiation.

"We can talk about that," Peter said, stomach fluttering.

"I'm worried I'd be-- too controlling about Spider-man, and how dangerous it is," Tony said, grimacing, and Peter huffed.

"You already know I don't let you do that," he countered, and Tony squeezed his eyes shut.

"I'm worried… you'd get to be thirty or something, and resent me for… for stealing your whole, youth-- you're seventeen, Peter, god, you're just starting out, I don't wanna-- make you in my image--"

Peter bit his lip, and ventured, "I'm… I'm gonna try to do undergrad at MIT. Close enough to visit, but far enough that I'll still have my own life, right? You're not gonna-- warp me."

Tony blinked hard a few times, expression still a conflicted grimace, and he had to take another bracing breath as he looked up to the ceiling to say, "I'm worried that all this is just… you imprinting on me like the world's most fucked-up duckling metaphor. And I don't want you to have to rely on me to feel safe."

He dropped his gaze from the ceiling, then, but he only met Peter's eyes in a shameful glance before he fixed his gaze on the bedspread instead, and softly admitted, "And. I don't want to… have you, just to lose you when you keep getting better, and you realize you don't need me."

Peter took a slow breath, and reached to take Tony's hand while he thought. Because-- this was important, and he had to really give it the consideration it deserved, as much as he wanted to just insist of course it's not like that, of course you won't lose me; as much as he wanted to just bottle up the flood of desperate affection that rushed through him when Tony gently curled his fingers around Peter's in turn and say see? of course this is real, how could it ever be a mistake?

But he couldn't, so he would have to do this with words.

"You do make me feel safe," Peter said slowly, feeling the idea out. "But… a partner… should, right? It-- it was like that sometimes, at the beginning, but I'm not-- I promise I'm not just… using you as a security blanket, or something."

He shook his head and continued, a little more strongly, "I'm-- I'm back out there, right? I'm patrolling. I'm sleeping at May's except for the weekends. I'm spending the night at Ned's when we have plans. And-- and I was fine, when we were apart before; I was still doing all that stuff and keeping up with school and everything, I was just-- sad, because… I missed you. I'm… I've been spending time with you because I like spending time with you. Not because I'm scared when you're not around; not anymore."

Tony nodded along while he listened, processing, but Peter could still feel how his hand was trembling, ever-so-slightly, in his grip.

"How…" Peter hesitated, but he did need to know. "How do I… make you feel? Because-- if-- if we really can't do this, without you… feeling guilty about it, and… hating yourself for it, then… I don't want to. I-- I want you to be happy. I want us to be happy. So if-- if that can't happen, I…"

Peter went quiet, but Tony seemed to understand regardless, because he squeezed Peter's hand even as he said nothing himself, thinking, his eyes on their linked hands.

Finally, he said, "You make me feel…"

He fell quiet again, but then when he broke his silence it was with a little sigh of a laugh. He still didn't look at Peter, but he traced his thumb over Peter's knuckles as he said, "You make me feel… like some backwoods farmer that just struck oil on his turnip farm."

Peter blinked rapidly, and Tony glanced up at him with a half-there smile when he continued, "You know? Like I've just hit jackpot in some kind of… indescribable, fairytale way, but I know I'm gonna ruin my life over it. Because I don't know how to have something that good without getting in over my head, and going crazy and running all that potential into the ground."

Peter loved him.

"Tony, that's not romantic," Peter warbled weakly once he could swallow past the lump in his throat, and Tony just shrugged with another little crooked smile, quiet.

"Well," Peter mumbled, sniffling. "Maybe-- maybe that backwoods farmer wouldn't ruin his life over his good fortune if he hired a, a financial advisor."

He paused, and said, "I think-- I think that's a therapist in this metaphor."

Tony huffed a laugh, pained and fond and beautiful, and his voice wavered a little as he asked, "So is Patty taking new patients?"

Peter sucked in a breath, and his skin prickled all over with an unbearable hope, and he said, "W-well-- well, I'm not sure that would be allowed, but-- I bet she could make a referral to someone else, if… if that's something you'd really… do for us."

He swallowed hard, and added, "If. If there's gonna be an us."

And Tony closed his eyes, gently this time, and took in one more breath like he was filling his lungs for a dive into waters he didn't know the depths of, and when he opened them he said, "I'd do anything for you, Pete."

Peter only inched forward, this time.

And this time, Tony leaned in to meet him.

It was perfect. Not desperate or uncontrolled or one-sided, but slow and careful and intentional, Tony gently crooking a finger under Peter's chin to keep him close without actually holding him in place, and it was even more of a fairytale kiss than the one in the lab because Tony wanted this one--

Peter pressed closer, spurred on by that thought, and Tony cupped the back of his neck with one hand before breaking the kiss with a sigh, his forehead pressed to Peter's.

"Pete, are you-- totally, one hundred percent sure about this? It's such a bad idea," Tony said, scanning Peter's expression almost desperately as if looking for any hint of uncertainty.

Peter smiled and gently stroked his fingers over Tony's cheek, marveling that Tony let him do it, that he was allowed such an intimate and affectionate touch even as he said, "Well… I've been told that dressing up in a bodysuit to fight crime as a hobby is a bad idea too, but you know how one hundred percent I am about that."

The corners of Tony's eyes crinkled as he smiled like he couldn't help it, but Peter could still see the uncertainty that lingered there, too. He nudged forward to kiss Tony softly, quick, and he murmured, "I'm sure. I promise. And I know it'll be hard, sometimes, and there's… a lot of stuff that'll come up that wouldn't, with anyone else, and… I'm not ignoring that, okay? I know. But I just… this is what I want. With you. One hundred percent."

"Gotta say, Pete, you're a lot better at the romantic speech thing than I am," Tony sighed shakily, and-- Peter didn't know if he'd be able to reassure Tony enough for the shard of anxiety in his expression to totally fade, at least not today, but he felt some of the tension drain out of the way Tony was holding him, and that was something.

"I might have been rehearsing it for the last… three months?" Peter said with a grin that was more to reassure Tony than because what he said was actually a joke, and Tony huffed a laugh.

"Ah, there's that nerdy Peter Parker charm," Tony said fondly, and there was nothing ironic about it at all, and Peter's heart stuttered.

He shifted to tuck his head down by Tony's shoulder, a little overcome, and asked, "What about… you, though? Are you sure? About this?"

"Oh, not even slightly," Tony actually scoffed, but he stroked his thumb over Peter's skin where his hand was still settled on the back of Peter's neck, soothing away Peter's knee-jerk dismay before it could even hit. "If you've been rehearsing that little speech for three months, I've been cataloging the millions of ways I could ruin everything for us for five, and I wasn't even factoring in this until-- well, recently."

He ran his hand down over Peter's back when he said 'this,' and even under the circumstances, Peter couldn't help but shiver.

"But," Tony continued, and he sounded a little distracted, clearing his throat before he picked up steam again. "Endless number of mistakes I could make and ways I could blow this sky-high aside--"

Peter let Tony gently guide him out of his hiding spot against Tony's shoulder, and-- he could tell how nervous Tony was from the slight wideness of his eyes, and from the too-fast rhythm of his heart, but he could also see how sincere Tony was in the way he swallowed hard and looked Peter straight in the eyes as he finished his thought.

"You, I am one hundred percent about."

Peter grinned helplessly, his heart soaring in a way that he hadn't felt in months, and--

The next kiss wasn't a fairytale kiss.

Not because it wasn't perfect, because it was. But because after those first few moments, leaning in with a delight of pure affection, Peter pressed forward and let himself indulge. He smoothed his palm over Tony's sleep tee to rest on his chest while he explored the feeling of Tony's mouth against his own, reveling in it, his skin deliciously sensitized to the rasp of Tony's morning stubble as he gradually parted his lips for more and more--

Tony's breath hitched gratifyingly against Peter's mouth when Peter unthinkingly let his hand slip lower, stroking over the plane of Tony's stomach, and oh Peter needed to hear that noise on repeat, but-- Tony broke the kiss, leaning his forehead to Peter's again.

"This part… is gonna have to go slow," Tony said, and Peter nodded, but it was all he could do not to stare at the pink of Tony's mouth, the flash of his tongue as he spoke. "Okay?"

"Yeah," Peter sighed, because as much as he wanted to insist that he didn't need slow when he'd been thinking about this for months, he wasn't going to push for more when what he'd gotten was already a dream come true on its own.

Tony smiled at him, so openly fond that it rattled every other thought out of Peter's head, and he said, "And if you're having a hard time with that, allow me to kill the mood by saying that if you don't let me up to use the bathroom, I might actually explode."

"Oh!" Peter scrambled backwards, and Tony laughed, tone turning faux-scolding.

"Yeah, 'oh.' Let's save the big talks for after coffee from now on, huh?" he said, climbing off the bed, but he lingered at its side and Peter leaned toward him.

"I didn't want you to run away," Peter admitted, and Tony winced and said, "That's fair."

But then he kissed Peter again like an apology, quick and sweet, and Peter would forgive him anything.

Peter made eggs and bacon for breakfast, too distracted for anything fancy, and other than his ankle hooked around Tony's under the table and the way he couldn't stop smiling it was almost a normal morning. They talked about the fire the night before and how Peter's patrol had been going before that, picked out movies to add to the movie night list, discussed upcoming plans--

("I can't believe you had to go and do that last night, of all times," Peter jokingly complained, because he was leaving for Ned's around noon and staying at the Leeds' for the next few days, and Tony refused to let him cancel just because Peter had made those plans before he'd known that he could have been spending that time kissing Tony instead.

"I'm known for being fashionably late," Tony said with a half-smile, and just enough of a hint of an apology that Peter reached to squeeze his hand.)

And Peter tried not to get ahead of himself, he really did, but he couldn't help but imagine that moment stretching out in front of them-- a future, warm and content, of shared breakfasts and morning chats and teasing arguments and Tony's hand in his.

They retreated to the couch after breakfast to talk 'logistics,' which Tony said with a distasteful little twist to his mouth, and Peter pressed at his shoulder once they got there, guiding.

"Like this," Peter said, and Tony shot him a questioning look but followed through, reclining against the arm of the couch with a cushion under his neck. Peter crawled to lie alongside him and wrapped his arms around him, pillowing his head against Tony's chest, and when he sighed in contentment he could feel Tony relax, too.

"Spider-koala," Tony murmured, curling an arm around Peter's shoulders, and Peter breathed a laugh.

"I've wanted to do this since," Peter started, but the real end to that sentence was Westcott, so he shrugged and said, "well, a while."

Tony hummed an acknowledgement, quiet, and they just lay together for a moment, breaths synchronizing, relaxing until Peter was so boneless and content that he couldn't have said where he ended and Tony began.

"Don't fall asleep," Tony said, voice low and warm and sending a pleasant shiver down Peter's spine. "We're supposed to talk."

"Okay," Peter sighed. "Your turn to start."

"You don't want me to start," Tony cautioned, but he chuckled when Peter grumbled disagreeably in response.

"Okay, fine." Tony squeezed Peter's shoulder, and stroked his thumb back and forth over the curve of it. "Scale of one to ten, how likely is your aunt to show up here like a five-foot-three tornado and order Cap to banish me to Jersey, once we get to that point?"

Peter winced. Tony was right, he was starting with the hard ones.

They talked about it. How May might respond, and how they wouldn't have any control over how far it spread, once they decided to tell even one person. How long to wait until they did tell people, and what that might look like. And simpler things, too-- that if they were serious about giving themselves room to breathe before the news got out, they shouldn't change anything about their interactions in the lab or with texting, or Peter's school-year routine for visiting the tower.

It was a long conversation, and complicated in parts, but-- Tony talked to him, like a partner, without holding anything back, and Peter savored it.

"And you know," Tony said as they were winding down, swallowing hard. "If it ever does... get to be too much, there's no shame in cutting and running. Okay? Even if you-- if your feelings don't actually change, you don't have to stick it out to make some kind of point."

Tony knew him so well.

"Okay," Peter agreed softly, and he levered himself up to lean over Tony on the couch. He said, "That goes for you too, okay? You don't have to… stick it out just to make me happy."

Tony watched him for a moment, taking a long, slow breath, and Peter wondered if he was still nervous, or if he felt just as safe and understood as Peter did with him.

Tony leaned up and kissed him, and said with a small smile, "Okay."

"Dude, seriously," Ned said, pausing the game. "What's up with you? Is it a Spider-man thing? Did you get another new suit? Your new one is already so cool, what else are you adding?"

"You do kind of have a sunny mystique thing going on," MJ said from where she was lounging on Ned's bed to read while Ned and Peter played Mario Kart on the floor. "Which is a refreshing new vibe for you, but it is kind of weird."

It was the second day of his visit with Ned, and Peter thought that he'd been doing a pretty good job acting normal. He and Tony were sticking to their agreement not to text constantly, even if it was torture, and he had even been doing his best not to zone out while Ned and MJ were talking, but-- it's not like that wasn't kind of his norm at this point, anyway.

But apparently he wasn't doing as well as he thought he was, and he tried to sound sincere as he said, "What? There's not a new suit. I'm just having fun?"

"You keep like, smiling," Ned explained, and Peter opened his mouth to protest but Ned beat him to it: "And I'm kicking your ass, so I don't know why you're so happy about it."

Oh.

"I can't just be happy? To be hanging out with my friends on winter break?" Peter tried anyway, but yeah, okay, if he was really letting his totally goofy delight show on his face even while Ned was-- only two kart-lengths ahead, hey, that wasn't anything a red shell couldn't fix-- then he was probably caught.

MJ and Ned shared a glance.

"Nah," said MJ, and "Not really," said Ned.

"More Spider-man business you can't share?" MJ asked lightly, because Peter had maybe used that as an excuse not to share more than the most basic, uncomplicated details about the whole-- Westcott case. "But, like. Good business?"

Peter rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, thinking about what he could share. He could just agree with MJ, sure, but he didn't think she really bought his excuse that he couldn't talk about the bad stuff in the first place, and the excuse would be that much weaker for good news. And he couldn't say he was dating someone either, for obvious reasons, so--

"It's... kind of related, I guess," he said slowly, feeling out the truth of it. "We didn't have a break in the case or anything, but, just... I'm feeling-- like-- I'm feeling better? About-- a lot of things, that happened after-- y'know, um, when I needed to take a break."

Ned looked at MJ, but she didn't look back, closing her book and letting it rest on her stomach, deliberately casual.

"You were pretty down in the dumps for a while there," she said, and she had done this a lot since Westcott-- giving him gentle prompts, calling out what she'd noticed in a neutral way to give him an opening to talk if he wanted, and then backing off with only the most gentle prying when he didn't.

Peter took a breath.

"Yeah," he admitted, nodding with a little shrug. "There was... a lot going on? And-- and there still is. And it's all kind of-- hard to talk about, um, even with my therapist, but-- I'm-- y'know. I'm getting better."

"You have a therapist?" Ned blurted, and then looked a little panicked, but Peter nodded.

"Yeah. SHIELD thought it was a good idea, after what happened, so," he said, and MJ nodded from the bed.

"That's good. I'm glad, um, you have someone to talk to," she said, smiling tightly in the awkward way that she got whenever she said something overtly nice.

Ned, less delicate but even more earnest, said, "Yeah, we were really worried when you wouldn't really talk to us about it."

"Not that you have to talk to us about it," MJ said right on his heels. And then just as quick, "Unless you want to."

Peter shrugged and swapped his controller from hand to hand to rub his sweaty palms over his jeans, blowing out another breath.

It was-- it didn't feel as impossible as it had before, the thought of actually talking about it. Even just mentioning that he was in therapy-- hinting that it was serious enough that he'd needed that-- had felt insurmountable in the beginning, but now that he'd said it-- it felt... good. To not feel like he had to hide it. Like it was his to talk about, not other people's to politely avoid.

And-- now that so much of that pressure had been released, now that his feelings about what had happened weren't so tangled up in and it's totally messed things up with Tony and I don't know if it'll ever feel normal again and if he secretly resents me for hanging around making him feel guilty all the time, now that he knew where he stood with Tony, now that talking about it would just mean acknowledging the facts--

"It's... pretty bad? I don't know if… you actually want to hear about it," Peter said, but he finally put his controller down.

Ned looked a little stricken, wide-eyed and nervous, but he nodded earnestly and said, "We're your friends, Peter. If-- if talking about it's gonna help, we can-- you can tell us."

MJ nodded, expression grim but intent, and she sat up to make room on Ned's mattress, patting the spot next to her.

Peter took a shaky breath and nodded, and he and Ned crawled up onto the bed from their spots on the floor, all leaning against the headboard with Peter sandwiched in the middle.

"It's, um. Well, I told you about... Tony getting kidnapped by that guy, the one using the illusion tech. And, um. That I tried to help but he got me too," Peter explained, twisting his fingers together in his lap, and Ned and MJ nodded.

"That's why you got nervous about a trap or something at your birthday party," Ned prompted, because Peter had made good on his promise to tell them about it later.

Peter nodded and looked up at the ceiling, breathing slowly to try and curb the trembling in his hands, and MJ nudged his shoulder gently with her own.

"I. Have some theories, if it would help to just, um. Say which parts I'm right about," she said, and Peter didn't know how she could have possibly landed on the truth, but he nodded because it would at least give him some time to gather his thoughts.

MJ nodded in return and bit her lip, and then started, a little falteringly:

"So you and Tony Stark got kidnapped by this guy, and he had some kind of illusion technology. And, whatever happened was... bad. Um. Bad enough that you took a break from Spider-man, and-- and you're seeing a therapist about it."

Ned and Peter both nodded along with her recap, and MJ took an unsteady breath and continued, "But, whatever he did to you didn't actually hurt you or Tony physically. Or at least not very bad, not-- broken bones or anything because Ned visited just a few days later and even you wouldn't have healed up fast enough if it was that. And, really that's happened to you a lot so even if it's bad it's not like... new."

"Yeah," Peter muttered, eyes on his lap, and MJ nodded.

"So he... he hurt you, um. Emotionally, somehow. But-- but it was bad," MJ said, biting her lip again, and maybe she did know. At least a little. Ned still looked lost, hanging onto MJ's every word and Peter's every reaction, but MJ had that look of knowing she was onto something, but-- not wanting to be right.

Peter brought his knees up toward his chest and hugged them, and nodded.

"So-- first theory," MJ said, and she cleared her throat. "He used illusions to show you things that were-- were, like, traumatic. Your worst nightmares, kind of thing."

"Or--" Ned cut in suddenly, worried. "Or, could the illusions actually hurt you, like-- you'd feel them but they didn't actually hurt your body?"

Peter shook his head, murmuring, "No, um-- it was just the car, that day. And, we think maybe they used the tech to disguise themselves as one of Tony's drivers before he got in the car, but he doesn't remember."

MJ nodded slowly, the concern in her eyes growing deeper, and she said, "Okay, then, well-- second theory-- he's blackmailing you somehow? Or did? Like-- he threatened your aunt if you don't keep working on something for him and that's why you're at the tower all the time, or he made you agree to do something you didn't want to do, like-- kick a bunch of puppies or something--"

Her voice wavered on the weak joke, and Peter huffed a breath at the attempt, but every muscle in his body felt drawn too tight when he nodded.

"Only-- only that day. But, yeah," he said, creaky, and he could feel how tense she went at his side.

She took a deep breath.

"Was it-- did he-- was it a--"

He finally looked at her straight on, and he saw the deep fear and hesitance and comprehension in her expression, and--

He nodded.

"What?" Ned asked, looking between the two of them, and Peter took a shuddering breath and looked back to MJ, helpless.

Her expression broke for a moment, grief and sympathy and fear bleeding through, but she just sniffled and nodded rapidly before squaring her shoulders, her mask of resolve sliding back into place.

"It was a-- a sex thing," she said, decisive, but Peter could tell she had her eyes fixed roughly on Ned's collarbones instead of his face.

Ned sucked in a sharp breath and blurted, "No," and Peter let himself tuck his face against his knees as he nodded again.

"Oh my god-- Peter--" Ned said, numbly, and he leaned into Peter's side to wrap his arms around him.

Peter leaned into the embrace, uncurling a little to grab onto Ned's arm, and MJ tucked her head against his shoulder from the other side, like the two of them were trying to build a protective cocoon around him.

It made him cry, and he was still sick of crying, but this-- this was okay.

"How'd you know?" Peter asked thickly once he could find his voice again, buried somewhere under months of grief, under the way Ned and MJ were still both draped against him in support.

"Um--" MJ blew out a breath, shaking her head where she was leaning against the crook of Peter's shoulder. "You've been… getting uncomfortable about it when people at school are gross, like-- objectifying-- and you got that permission slip to go to gym after everyone else, and. You get tense at creepy parts in movies, and... And if he didn't show you some kind of illusion nightmarescape then that was just... It just seemed like that was it."

Peter was always a little bit in awe of how observant MJ was, and in that moment he was-- so, so grateful to her, that she'd apparently been thinking about it for a long time but had never really pressed, and had just-- waited, until he was finally ready to talk.

"Yeah, um," he said, and he uncurled a little bit from their huddle, turning his face to dry his eyes against his shoulders. "He, um. While me and Tony were out, he-- operated on us-- and put these shock chips in our necks? And he, like... If we wouldn't do what he wanted then he'd shock us. And it was-- bad, um, he could've killed us like that, it really hurt."

Ned sucked in a sympathetic hiss, but he ventured, "Tony was... with you?"

Peter hummed a confirmation, unsteady, and took a breath before he said, "Yeah, um. The guy-- the bad guy wasn't actually... He was somewhere else, and he just had, like, cameras. And he made, um. He made me and Tony--"

He waved a hand vaguely, and he felt Ned and MJ both go stiff with shock.

"...Together?" Ned asked like he couldn't help it, but still wanted to be wrong.

"Yeah," Peter sighed, too exhausted to cry. He was shaking all over, under the press of Ned and MJ on either side of him, but-- it felt like the jostling of a boiling kettle, venting steam, venting months of suppressed words and thoughts and secrets. It didn't feel bad.

"So it didn't... hurt, at least," he said. "Because he was-- nice to me. But it, um. Well, it's been weird with him, obviously."

Peter breathed a little humorless laugh at the understatement of it, closing his eyes, and he felt MJ shift next to him so she could see his face better.

"Are you... You spend all that time at the tower," MJ asked, careful, and he knew what she was actually asking.

"I mean-- he didn't hurt me, like I said, so I was never-- scared of him? It would've been worse if it was the actual guy," Peter said, shrugging. He said, "I was just... scared for him a lot, at first? The-- the place the guy took us to was like-- a total torture chamber, y'know, so-- that guy was going to kill Tony if he'd gotten the chance to, and-- he's got other guys that are still out there, and I just-- I felt safer at the tower? For-- both of us."

MJ nodded slowly, her expression still troubled, and Peter felt Ned take a slow shaky breath next to him, processing.

"It's-- weird, y'know? Like-- as Spider-man I was only ever worried about like, getting shot or beat up really bad or-- I knew people would try to hurt me or kill me or whatever," Peter started, and MJ scoffed a little wetly.

"Or whatever," she mimicked, and he knocked his knee against hers.

"I mean, I did. But I never thought about." Peter paused, swallowing hard. "Like-- that's bad guy stuff too, right, bad guys can be creeps and I've even-- helped save other people before, who were-- but I didn't. Think about it. If-- if a bad guy wasn't just, going to try and kill me or beat me up and leave me for dead, or-- yeah. I never thought about it."

MJ looped her arm through his, and Ned burrowed even further against him in an approximation of a hug.

"It-- it was really stupid, even, when it happened, because-- I guess the guy was giving off creepy vibes or something because I think Tony knew the whole time, because he was being-- like, weird, not himself, when he was trying to talk the guy into letting us go or whatever-- and I had no idea?" Peter said, and god, that was one of the parts that stuck with him, still white-hot with shame-- that shattering realization of what Westcott wanted, and how oblivious he'd been not to even think of it. "Like, even when the guy told me to take off the suit I thought he just, thought it might have weapons in it or something; it was-- it took me forever to catch on, it's kind of-- embarrassing--"

His voice cracked, and Ned and MJ shook their heads insistently, holding him.

"Why would you think about that? You're not a creep," Ned said, indignant, and MJ cut straight to the point with, "It's not your fault."

Peter shook his head and said, "It's just so stupid. I-- I fight bad guys all day but I was still like, 'oh, I'm a guy, that can't happen to me,' like some-- afterschool special--"

"Peter," MJ interrupted, too urgent to sell it but obviously trying for sarcasm. "You have my feminine seal of forgiveness for not thinking about the reality of, of-- assault statistics, okay?"

And that did startle a wet laugh out of him, enough to disrupt the spiral he'd been heading for, and Ned and MJ both smiled weakly at seeing it.

"Assuming the best is like… one of your best Peter Parker features," MJ finished her thought, clearing her throat at the sincerity, but she didn't try to fight her smile.

Ned nodded and added, "You did your best, dude. You always do."

"I love you guys," Peter muttered, and Ned wobbled, "Aw, man, Peter," and this time when Peter let himself sink into his friends' arms, he finally felt his shivering start to settle.

They stayed like that for a while, until Peter uncurled with a sigh.

"Thank you for feeling like you could tell us," MJ said quietly, and Ned nodded.

"Sorry if we like-- ruined your good mood," he said, a little regretful.

Peter shook his head quickly and said, "No, no. It's-- I know I just cried on you guys forever but it's… nice, to talk about it? I'm-- I'm glad you asked. And, I don't know if I could have talked about it if I wasn't… feeling better, about some parts of it."

"Anytime," Ned sniffled. "That's great, Peter."

Peter smiled, small but genuine, and said, "Yeah. Um, obviously there's still... it's still a lot. But, I-- uh-- I had a big... talk? With Tony the other day, and I think... It's been hard, because, y'know-- he blames himself and stuff, and I-- um-- I've blamed myself a little, too--"

He saw the looks on his friends' faces and rushed past it, shaking his head.

"I'm doing better though, and anyway, yeah-- he'd just be beating himself up all the time and all I wanted to do was, like... get to see him be happy, you know? And-- and not feel like I was a part of making him unhappy, even if it wasn't actually my fault."

He smiled even wider, a little helplessly, and said, "And we're... finally on the same page, I think. Not that-- not that he's past it all or whatever either, but I think... we're finally getting closer to that, and-- him feeling better helps me feel even better and-- yeah. Things are good right now."

"I'm happy for you," MJ said, soft and earnest, and Peter smiled at her.

"Me too," he said, and he meant it.

It was exhausting, talking about it. And there was still the slightest suggestion of a tremble to his hands, the memory of adrenaline stored in his body even if the actual fear was gone, but-- having them know, having his friends know and being able to see that future where he didn't have to worry about being weird in front of them, didn't have to worry about them asking him why, and even getting to share a little bit about things with Tony--

He felt so, so relieved, to finally be in a place where the people who loved him knew the things that he'd felt like he had to hide, and where if he still had one more secret hidden away-- it was at least a beautiful one.

He had a really good time with Ned and MJ for the rest of his stay, after that. They watched movies and played games and tossed their phones around to share memes, and Peter talked just a little bit about conversations he'd had with Patty or how Tony had made the smart mirror for him, but-- it just felt like normal, like sharing any other part of his life, and it was great. He really hadn't thought that the reason he was keeping it secret was out of shame, and he still didn't exactly think that was the main reason, but-- he hadn't realized until he finally shared it how much keeping it a secret at all made it feel like shame, anyway.

And he didn't know if he'd ever really, truly appreciated how great his friends were, and he was touched all over again by getting to see that for the truth that it was in a million little ways over the rest of their time together.

But, no matter how much of a good time he'd had with Ned and MJ--

"FRIDAY, where's Tony?" Peter asked as he rushed to the elevator after Happy finally, finally waved him off so he could get back to work.

"He's in his living room," FRIDAY replied. She asked, "Should I tell him you're on your way up?"

Peter pressed the button for the penthouse, rocking impatiently on his toes, and said, "Is anyone else there?"

She told him that there wasn't, so he told her to go ahead, and that was probably why Tony was waiting not-quite by the door when Peter walked in.

Peter hesitated for half a second once the door closed behind him, struck by a bolt of insecurity that made his enthusiasm falter, and he scanned Tony's face for-- anything, any kind of hint that maybe Tony had changed his mind after having space to think about it while Peter wasn't clinging all over him.

But Tony didn't fix him with a solemn stare, or look awkwardly to the floor, or even try to open with something neutral and platonic like 'hey Pete, how was your visit?'

Instead--

"There you are," Tony said like a sigh, like he had so many months ago after Peter's first day back at school, but this time when he drew Peter over to him, it wasn't for a hug.

Peter groaned into the kiss with total gratification, that itch of TonyTonyTony that had been whispering at the back of his mind over the last few days finally satisfied, and he wrapped his arms around Tony to hold him even closer.

Peter could have stayed like that forever, but he didn't chase after it when Tony finally pulled back-- first, because Tony didn't go far, cupping Peter's face in both of his hands and staying close enough that their foreheads were almost pressed together, and second, because Tony immediately blurted, "I love you."

And then just as immediately cringed, face scrunching with mortification like Peter's heart wasn't floating somewhere around the stratosphere.

"I-- sorry-- too fast-- I missed you," Tony stammered as he straightened up, but he kept his hands on Peter the whole time, like he was afraid to let go.

Peter grinned at him, wobbly, and he couldn't even pretend to be offended when he said, "I wanted to say it first this time, you jerk."

Tony's half-panic and half-apology smoothed out into a little helpless smile of his own, and he said, "Well-- you did. Technically."

"That's not the same thing," Peter said, and he leaned in for another kiss.

It was softer this time, less urgent, and Peter only pulled back at all because he wanted to see Tony's face when he said, quietly, "I love you too, by the way. Obviously."

It still made Tony look nervous, for him to say it. But he smiled, too, and-- that was enough.

"So backwards," Tony sighed, pulling Peter in for an actual hug this time. "I was gonna take you on a date. Something low-key, nothing to raise eyebrows. At least one date before dropping any L-bombs, like we're not already doing the whole manual out of order, but I thought I could manage this one thing."

"Fuck the manual," Peter said, and Tony's chest jerked against his when he laughed, startled. Peter tucked his face against Tony's neck, and said, "I'm glad you didn't wait."

Tony stroked his fingers through Peter's hair while they stood there by the door and held each other, and Peter loved when he did that.

And, since he could-- he told him so.

"I know, that's why I do it," Tony answered with a warm edge of humor to his voice, and god, he was so hot. "Well, and because you have nice hair."

You should pull it, Peter thought with startling intensity even to himself, but Tony had said 'slow,' so instead of saying it he just flushed and bit his lip and leaned in for another kiss.

Tony's definition of slow apparently didn't exclude winding up on the couch with Peter in his lap, kissing slow and hot and electric, but he did keep one hand on Peter's hip as if to remind him not to press closer, and he was the one to finally break away and lean his head back against the couch with a sigh and rough, "Okay."

"Okay," Peter echoed, sliding out of his lap onto the couch and wondering what the etiquette was supposed to be for excusing himself for some privacy after all that, but a little reluctant to leave anyway when Tony was there beside him looking so warm and half-lidded and tempting.

Tony reached to take his hand as Peter settled beside him, and he passed his thumb over Peter's knuckles as he asked, "Feeling okay, baby?"

Oh.

"Yeah," Peter whispered, and he didn't crawl back into Tony's lap, he just turned so that he could kiss him again because they were supposed to stop. But it felt so good, hearing that and knowing that Tony did mean it the way that it sounded, that it wasn't just some well-meaning attempt to comfort him that sounded more intimate than Tony intended in the aftermath of what had happened--

"Tony," Peter sighed, and the way Tony's breath caught against his lips at the sound of his name nearly made Peter forget what he was trying to say. He pulled it together, though, drawing himself back from the intoxicating press of Tony's mouth with some difficulty, and said, "I know… I know you said 'slow,' and I'm not arguing, but I-- can you tell me why? Is it for me, or…?"

Tony moved back too, and Peter could see that he was a little reluctant to actually talk about it, but-- he did. Tony nodded with a sigh of his own, and said, "We're… we really are doing this all backwards. And that's not really-- fair to you, Pete, uh."

He sucked in a breath and held it for a moment, clearly considering his words, and then said, "You just got-- thrown in the deep end, with-- this. And that's not how it's supposed to be, you're not supposed to-- you're supposed to have your first kiss before you have sex, you're--"

Tony shook his head and frowned, regretful.

"You didn't get to do the whole… messing around on the couch, figuring out what you like and only moving things along once you got comfortable with it… thing. And you should-- get to do that, even if we already-- it's still important."

He shrugged widely, his face twisting with an uncertain wince as he said, "And hell, Peter, I don't know, maybe this is just me being-- condescending and trying to tell you what you're ready for, but--"

"No," Peter interrupted, soft. "No, that… that makes sense."

It did. Peter did feel ready for more already, but he could see how Tony was right, and that it was only because he'd already had to do things he wasn't ready for yet in the first place. So if Tony wanted to give him that-- that gradual build, that chance to really work his way up to the things he'd been blindsided by, before-- he would take it.

What was waiting a little longer, when the waiting was for someone who loved him that much?

Tony smiled at him, a little uncertain, and said, "So-- that's the why. And. And, uh."

Tony's smile dropped and he looked away, cracking his jaw and swallowing hard before he finally looked back, eyes fixed over Peter's shoulder, and said, "And it might be. For me. A little bit. That, too."

"Oh," Peter breathed, and-- he somehow hadn't even thought of that, even though he'd been so worried about it in the beginning when Tony wouldn't touch him at all, somehow the knowledge that Tony did want him had made him forget that-- Tony wanting him didn't mean that Tony was comfortable with everything rolled up into it, and--

"I'm sorry, I didn't-- you would tell me, right? If I do something-- it wouldn't hurt my feelings," Peter scrambled to say, jumbled, and Tony squeezed his hand bracingly and shook his head.

"I know, Peter, you don't have to-- let's not make a big deal out of it," Tony said, and he was actually blushing, a mortified flush blooming faintly along his cheeks, and Peter was abruptly breathless with the understanding of--

Just how hard had it been, for Tony to admit that?

Just how much did he trust Peter, that he had said it anyway?

"Okay," Peter said, and he leaned forward to press a quick kiss to the corner of Tony's mouth, sweet and chaste. "I love you."

And Tony smiled, even if it was a little weak, and leaned his head to Peter's, and said, "I love you too."

And Peter knew, without a trace of uncertainty, that he meant it.

Chapter Text

"You know, I've actually been to therapy a bunch of times before," Tony said while he poked around Agent "call-me-Iris" Landry's office.

He pulled a book off the shelf and flipped through it idly just for something to do with his hands, and said, "The first time was after my parents died. That was back in the day, y'know, so Obie didn't love the idea-- thought it looked bad for the company or something, me going to a shrink-- but I still went, for all of two visits. But it turned out I wasn't really in the frame of mind to listen to what anyone else had to say about it then, so."

Tony clicked his tongue with a shrug, shoving the book back into its spot and wandering over to the potted plant Agent Landry had on the windowsill, gently toying with a leaf.

"And then, off and on after that. Dealing with addiction, and Afghanistan, all that. Never stuck. Combination of even therapists just telling me what I wanted to hear to get their paycheck, and, well. Still being too self-absorbed to want to listen to what anyone else had to say, probably."

He gave up on finding anything to actually occupy him, and just started to pace.

"Plus, y'know-- I know you folks have regulations and all that, HIPAA, that kind of thing, and I have enough money to sue God, but-- I could never get past the idea that unless it was something I'd never said to anyone, what was there to say it was my shrink, if the tabloids got ahold of something juicy? Call it trust issues, whatever, but I never really could get into. Feelings. And I hear that that's supposed to be the whole point."

Agent Landry watched him pace patiently, her expression calm and attentive. And when he didn't launch into another monologue, she said, "I can see how it would feel very vulnerable to share with others, being so high-profile. I want to reassure you that you can take this at your own pace."

And she asked, for the second time, "So where would you like to start?"

Tony finally dropped onto the couch, sent one last hail-mary glance at the ceiling, and blurted, "I'm dating Peter."

And there was usually very little that he delighted in more than making someone unflappable crack, but all he got out of Agent Landry's dumbfounded expression was a bolt of utter stomach-churning anxiety.

"He turned seventeen in August, so, y'know-- I know you're a mandatory reporter but it's, legal," Tony said, like it wasn't damning that he had to clarify that at all. He couldn't stop himself from adding, "Not that we've had sex, because we haven't. Well, except for the time that we did, but you know about that already."

Agent Landry was a pro, though, he'd give her props for that, because she schooled her expression just as quickly as it had cracked, and her tone was nothing but pleasantly neutral when she asked, "So you and Peter are in a relationship. When did that start?"

"New Year's Day," Tony mumbled, face in his hands.

"I see. That's very new, then. How are you feeling about that?" she prompted.

And the fear was still there, but-- he'd already said the hardest part, and. Well. It was something he'd never told anyone else, this time.

So he told her. About the fear that he was somehow going to screw Peter up despite his best intentions by virtue of being himself, about the guilt of not being strong enough to hold back even with that fear. About wanting so, so much for Peter to be happy, and doubting that he could make Peter happy, and the fear that he'd been-- somehow, secretly angling for this, even unbeknownst to himself, that he'd somehow encouraged Peter's teenage crush on him for this outcome. The fear that Peter would come to that conclusion someday, whether it was true or not, since Peter's feelings about it mattered more than his, anyway. The logistics of it, of telling people, of keeping it hidden until they told people; the way he knew there was no way they'd even get the thing off the ground without hiding it for a while but how it made him feel like a total scumbag, anyway.

The way that he could barely stand to even think about having that conversation with May Parker, after she'd forgiven him, refused to blame him, let him cry on her shoulder all those months ago.

"I want to do this right," he said, bouncing his knee in agitation and gesticulating adamantly. "But there is no 'right,' here, it's the most ass-backwards thing in the world, so how do you be a good partner to someone when you're the worst possible person they could have picked?"

Agent Landry hummed thoughtfully, and she had listened quietly throughout almost Tony's entire flood of thoughts except for the odd clarifying question, brows occasionally creasing in concern or raising in mild surprise. Now, she tipped her head slightly and said, "I'm hearing that you're dealing with a lot of stress right now. It's a lot to be handling at all, Tony, and a lot of pressure for a new relationship."

She said, "I want you to understand that this is a genuine question and not me making a judgment, here: if being with Peter is so stressful for you, why are you staying?"

And Tony stared at her, thrown for a loop, because it was both a great question and the most stupidly obvious question in the world.

"Well," he said, swallowing hard. "Why does-- why does anyone do relationships? Dealing with someone in your space and having to remember birthdays and anniversaries and-- arguing over what to eat for dinner or put on the TV and-- all relationships have downsides, so. Why do any of us do it?"

"That's a good point," Agent Landry said. She said, "What do you think?"

It wanted to get stuck in his throat. He could only imagine the conclusions Agent Landry was drawing over the way he had almost vomited out his every anxiety and self-judgment, but couldn't bring himself to confess the things that made him happy, had deflected when she asked him to, and-- if that already made him feel dangerously transparent, the idea of sharing more felt outright terrifying, but--

But there was an answer to that question, and he wasn't going to do Peter the disservice of pretending it wasn't true, and he was here to make things work.

He cleared his throat, and tucked his hands together so they wouldn't shake, and he said, "I-- I love him. I-- yeah."

And Agent Landry nodded, a ghost of a soft smile crossing her face.

"Tell me about that," she said, gentle.

So he thought about Peter and the endless number of things that made Peter himself, and he told her, and he found to his own surprise that his breath came easier and easier the longer he talked.

So when Peter got back from visiting his friends, he told him, too.

It was too easy to forgive himself for loving Peter in the end, was the thing.

Being attracted to him, when he'd thought that was all that it was? Oh, he could beat himself up about that all day. Easy as pie, no worries about actually acting on anything there, because what kind of middle-aged man was attracted to a barely-legal teenager? The worst kind, obviously.

But loving Peter-- well. Tony couldn't hardly blame himself for that, because Peter was wonderful, was the most exceptional person Tony thought he had ever met, and in his position he'd met a lot of exceptional people. Peter was the exact kind of person to change the world without even meaning to, without even ever stepping foot outside of New York City if he didn't want to-- so brilliant, and so kind, with that effortless bone-deep goodness that Tony didn't think would ever come naturally to him the same way.

And if that made Peter the exact kind of person that Tony didn't remotely deserve, then-- Peter had picked him, and Tony had only ever regretted the times where he'd held out on giving Peter what he wanted. So sure, he didn't deserve Peter, but-- he could try to, he could go to therapy and talk about how not to fuck up their relationship because of their differences in age and experience and lifestyle and the secrecy and Tony's terrible communication skills and the fucking Westcott thing--

And Peter was still going to move on, someday. So Tony was just going to enjoy what he had while he had it, and do his best to make sure Peter had as little to regret as possible, and if opening himself up to maybe the best thing that had ever happened to him was terrifying when he knew there was no way for it to last--

Well. It was hard to argue, even to himself sometimes, that it wasn't worth it.

"Good morning," Peter muttered drowsily when Tony's alarm went off, nuzzling into Tony's chest with a sigh.

Peter was clingy, and Tony was a little put out with himself sometimes over how much he loved it. There was something-- something to finally getting to touch without having to be careful, without having to put himself under a microscope to determine how mentorly that specific touch read as, without having to think about whether he was giving Peter the wrong idea, without having to think about whether he was giving Peter the right idea.

"'Morning," Tony yawned, and he stroked his fingers once through Peter's hair to feel how Peter leaned into it like a cat. "Gonna sleep in?"

"No, I'll get up," Peter said, and he pulled himself away with a little sigh.

"I can make my own breakfast," Tony offered, like they hadn't already had this conversation at least three times. "I'm a big boy."

Peter scrunched his nose disagreeably, shaking his head as he stretched, and he said, "Yeah, but then after you leave we have to be, like, normal all day."

There was that. Tony didn't have to be careful in the penthouse, but everywhere else in the tower-- that was a different story.

They had done okay, so far. Peter had always gravitated to him in groups, had always looked to check his expression before anyone else's, so that was all fine. It was on Tony more than anything to not reciprocate, so that they didn't cross the line into exchanging wordless glances or settling next to each other with the easy familiarity of partners, and-- it was harder than he'd expected, when he'd been so hypervigilant about where Peter was and what he was thinking and feeling for so long, but he was managing.

"Such a hardship," Tony teased, like it didn't bother him too, to have Peter go from leaning on his shoulder or hooking his ankle around Tony's or tangling their legs together on the couch to keeping a safety distance in the lab or gym or elevators.

"Not really," Peter answered, dropping the joking atmosphere to smile at him, soft and open and unafraid.

Jesus. Tony loved him.

Tony showered and dressed while Peter wandered off to his own room to get ready for the day, for as much as that room was only "Peter's" in the sense that he kept his things in it. He slept in Tony's room exclusively these days, and spent his free time at the tower in the living room, watching TV or working on one of Tony's modified work tablets or, when Tony wasn't at work--

Well.

Tony tried to keep-- most of that-- out of the actual bedroom, to keep things from... escalating. Peter was always respectful, and would ease off with a cue as subtle as a touch or a sigh while Tony pulled away from a kiss, but-- he also clearly knew what he wanted, and wanted it frequently, and he wasn't as good at recognizing what might make things escalate on his own.

So. They spent a lot of time on the couch.

And it wasn't that he didn't want Peter, obviously. He did, but that fact still sat in his stomach like a stone, sticky with guilt, no matter how much Peter reassured him and showed him how much it absolutely wasn't one-sided. He would smooth his hand down Peter's back, and the hitch in his breath was just the same as it had been in the cell, and-- sometimes it didn't bother him, and sometimes he couldn't put it out of his mind, and he would end up spiraling over whether Peter would want this at all if he hadn't been forced into it in the first place.

Which was-- silly. He could recognize now how long the seed of Peter's feelings had been there. And he could recognize now that-- given enough time, given the specific-and-unlikely configuration of events that Peter hadn't found someone else and Tony hadn't somehow burned that bridge by the time Peter was, say, finishing up his Master's degree--

This still could have happened, Westcott or no Westcott. With a whole lot less heartache, for sure, but-- they just bounced off of each other too well for that thread not to have had some potential, even without the accelerated timeline on Tony ever, ever looking at Peter that way.

"Tony," Peter called softly, and he smiled and gestured teasingly to the forkful of eggs that Tony had been holding about an inch above his plate for the last minute, lost in thought. "Are they that bad?"

"Of course not, baby," Tony said, snapping to attention. "You know how eggs just get me all philosophical. 'Which came first,' et cetera."

Peter grinned and said, "Soft sciences? Are you feeling okay?"

It was a real question, even though he'd couched it as a joke. Peter had a way of-- sensing somehow, whether Tony had gone quiet because he was thinking about how to troubleshoot the latest snag in one of his projects or whether he was thinking about… more personal things, and he was never frustrated by Tony's lapses in attention either way, which was a novel experience.

"Soft sciences can be enriching in moderation," Tony said, and he changed the subject. "What time are you heading back to May's?"

He was supposed to be being honest with Peter, but-- it was too much, to say all of it. It was too early, too ridiculous that Tony was thinking like this so soon into things. That now that Tony had accepted it, he could hardly imagine a future where he wouldn't have fallen at least a little bit in love with Peter despite himself-- where he wouldn't have felt a wistful tug over watching Peter grow into the best version of himself as a hero and scientist and husband and father from afar, even if he never would have examined what that meant.

He already felt that tug sometimes. A preemptive wash of nostalgia for what he knew wouldn't last, whenever he let himself really look at Peter. Next to him in bed, soft and warm and filling up the space that Tony was always acutely aware of now, whenever Peter was gone. Across the table from him on a date disguised as an outing, burgers and milkshakes instead of steak and champagne, no touching and no flirting but still so, so pleased to be out together. Draped against his side on the couch while they watched a movie, head tucked against Tony's shoulder. On the other side of the lab, worrying at his lower lip while he fine-tuned the delicate mechanisms of his webshooters.

And even the times when he didn't let himself look at Peter-- those times that they were with the others and Peter did something so perfectly himself that Tony had to duck his head and pretend to be on his phone, because he knew if he let himself look the expression on his face would give him away in an instant--

He would miss this all someday, but it wasn't someday yet. So he let himself savor the morning, sitting next to Peter at the breakfast bar and making plans to meet up that afternoon for one last lunch before Peter went back to school Tuesday morning, and he let Peter kiss him goodbye in front of the elevator until it was right on the edge of being a problem, because that way Peter was dazed and pink-faced and smiling instead of reluctant to see him go.

"I love you," Peter sighed, eyes crinkling at the corners with a grin that would have had Tony looking elsewhere if there was anyone else around to see. "Have a good day."

"Love you too," Tony answered with one last peck, and he knew he was in too deep when it didn't feel like an admission of guilt.

Tony had actually been worried about Valentine's Day. Or, not the day itself, because that was a school day and it would have been the kind of obvious that they were trying to avoid if Peter had come to the tower to see him specifically on the day-of, but the following weekend-- either way, whatever, he'd been worried about it.

It was always awkward timing to be in a relatively new relationship when Valentine's Day rolled around, the usual awkwardness of navigating holidays as a couple multiplied by that first holiday being one about the relationship itself, and when it was still in its early stages. A younger Tony would have just bulldozed over the awkwardness by going all-out anyway, a two thousand dollar dinner and a five thousand dollar gift and rose petals scattered on the bed, because that was easier than actually reading the mood of the relationship to figure out if it was serious or not, if it was going to last or not, if his partner would be dazzled or intimidated by the excess.

But Peter deserved better than that, and Tony couldn't drop a couple thousand on taking Peter to Masa even if he wanted to and a romantic dinner in felt like a frighteningly different thing than a romantic dinner out, and they weren't-- doing any kind of rose-petals-on-the-bed activities-- and Peter more than anything wanted their relationship to be on as even of ground as it could get, so it would be outright thoughtless to get him a meaninglessly flashy gift that he could never hope to reciprocate, and--

He should have known better than to spend so much time worrying about it, forming and scrapping ideas and feeling like an idiot for stressing so much over Valentine's Day-- christ, he and Pepper hadn't even celebrated other than making sure to have some favorite treats in the fridge and a clear evening schedule-- because as it turned out, Peter did end up coming by the tower on the day-of, and not for a reason that either of them was happy about.

"This has to be about Peter somehow," Tony insisted, dragging a hand through his hair as he finally turned away from yet another half-destroyed drone casing in disgust.

"It does seem like a stretch that he keeps running into them," Bruce agreed, and Peter frowned, staring daggers at the drone like he could intimidate it into telling him something new.

He was way too cute for that, super powers or no, but Tony made the executive decision that he wasn't going to share that thought with Peter. Even if Peter wasn't still a little sensitive about being a younger hero, he was clearly already on edge-- and the drone would have done that itself, but he always got particularly worked up about any implication that Westcott's crew was interested in him specifically.

Which-- Tony could agree with some of his reasoning for that; Westcott had made it pretty clear that the initial kidnapping had been about some kind of beef with Tony himself, but that thought failed to take into account that Peter kept running into these fucking drones all over the place.

There had been two more already since the last time, in only a matter of a few weeks. It was maybe too soon to call it an escalation, but Tony didn't love the implication that Westcott's crew was ramping up for something, and he knew Peter was thinking the same thing.

"Why would they want to watch me, though? There's plenty of footage of me fighting online that they could analyze if they're just looking for weaknesses," Peter argued, like he always did. He added, "Plus-- I mean, maybe it's just that I don't notice them when I'm fighting, but it seems like they're always hanging around when I'm just taking a break."

"They would actually engage if it was about breaking down your powers or combat patterns," Nat agreed, gesturing to the fried drone on Tony's workbench. "They're obviously not too concerned about losing their equipment."

"And the second one flew away from me before I grabbed it, like it wasn't interested in me at all," Peter said, nodding.

"But the sightings have been so spread out at this point that it doesn't make sense that they're doing general recon, either," Steve said with a frown, and Tony barely restrained himself from a frustrated growl, because they'd been over and over and over all of this already.

"Pete, look," Tony started, and it was so hard to strike the right tone in front of the others, trying not to fall into too intimate or too paternal, because the first would raise eyebrows and the second wasn't fair to Peter. He said, "I know Westcott was only after me, but I don't think we can rule out these assholes being petty enough to want to target you after you and your spider-eyes ruined their plans before, so can we--"

He stopped, and saw the realization dawn on Peter's face a full second before everyone else's.

Sam groaned, rubbing a hand over his face.

"How do we have so many geniuses but still get away with being so dumb," he complained, and Tony had to agree.

"They're testing their projection tech on you, because you're the only person who can see through it," Tony muttered, dragging his hands through his hair again, and why had it taken him so long to realize?

Peter's face was drawn.

"But-- well, okay, I guess it's not news that they're-- maybe going to try again at some point, but-- there's so many ways to do it where I wouldn't know? I mean, they could just-- grab you while I'm at school, we think they know my identity, so--" Peter said, but Tony could see that the idea held weight with him.

"Have they been getting harder to spot?" he asked quietly, and Peter paused for a tense, reluctant moment before he blew out a breath and nodded.

"I-- yeah, I guess. It seems like-- yeah, maybe they... flicker less often now, especially compared to Westcott's car," Peter mumbled, rubbing a hand over his face.

Steve nodded, mouth flattened in a grim line.

"We all have to keep in mind that it's just a theory, but-- it makes sense," he said, and Peter nodded reluctantly.

"They're throwing a lot of tech and resources at this. Their plans probably don't stop with just killing me, so they want to make sure your vision is all accounted for," Tony said, and he didn't like that thought-- that these guys had bigger intentions, might hang around enough to be a thorn in Spider-man's side that they wanted to account for him in advance, but at least now they had an angle.

He sat up straighter and went to clap his hands with finality, ready to get down to brass tacks on making a plan, when Peter interjected, "Why not just kill me?"

Tony sucked in a breath, and Peter offered him an apologetic look even as he added, "If I'm such a-- problem for them and their plans, why bother with upgrading their equipment instead of just…?"

There was a long pause, before Steve finally admitted, "That's a good question."

"Maybe they… see themselves as heroes?" Bruce offered hesitantly. "And they see Tony as some kind of villain, but not Spider-man?"

"Oh, what, and they're too good to hurt me?" Peter scoffed, rolling his eyes, and it made Tony's gut twist with guilt every time his voice went dark and bitter like that, such a stark contrast to his usual optimism.

Bruce cringed and murmured an apology that had guilt stealing over Peter's expression as well, like it hadn't been a valid point-- but Barnes spoke up from where he'd been quietly listening to the debate.

"Westcott may have been an outlier within the group," he said with a slight shrug. "They were quick to discard him in the end. But either way, we can assume they're ruthless enough that they wouldn't be hesitating to kill Peter if that was an option that worked with their plans."

"Okay, that's enough on that topic," Tony interjected loudly, because his chest was getting a little tight and he wasn't going to have a panic attack over Peter in front of the entire team. Peter frowned at him, but Tony pressed on and insisted, "Let's stop throwing spaghetti at the wall and get back to what we pretty much know. They're testing their tech on Peter; what are we going to do about that?"

And he really needed to get away from the thought of-- Peter dying-- so he didn't give anyone else time to answer before he kept going, and said, "I say Pete starts really committing to pretending he can't see this stuff. Let's keep these guys from actually perfecting their tech, so when they make a move we still have some kind of tell."

Peter startled, probably from the abrupt subject change and Tony's suggestion alike, and he protested, "But-- if I pretend they've already perfected it-- won't that make them make a move?"

Tony shrugged.

"They're after me either way, Pete; we might as well make sure they have fewer cards up their sleeve when they try again if they're gonna do it anyway," he said, and he could tell from the set of Peter's jaw that they were already going to have to talk about that one later in private, but.

He never was good at knowing when to stop.

"Actually, we might want to think of setting up some kind of sting, after you've had a couple of encounters to really hammer in that you can't see their shit anymore," Tony said with another shrug. "Some kind of juicy opportunity to abduct me that's not public enough to put civilians in danger."

"We're not using you as bait," Peter insisted, appalled, and they were definitely going to end up talking about that in private but-- more pressingly, Peter said it firmly enough that Tony saw a few subtle glances thrown his way, because Peter never talked to him like that before-- everything.

"We don't know that they'll actually try for kidnapping again," Nat put in, saving Tony from figuring out how to respond to that in front of an audience. "Westcott had a grudge, but the remaining team might be less interested in drawing things out and skip straight to assassination. It would be harder to put safety measures in place for that."

Peter looked at him with wide eyes, and the conflict between wanting to agree because it kept Tony out of danger, and wanting to shy away from the truth that these guys might just try to straight-up murder him the next time was clear on his face.

Steve nodded, though, taking control of the situation, and said, "I agree; it's too risky when we don't know what to look out for. Getting them to act under our terms sounds like a good idea, but not when there's no guarantee we'll be able to catch on in time to stop them."

"And," he added, pinning Tony with a pointed look, "if we were going to make some kind of sting, Peter would have to be heavily involved as the only person who can see through the projections. It puts just as much of a target on him as it does on you, and I don't think any of us want to bank on absolute certainty that they won't hurt him if it comes down to it."

That-- was true.

Tony swallowed hard and held up his hands in mock-surrender, and he didn't think he nailed the casual tone he was going for as he said, "It was an idea. Either way-- Pete starts ignoring the drones. Yeah?"

There was a flutter of nods and murmurs of agreement, but Peter's mouth was still drawn into a tight line of dismay.

"They'll come after you," Peter repeated himself, and Tony didn't know how to deal with this-- as Peter's partner, he wanted to pitch his voice low and soothing, but as a team member, he wanted to play it off.

"We'll keep doing the security checks when I have outside business," he said without meeting Peter's eyes, and he shrugged. "They'll trip up sooner or later, and we'll be ready. I'm not going to hide away, and there's no reason for us to keep letting them use you as their illusion guinea pig."

"We'll tighten security for Tony's business outings, and you two will keep working on cracking the projectors," Steve told Peter reassuringly, and it was a little unfair that he could go all gentle and sweet when he was talking to Peter and Tony couldn't. "We'll all have our eyes on him, okay? We've got this."

"I-- yeah, okay, I get it," Peter said, blowing out a gust of breath and rubbing a hand over his face.

They talked about logistics. Peter was concerned that ignoring the drones might lead to attacks on the public, but since the drones didn't have weapons systems in place and the self-destructs were relatively self-contained, he admitted that it was probably a concern for later. They all agreed that if Peter ever saw a collection of drones, that might be a reason to call in back-up, but for now-- he was supposed to do his best to ignore them.

"I don't like it," Peter admitted when they got back to Tony's suite after a silent elevator ride, and he stepped in to lean his head against Tony's shoulder.

"I know," Tony said, and he reveled in finally getting to run a hand over Peter's hair, holding him close. "One of the hazards of dating Tony Stark, I'm afraid. Superheroes really do make for obnoxious boyfriends, don't they?"

Peter snorted, wrapping his arms around Tony's waist and sighing.

"Does it make it better that it's a two-way street? You get to worry about bad guys after me, I get to worry about bad guys after you, it all comes out in the wash?"

"It at least means I have to recognize how hypocritical it would be to actually wrap you in bubble-wrap and refuse to let you leave the tower," Tony admitted, because he was maybe feeling that urge a little more strongly than usual in that moment.

Peter huffed a laugh, and pulled back enough so that they could see each other's faces to say, "You couldn't wrap me in bubble-wrap so I couldn't go on patrol if I webbed you down so you couldn't go on business trips first."

Tony could have made a joke about drawing straws for who got to be the overprotective boyfriend that day, or how maybe it was lucky that they couldn't be the obnoxious new couple that went everywhere attached at the hip after all, or a million other things.

Instead, because he was never any good at having a filter at the best of times and particularly not when he was trying to distract himself from unpleasant thoughts, what he said was, "Kinky."

What he expected, once his brain actually caught up to his mouth, was for Peter to go bright red and maybe laugh and tease Tony back, if he was feeling confident, or maybe go all shy and tongue-tied if he wasn't.

And Peter did blush and go wide-eyed, sure. But Tony could see the moment that the word must have translated itself into a mental image, because Peter's gaze went dark and unfocused and he wet his lips, parted uselessly not from the shyness of inexperience, but from--

"Oh," Tony said, his anxiety dropping away as his mouth went a little dry for different reasons entirely. "That actually does something for you."

"No-- well-- maybe," Peter admitted, cheeks flaming.

"Do you want to tie me up, baby?" Tony asked, because he couldn't help it, this side of Peter was fascinating--

Peter groaned and struggled playfully against Tony's arms around his waist, and said, "Don't ask me about it if you're not gonna let me try it!"

Oh, right. Goddammit. He was still sending mixed messages.

"Sorry," Tony said, and he kissed Peter's forehead before he let him go. But then because he was himself, he added, "I mean, I'm pretty interested in hearing about the things you want to do, but you're right that maybe it's a little unfair to ask under the circumstances."

And Peter didn't jokingly complain about how much time he was already having to spend slinking away from the couch for some privacy, like Tony expected-- instead, he looked up at Tony consideringly, not unwrapping himself from his hold on Tony's waist.

"Would that actually help?" Peter asked. "With the-- going slow thing. Hearing about it and knowing it's something I want?"

Fuck.

"I," Tony said, blinking rapidly, and he wasn't sure what he was more overwhelmed by-- Peter's utter sincerity in the question, so unguarded in talking about the-- particular challenges of their relationship-- or the way he so clearly wanted to help Tony through his hang-ups, even if it was something uncomfortable for himself, or--

Or the mental image that brought up, of Peter sitting in his lap and leaning in to whisper his fantasies into Tony's ear, working himself up from body heat and his own words alone.

"I wouldn't mind," Peter said, earnest, scanning Tony's face for the opinion his mouth hadn't managed to muster. "Even if we didn't do any of it? I was just teasing about that. If it'd help you feel better, I could talk about it."

It probably would help, if Tony's reaction to just the thought was anything to go by. It probably would.

He said, "Let's-- table it for now."

Peter let out a little breath that was more unmet anticipation than actual disappointment, because the utter sincerity and devotion in his eyes never faltered for a second, but it still sent a pang through the part of Tony's mind that liked to whisper pathetic whenever he couldn't give Peter whatever he wanted because of his-- fucking hang-ups--

Peter leaned in to kiss him lightly, because he was perfect, and said, "Okay. Just tell me if you ever want to? Or anything else I can do for you."

"Well," Tony said, "you could tell me what you want to do for Valentine's Day, since I gotta admit, Pete, I'm at a loss," and he wondered if asking Peter about it directly made up for whatever good-boyfriend-healthy-communication points he'd lost for dodging the harder topic in the first place.

Peter's expression brightened, his eyes widening with surprise, and he said, "I totally forgot that was today! Happy Valentine's Day-- I thought we weren't doing anything because you didn't bring it up--"

He kissed Tony again enthusiastically, and that was really fucking cute but okay, wow, apparently he was even further in the negative with good-boyfriend-healthy-communication points than he'd thought.

"Why didn't you bring it up?" Tony asked, because he hated to think of Peter just thinking he'd-- forgotten, or didn't care or whatever it was, when the way Peter's whole face had lit up told him everything he needed to know about whether Peter cared.

Peter flushed, avoiding Tony's eyes in a way that he clearly wasn't supposed to notice.

"Well, I just-- we haven't been together very long, and I didn't know if it was something you even usually did, and I didn't-- I don't need you to like, get me anything," Peter said in a rush, and oh, that couldn't be allowed to stand.

"Okay," Tony said, giving Peter a little squeeze where they were still entangled together. "New relationship rule: all holidays get discussed in advance. What's up next? President's Day? Should we do red, white and blue pancakes for breakfast? Wanna do a midday co-nap for Daylight Savings? I can make you a green Spidey suit for St. Patrick's Day."

Peter laughed, and Tony was relieved to see his embarrassment fade away-- he wasn't going to let that happen again, dammit-- but Peter's smile did grow a little shy when he asked, "Can we maybe just… cook dinner together this weekend? Like, maybe something neither of us have made before? I know we can't really-- go out to do new stuff together, but it could be fun to do something new at home?"

And actually talking to Peter about it, which Tony was really going to have to learn to do first one of these days, it was that easy. That simple, that--

"Perfect," Tony sighed, and he kissed Peter for good measure.

Valentine's Day weekend went off without a hitch.

The next few weeks, however--

"I hate just ignoring them," Peter griped, raking his fingers through his hair to straighten it out from how it'd been flattened by his mask. "I'm always worried they're going to start attacking people or something, and I know none of them have had weapons so far, but-- I hate just swinging away like I don't see them."

Peter had been sticking to his word about ignoring the drones since his last encounter with one, and the drone sightings had increased dramatically in response-- sometimes three at a time, now, all hanging out on the same rooftop or fluttering around in front of the same bench, looking for all the world like any of the other thousands of pigeons in New York through the video captured by Peter's mask despite the way they glitched to Peter's eyes.

Which on the one hand was great, because that meant the plan was working, but on the other hand--

Well. The plan was working, which meant that Peter was getting more and more wound up about it every time a new drone appeared and he had to pretend like the idiots behind them were safe to take another swing at Tony. Add that to Tony having another business trip coming up-- Malibu this time, so at least it wasn't overseas-- and Peter was pretty much a walking pile of nerves.

"We could revisit the idea of a tracking device," Tony said, turning the thought over in his mind for the hundredth time. The problem was that the drones did have contact sensors, so the idea of designing something subtle enough not to be detected even if Peter could somehow get away with placing it in the first place was a stretch. "It'd be a race to see if we could design it before they decide they're done tweaking their own tech, though."

Peter shook his head, even though it looked like it pained him to do, and gestured weakly as he said, "No, it-- if we'd thought to do it from the start, maybe, but now that I've already been ignoring them-- if they do catch on, there's a risk that they won't trust it again if I try the same trick after, and-- I don't want them to actually keep working on their tech; I need to be able to see it if something actually happens. You-- you have that trip coming up, we can't... No, we'll stick to the plan."

Tony caught Peter's hand as he passed by on another loop of his pacing track, and Peter sighed as Tony tugged him over, relaxing into Tony's hold. Tony kissed his forehead, and tried to push away the flickers of guilt that Peter was only this stressed because of Tony-- Tony's past and Tony's fame and Tony's uncanny ability to piss off the exact kinds of people that would try to murder him in response to it-- because he was supposed to be working on identifying productive guilt versus unproductive guilt, and if he felt guilty about stressing Peter, he was supposed to channel that into something productive.

"Go shower and change, Sticky," Tony said, and Peter did at least wrinkle his nose at him in mock-offense, lips pulled into a reluctant smile that ruined the effect. "And then we'll unwind, okay? I know you hate the plan, but the plan is working, so let's relax."

"Okay," Peter sighed, and he kissed Tony before pulling away to go off to his room.

He still showered in there, even though Tony's shower was better. He'd admitted quietly at one point that it was because he still blanked out his mirror when he was fully undressed, even though he'd gotten more comfortable with looking into it when he was just brushing his teeth or hair.

Tony had thought about offering to replace his own mirror with a smart one as well, but it felt like that might-- send a signal. Money might have been a non-issue for Tony, but he could at least recognize that making bedroom renovations for the sake of your partner probably wasn't supposed to be a barely-two-months-together relationship milestone, and he didn't--

He'd told Peter as clearly as he could, and frequently enough that Peter seemed to find it irritating, that Peter shouldn't feel beholden to him for anything Tony gave him in their relationship. That Peter could and should leave as soon as Tony stopped making him happy, and damn the mirrors and the suits and everything else. But Tony knew that was easier said than done, especially for someone as conscientious as Peter, and he didn't want Peter to see all of those signals of the accelerated timeline on their relationship, the signals that Tony was in for as much of a long-haul as Peter would give him, and-- to have that influence Peter's willingness to leave once he was ready to.

So he didn't offer to replace his mirror. But he did set up the TV to be ready to play the next episode of the Star Wars animated series that Peter was into, and he dragged out Peter's favorite luxuriously soft throw blanket for the couch, and he had a bowl of popcorn and M&Ms ready for when Peter wandered back into the living room after his shower.

Wearing Tony's MIT sweatshirt.

"That smells so good," Peter said, and Tony distantly noticed that he did seem more relaxed now that he was clean even if there was still an exhausted set to his shoulders, but he couldn't stop his mouth from blurting, "Do you really have to wear that?"

Peter pulled up short where he'd been able to round the corner of the couch, expression uncertain as he looked down at the shirt's MIT logo, and he said, "Do you... want it back?"

"No," Tony said, hurried and horrified that he'd hurt Peter's feelings. "No, baby, you can keep it. It just--"

Fuck, that had come out so wrong; there was no way Peter would believe him unless he came clean about why he'd asked.

He rubbed one hand over his face, resigned, and offered the other to Peter as he said, "It just drives me crazy to see you in it. Good-crazy. Great-crazy."

"Oh," Peter breathed, eyes going dark, and he accepted Tony's hand to hold himself steady as he maneuvered himself straight into Tony's lap on the couch.

He was so gorgeous. The thought scraped at the part of Tony's mind that was nothing but guilt, but Tony did his best to ignore it, because that wasn't productive guilt unless he was going to break up with Peter, and he wasn't. So instead he put his hands on Peter's hips while Peter linked his arms behind Tony's neck, and let himself acknowledge the truth of it: that Peter was gorgeous. The curl to his damp hair, the pretty pink flush to his cheeks, the strength in his body and the shape of his lips and the want in his eyes.

And Tony's shirt draped over his frame, just a little big on him, showing that hint of collarbone that Tony couldn't keep his eyes away from.

"Yeah," Tony said, and he meant for it to be a self-deprecating sigh, but there was too much gravel in his voice for that. He swallowed hard, and said, "I promise that's not why I gave it to you, but... here we are."

"Here we are," Peter echoed, murmuring, and he leaned in.

Tony couldn't keep his hands off of him, which was ridiculous, because it's not like a sweatshirt and pajama pants were exactly sexy-- the fabric was thick under Tony's hands, padding and disguising the actual planes of Peter's body underneath. But Tony let his hands roam over Peter's waist while they kissed, and stroked his palms up the line of Peter's back when Peter arched to let Tony kiss his way down his neck, and it was probably messed up on some level that Tony found it so devastatingly hot when Peter wore his clothes-- like he wanted a part of himself to be Tony's, and he wasn't even embarrassed to show it, and he was going to leave someday but for right now it was true--

"Tony," Peter panted, his voice buzzing against Tony's lips where Tony was worrying at the hollow of his throat, one arm supporting Peter's back while Tony stroked his other hand over the plane of his chest, tugging the collar of his sweatshirt lower with the weight of his hand, and-- normally Tony was the one who called for a stop, but Peter was right, this was further than they'd pushed things before because Tony usually didn't have such an uncontrollable urge to touch.

"Okay," Tony agreed immediately, but when he pulled away from Peter's neck to straighten up Peter just leaned forward with him, and--

"No, not that," Peter said, and his expression was not the expression of someone that wanted things to cool off, all pink-flushed and glazed over and desperate. "You just feel good, I-- Tony..."

He wouldn't let himself ask for more, Tony knew, always excessively cautious about Tony's comfort after Tony had admitted to-- what he had admitted to-- and so it was only on Tony to decide what to do next.

Peter was beautiful. And he'd been so stressed, about the drones and about Tony's upcoming business trip and still a little bit about school starting back, because neither of them was exactly happy about going back to their weekends-only arrangement even though there was nothing to be done for it, and if seeing Peter flushed and wanting and not quite able to ask for what he wanted did flash Tony back to the cell for just a second-- less than a second--

It was different now. It was different, because Tony could lean forward and kiss Peter long and slow without being rushed forward, because Peter would never rush him on purpose. Only unintentionally, with little whimpers and hitched breaths that were only a rush because of how they landed in Tony's gut, hot as embers and delicious as his favorite scotch had ever been, and Tony found that his nerves were settled by the time he reached, slow and deliberate, to slide his hand up Peter's thigh, thumb stroking the sensitive skin along the inside curve through the thin fabric of Peter's pajamas.

"Oh, fuck," Peter gasped, his hips rocking forward, and he shivered when Tony asked, "Okay?"

"Yes, yes, please," Peter said, voice catching on a whine when Tony slid his hand further up to feel the hard line of Peter's cock through his clothes.

"Are you sure?" Tony couldn't help but ask all the same, and Peter laughed, strained.

"I'm so sure," he breathed, arching into Tony's touch with a little groan, and his eyelashes fluttered open with difficulty as he added, "Only if-- if you are--"

"I am," Tony murmured, and he slipped his hand past the elastic waistband of Peter's pajamas to draw him out, hard and flushed and already slick with precome.

"Fuck, Tony," Peter moaned, cock jerking in Tony's grip, and Tony leaned in to kiss him as he started to jerk him off, slow and careful. He wasn't trying to be a tease, exactly, but he wanted Peter to get to see what it felt like when he got to go slow enough to really enjoy something, when he could savor the sensation instead of rushing too fast to process it.

"You're so beautiful," he muttered, and he laughed softly when Peter keened, hips rocking forward to fuck into Tony's grip.

"Not wanting to take it slow anymore?" he muttered teasingly. Peter groaned, eyes fluttering open to shoot Tony a put-out look, and Tony smiled and increased his pace accordingly, taking the time to swipe his thumb over the head of Peter's cock while he was at it.

"I'm not gonna-- last," Peter warned, breathless, and he leaned to tuck his face against Tony's shoulder, rocking steadily into Tony's grip and shivering in place.

It should have made Tony worry, not being able to see Peter's expression, after-- before. But it didn't, not really, because he could hear the relief in Peter's voice when he moaned and whimpered and sighed; nothing like the bitten-back, shameful sounds he'd made in the cell, trying to keep himself back from the natural pleasure of his body.

"That's okay," Tony said, and he brought up his other hand to tangle in Peter's hair, sinking his fingers into those damp curls. "Don't hold back. You've been so good, Pete."

And Tony had known already that Peter was into the hair thing-- would probably be okay with it even being a little rough, but Tony didn't want to do that-- but he didn't at all expect the sound Peter made at his words, breath hitching almost like a cry and body going taut and trembling as he came over Tony's fist.

Tony's fingers shook as he stroked them through Peter's hair while Peter panted against his neck in the aftermath, and-- god, he should have made them move when he decided to actually get Peter off, he shouldn't have let Peter come in his lap like that because he was achingly hard and Peter was too, too close, too fucking gorgeous and too tempting and too-- it kept circling through Tony's mind how insane it was that he'd let Tony have this, let Tony do this for him, trusted Tony to do this for him, and it was just--

"Oh my god," Peter muttered gustily, finally, once he'd stopped squirming through the aftershocks and settled heavy and loose-limbed in Tony's lap. "Tony..."

Tony couldn't have answered for why he was nervous about what he would see on Peter's face when he drew back from his hiding spot against Tony's shoulder. He knew that Peter had wanted it-- had confirmed that again and again-- but there was always the risk of... disappointment, or retroactive discomfort, or... This was the first time Peter had done anything that could potentially be classified as sex since-- Westcott, and what if the aftermath was a trigger that he hadn't been expecting--

But Peter didn't look disappointed, or uncomfortable, or regretful, or-- he looked bright and sated and relaxed in a way Tony hadn't seen him since before they decided to move forward with their drone plan, and he leaned forward to kiss Tony, long and slow.

Tony held himself still to avoid shifting Peter's weight in his lap while they kissed, until Peter murmured, "That felt so good," and moved his hands to Tony's waistband.

"Nope," Tony blurted, and almost made a mess of both of their hands like an idiot when he reached instinctively to bat Peter's hands away. "You don't have to do that. I just wanted to take care of you, baby."

Peter pulled back slightly after a beat, confusion bleeding through the sated fuzziness of his expression, and he said, "You don't want me to?"

"Mmh, I'm fine," Tony said, which he knew only sort of answered the question, so he added, "You looked incredible."

Peter hesitated, searching Tony's expression and biting his lip uncertainly. And Tony knew that his heart would give him away the way it always did, just a little too fast, saying this is one of those things I can't talk about yet whether Tony actually said the words or not, so he tried to quirk a smile to say the rest of it too: but that's okay, and what just happened is okay, and you don't have to feel bad about it and it's not a big deal.

And Peter must have gotten it, at least a little bit, because his shoulders relaxed and he smiled softly himself, saying, "Well, you made me feel incredible."

He pressed a kiss to the corner of Tony's mouth, sweet and chaste, and Tony loved him.

"Do you need a minute?" Peter asked with perfect neutrality, sliding out of Tony's lap and holding himself short from cuddling into Tony's side while he waited for an answer, and if Tony had been the seventeen-year-old in question he knew he definitely would not have been able to ask that question without a smirk and blatantly ogling his partner's crotch.

"That's a very polite way to ask if I'm going to go jerk off," Tony said, because maybe he was only a little bit better than he'd ever been at seventeen years old, and still found that the easiest way to deal with an awkward situation was to hang a lampshade on it.

Peter snorted, cheeks pinking back up from where his flush had started to fade, and he said, "What, am I supposed to ignore the elephant in the room? Make you pretend you need to go powder your nose?"

"Elephant, huh," Tony said, and he needed to stop doing this, setting up situations where he couldn't put his money where his mouth was, because even as Peter sputtered a laugh his eyes did automatically drop lower.

"Anyway, no more nose-powder for me, I have a heart condition," Tony added compulsively, veering the conversation away from the place he'd taken it in the first place. "Lemme go wash my hands."

He did so-- and he did not jerk off over some making out and an unreciprocated handjob, thanks-- and Peter curled back up against his side when he came back to the couch, automatically offering a corner of his throw blanket to Tony.

"I love you," Peter said, equally unprompted, as Tony curled an arm around his shoulders. He angled himself so that he could see Tony's expression, and added, "I'm glad we did that."

Which meant he was worried that Tony wasn't. He was searching, in his own way, for the same things Tony had in the aftermath-- disappointment, or regret, or discomfort--

"Me too," Tony said, and he meant it, and he thought I'll never get over you.

"--because it's the one thing I can't take back," Tony said, pacing back and forth in front of the couch. "The-- romance-- dates-- whatever, all of that is-- he can at least take that experience and use it in future relationships, y'know, that's still something valuable, but-- sex-- if it turns out that all of this is just some, thing where he's-- it's some kind of coping mechanism-- making the best of a bad situation, something like that, convincing himself that at least he got-- love out of being, raped-by-proxy or whatever the fuck we're calling it-- then the sex is just, that's not, that's only-- if I'm going to hurt him that's how, right?"

Iris hummed, watching his wild trek around and around her office.

"And I can't just give myself permission to maybe make the worst mistake of my life at his expense, and-- I know you're going to tell me that he's the one that gets to decide when he's ready, blah blah, and I know he's in therapy but it's not like this is simple, it's not like it's guaranteed that he's actually got it all figured out, hell, I'm-- nearly fucking fifty, which is part of the problem in the first place, and I don't have it all figured out. I don't want-- his first time-- his first real time, that he actually chose, to also be a mistake and a bad experience and for it to be me a-fucking-gain--"

"Tony," Iris interrupted, and the hairs stood up on the back of Tony's neck, because that tone meant that she was about to say something that was going to utterly rock his world off its axis for at least the next two days.

He froze watchfully, like she couldn't see him in all his obvious dysfunction if he didn't move. Like therapists worked on T-rex rules.

"It's okay if you don't want to talk about this," Iris prefaced. But she continued, "What was your first time like?"

Tony scoffed and waved a hand dismissively, but he didn't return to his pacing, instead flopping onto the couch.

"You think I remember that? You know my reputation, right? The ratio of people I remember having sex with to the number of people I've actually had sex with is pretty bad even before you factor in all the ones I wasn't sober for," he said, rolling his eyes.

"I would be surprised to hear you didn't remember it," Iris said, unflappable, and Tony's shoulders went tense. "You have very strong feelings about what Peter's first time should be like, if yours was really so unremarkable that you don't remember it at all."

"Well," Tony said, and the lie was on the tip of his tongue. It was almost a shock, how easily the deflection had come to him-- he hadn't really processed that he was lying until Iris had stood her ground and called him on it.

He swallowed hard instead, and fell quiet.

Iris's expression went soft, and so did her voice as she asked, "Can I ask how old you were?"

Tony cleared his throat.

"Younger than Peter," he admitted.

Iris hummed, and asked, even softer, "How old were they?"

Tony took a deep breath. He worked his jaw. He cracked each one of his finger joints. And then he said, "Older than Peter."

"Can you tell me what happened?" Iris asked, soft, soft, soft.

Tony shrugged.

"College. I was-- you know how early I started college. The other kids-- well-- they weren't kids in comparison to me, I guess-- everyone else was older," he said, halting. "Actually old enough to drink, for one. But I was going to the same parties, anyway. And. Getting up to all the same things. Until I met Rhodey, anyway."

Iris nodded slowly, her brow creased with concern, and she waited for a long moment to give him a chance to elaborate.

"How did you feel, afterwards?" she asked, when he didn't.

Tony looked down at his knees, and the words flooded his mind.

Used. Amazing. Idiotic. Proud. Like a pussy. Like the king of the world.

Ashamed.

"I don't want… Peter to feel that way," he said slowly, and he willed his voice not to shake. "But I'm-- it's the same thing. I bet the people I slept with back then told themselves I was-- mature for my age, too-- and that I wanted it, so it was fine. And that I was already doing so much other stuff I was too young for, so what was the harm--"

He put his head in his hands, and he heard Iris take a slow breath.

"First," she said, gentle but insistent. "I'm so sorry that happened to you, Tony. You deserved better, and it makes sense that you're so worried about Peter getting a better experience than you did."

"Second, I've never heard you say 'what's the harm' about your relationship with Peter. I've only ever heard you ask yourself in a thousand different ways if what you're doing is the best thing for him, and if there's anything else you can do to be a good partner for him," she said. She asked, "Do you think any of the people who took advantage of you as a teenager were asking themselves those questions?"

Tony couldn't bring himself to answer, but he did manage to shake his head, very slightly.

"I don't think so either," Iris said. "I don't think they were thinking about you at all. And again, I'm sorry, and you deserved more than that, Tony."

Tony made a vague acknowledging sound, but didn't come out from the cradle of his hands. It didn't feel like it could have gone any other way, sometimes. Older, younger-- back then, the only person he'd had who actually wanted the best for him was his mom, until she was gone, and Rhodey. Everyone else just wanted the Tony Stark experience for themselves, and to swoop away once they'd satisfied their curiosity.

"Third," Iris said with a soft sigh, after another long moment of silence that Tony didn't say anything into. "I know you couldn't answer this question for yourself, and that's okay. But I'm going to ask about Peter, now: if you and Peter were to do something physical together that was actually mutual, how do you think he would feel about it?"

Tony cleared his throat, and said, "He... He'd probably..."

He closed his eyes, and said, "He'd probably... be thrilled. He's-- he's been waiting on me for a long time, uh. Not just-- sex, but-- a relationship. A real one. He doesn't-- he doesn't want me to handle him with kid gloves, because we're supposed to have-- a real relationship-- an equal relationship-- and I think... that would be... a big sign of that, for him. That I. Trust him enough. To know what he wants."

"I think it would make our relationship stronger," he admitted. "Not because it's sex, but-- because of that. Because. He knows that if we're going to last, we need to be... equals, and-- and he wants us to last."

He finally looked up, and Iris was watching him with a little smile, sad and sympathetic and knowing, and he groaned.

"And yes, I fucking hear it, doc, I know I have intimacy issues, thanks," he grumbled, rubbing a hand over his face.

Iris laughed, quiet, and Tony did like that about her-- she took his feelings seriously, but not too seriously, and she wasn't afraid to take what he said in the way he'd intended it, even if she'd rake him over the coals for it later. This was feeling like one of those times, and--

"You told me at your first visit that you wanted to be able to be a good partner to Peter," Iris said, and Tony sighed, nodding. "It's okay if you're not ready to be vulnerable with Peter, or anyone else. You can take your time. But if that is your goal, and you do want to stay in the relationship... How well do you think a relationship can flourish when one of the people involved is afraid of letting that happen?"

"I know," Tony muttered, head hanging.

"What do you think is contributing more to not wanting to move things forward with Peter?" Iris asked. "The fear of getting closer, or the fear of hurting him?"

Tony slouched back against the couch, lifting and dropping a hand in a vague gesture, exhausted.

"Both? It's both. I don't… I know-- I do know that what me and Pete are doing isn't… exactly the same as me in college," he admitted, pushing through the nerves, because it still felt like making excuses. He did love and care about Peter, and they were in an actual relationship, and that was nothing like his string of drunken one-night stands in dorm rooms and frat houses, but-- "But that doesn't mean it can't still hurt him. Or that he won't look back and-- regret giving it up for some creepy lovestruck old man someday--"

Iris frowned reproachfully at his word choice, but Tony shook his head, pushing on before she could interrupt him because he wouldn't be able to say it again.

"And the closer we get the more it will hurt," he blurted, and saying it was a relief and a humiliation alike. "So it's both."

"Putting aside the value judgements, because you know we'll talk about those later," Iris said with a sigh, "'The more it will hurt'-- that isn't the first time you've spoken like you believe your relationship with Peter isn't going to last."

And before Tony could scoff an all-too-mature 'duh,' she added, "Do you see this as a short-term relationship, for you?"

"No," Tony startled, almost offended. "What? No."

"But you're treating it as one," Iris said leadingly, and--

"No I'm not," Tony said, because that was unfair, that was-- if anything their relationship had an accelerated timeline, more intimacy more quickly because they'd been dancing around it for so long before actually moving forward, and Tony wanted it to last, he did, he just--

--Okay, sure, he was afraid to give Peter presents anymore because of how it might make Peter feel when he left him, and there was the-- reassuring Peter that he didn't have to feel bad about ever wanting to leave to the point that Peter actually got irritated over it thing-- and maybe the-- sex thing-- was a little bit, well-- he wanted to give Peter the kind of relationship he wanted, but if Peter was going to get sick of him someday anyway, then-- maybe it would be better to spare them both the-- grief--

Iris was watching him quietly, and she smiled sympathetically when Tony finally blurted, "What the fuck."

"You've been trying very hard," Iris said, gentle. "And I can see that, and I'm sure Peter can too. But I think you can see how it would be difficult for you to make real progress if you're subconsciously thinking of it as a moot point."

Tony scrubbed a hand through his hair, letting out a long breath as he-- processed all the ways he was still lying to himself, apparently-- god, why was he so bad at this--

"I don't know what to do," he admitted, because even if he could recognize it he didn't know how to change.

"Being open to it is the first step, and you're already doing that," Iris reassured him. She said, "The rest depends on your goals. You've told me that you want your relationship with Peter to be as successful as possible, and when we talked about whether or not sex actually needs to be a part of that you said you do want a deeper physical relationship. Are those both still true?"

Why, why, why was he doing this. Whining to some near-stranger about his complicated feelings about the idea of sex with his teenage boyfriend, like he was the one who had any right to have complicated feelings about that in the first place-- and god, apparently he was going to have to unpack a bunch of shit about his early sexual experiences that had happened decades ago, that was so stupid-- why was he doing this--

But--

He knew why.

"Yeah," he mumbled, and then he made himself look up at her because he wasn't going to let her think he didn't mean it. "I-- yeah. I want to. Make things work."

He cleared his throat, and took a breath to re-center himself, and cajoled, "But is there any way we can do the working on it without the self-reflection?"

Iris smiled and rolled her eyes fondly, and--

They talked about it. The thoughts Tony was supposed avoid-- ("Reframe," Iris said firmly, "you may not be able to avoid the thoughts, but you can reframe them when you notice them,")-- and, very briefly, the ideas about sex that Tony had formed as a teenager before Tony changed the subject too many times and Iris gently let it drop, and--

"It doesn't have to be all-or-nothing," Iris raised lightly at one point. "There are ways to open yourself to emotional intimacy without making yourself feel completely vulnerable, and there are ways to take steps forward with sexual intimacy that don't actually involve sexual contact, if you aren't comfortable with that just yet."

She said, "It's completely understandable if you don't want to move forward with those right now, either, but would you want to discuss some ideas?"

And, well.

She had a lot of ideas, as it turned out.

"Can we try something," Tony murmured against Peter's neck, and Peter looked down from where he was straddling Tony while he reclined on the couch, hands gripping Tony's shoulders and knees on either side of his hips.

"What-- yeah! Yes," Peter said eagerly, his eyes bright, and-- Tony tried to focus on that, because Peter was excited, not nervous, the only one who was nervous was Tony and Peter would-- Peter would be fine, Peter would like it and even if he didn't he would tell Tony so they could stop and even if he didn't Tony would be able to tell because Peter was a terrible liar, so it was fine.

Tony cleared his throat and brushed his fingers through Peter's hair, a gesture that was just as much for soothing himself as Peter at this point, and said, "You remember when we talked about you telling me the stuff you wanted to do?"

"Yeah," Peter said immediately, even though it had been weeks, so he had to have been thinking about it in the meantime. "Do you want me to?"

"No," Tony said, and then immediately amended, "Well, sure. But I thought. If it wasn't too much of a tease, while we're waiting things out. Maybe I could tell you what I'd thought about."

Peter sucked in a breath, eyes going wide, but--

"Oh," he breathed. "I'd-- yeah. Please."

"Even if I'm not actually gonna let you do it? Yet?" Tony asked, teasingly, but it was a real question.

"I want to know," Peter said, entirely earnest, not even pretending to play into the joke. "Even if we don't, for a while-- knowing that you want to-- that you want me..."

That was what Tony had thought.

"If you're sure," he said, and he slowly tightened his grip in Peter's hair, scanning his expression for any flash of-- anything, anything other than heat and anticipation--

Peter shuddered, wetting his lips and then leaving them parted, his eyes going half-lidded with pleasure, and there it was.

"I want to keep you where I can look at you," Tony said unsteadily, fingers firm but not rough in Peter's curls. "Because you're fucking gorgeous, baby, and you always want to hide your face away when you get close, but I want to see it this time."

"Oh, fuck," Peter muttered, and he swallowed hard before he said, "O-okay."

Tony took a steadying breath himself-- Peter liked this, Tony liked this, it was fine; he wasn't doing anything but letting Peter know how much he was wanted without actually having to cross the hurdle of proving it physically. Saying it out didn't make it any more real than when he just admitted it inside his own head.

"There you go," Tony murmured, encouraging. "You're so perfect, Pete. I love taking care of you."

He paused, and went for it--

"Thought about making you come so many different ways, however you want."

There was a roil of anxiety in his stomach about admitting it, but Peter made a little involuntary noise and shifted where he was holding himself up over Tony, flushing deeply, and that helped.

And--

"I love you," Peter blurted, and under the heat and desire and flushed cheeks, Tony realized Peter was watching him back just as closely. "Tell me more?"

I love you, Peter said, and Tony-- ridiculously, impossibly, felt his anxiety settle over just those simple words, because-- this wasn't just a sex thing, it wasn't just Tony being a creep. It was intimacy, and he was telling Peter things they both wanted because he loved him, and if that was scary in its own way then he could-- he could handle that.

"Well, there's what we've already done," Tony said, slowly, fighting to keep his own breath even as the anxiety faded and the heat rose. "But there's plenty that we haven't. Using my fingers for you, just taking my time to get you as worked up as possible before I…"

Tony swallowed hard, partly bracing and partly deliberate, and he watched the way Peter's eyes caught on the bobbing of his throat before he said, "Before I let you come down my throat."

Peter shivered, lips parting on a shaky breath that held the edge of a moan, and his hips shifted when Tony let the hand not in his hair fall to his knee, squeezing.

"Or playing with toys and seeing which ones you like; which ones can get you to come even if you never get touched at all," Tony continued, watching Peter's expression carefully. "Senses up to eleven and all, I bet there's more than just one."

"God, y-yeah," Peter agreed breathlessly without any shyness at the idea, and christ, that was-- and Peter shifted again, ass just brushing against Tony's cock through their clothes from how he was straddling his waist.

Tony's breath hitched, and he tightened his grip in Peter's hair, making him groan.

"Tony, that feels so good, please--"

"Do you want to touch yourself while I watch, or do you want me to do it?" Tony asked, and Peter swallowed a whimper when he said, "You."

Tony complied, leaving one hand twisted in Peter's hair while he reached with the other to draw Peter out of his jeans, and Peter gasped, "Oh, I love you--"

"You're so beautiful," Tony sighed, working his hand over Peter's cock and feeling how it made him shift and tense and tremble above him. "I don't know how I got so lucky, Pete; I'm supposed to be all tapped out on lucky breaks. Can't keep my hands off you sometimes; I want to touch every inch of you, kiss my way all the way up from your feet and eat you out until you can't think anymore--"

"A-ah, fuck, y-you-- really? Tony," Peter whined, cock jerking in Tony's grip, and he tried instinctively to lean over to hide his face against Tony's shoulder as Tony brought him closer to coming, breath hitching when it only pulled at his hair.

"Not gonna let me see? You can hide if you want to," Tony said, slowing the pace of his hand over Peter's cock-- maybe Peter really was anxious about Tony seeing his face when he came, maybe he shouldn't have taken that angle-- but Peter moaned.

"N-no-- this is good, I just forgot-- w-would you really..." Peter forced out, and Tony couldn't help a little smile of relief at his answer and fondness at Peter's shyness, he was so fucking cute--

"I would," Tony said, and he drew his thumb around the head of Peter's cock in a teasing circle. "I'd love to. I'd love to find out what you taste like, baby, hear what you sound like while I lick you open; you sound so pretty when you come."

Peter shuddered, close, open-mouthed and panting, and he said, "Please--"

"Someday when you're wearing my sweater," Tony said, and this was-- maybe a little too much, a little too honest, but Peter was so beautifully responsive and so clearly wanted more and the words were right there and entirely true-- "I want to push it up over your chest and peel you out of those little shorts you wear to sleep in the summer, and then suck you off until you're almost there, and let you finish all over your stomach with my shirt still halfway on."

Peter made a strangled noise and crossed his arms over himself to start to tug off his own shirt, apparently inspired by the thought, and-- they hadn't ever actually undressed at all while doing this before, even though Tony knew Peter must get hot getting off inside his clothes, and Tony found he wasn't actually uncomfortable with the thought, but--

Peter pulled his shirt halfway up and then froze, arms still crossed and fingers still curled in the hem of his shirt, and the way his breath went shallow wasn't from sex.

Tony snatched his hands away from him and stared like an idiot, heart jumping in his chest.

"I," Peter said, looking confused, and he looked between his own hands still frozen in his shirt and Tony. "I..."

"You can leave it on," Tony said, and he was glad to hear that his voice came out soothing rather than panicked. "You don't have to-- we can be done, baby."

"I-- what the fuck," Peter said, and he finally dropped his hands away from that frozen pose, but it was to wrap his arms around himself instead. "I never-- that's never bothered me before--"

"We've never done that before," Tony said, and, "Can I hug you?"

Peter didn't answer, but he did fold himself forward into Tony's arms, still tense. He said, "No, but-- I mean-- I've thought about it a lot, and I never--"

"This whole thing has been me talking about things I've thought about but don't want to actually do yet, baby," Tony said, and after a beat-- he felt Peter relax against him with a ragged sigh.

"That's-- that fucking sucks," Peter muttered, frustrated, and Tony gently, gently pet at his hair. "I was-- so into that-- you were doing so much for me and I just, ruined it--"

"You didn't ruin anything," Tony said with a little leap of guilt of his own; Peter couldn't really think he'd be upset about that, could he? "Now we know, right? Clothes stay on. That's okay, Pete."

"But--" Peter started to say, and Tony shook his head, reaching to cup Peter's cheek so that they could meet each other's eyes.

"Nope," Tony countered. "Even aside from you being a million times more important than anyone's boner-- abrupt killing of the mood is just a part of sex, Pete; if it wasn't rude to kiss and tell I'd have two dozen stories for you. And--"

He took a breath, bracing himself. Honesty, honesty.

"And, if I remember," Tony said, "once upon a time when I had a panic attack because we un-broke up and it made me realize some things about myself, you said something about being in good company."

It was that moment that he'd finally accepted what his feelings for Peter were. That when he'd thought I love you, it wasn't with the pride and distance of a mentor, but with the ache and conviction that poets wrote of. And no wonder-- Peter had seen him then in all his trainwreck, self-centered mess, taking Peter's moment of catharsis and making it about his own anxieties instead, and instead of being disgusted, Peter had…

Seen himself in it. Grinned and laughed and felt comforted with the recognition of his own hang-ups in Tony's dysfunction, with the recognition that he wasn't alone in struggling and how that meant Tony was someone he could be messy in front of himself, and-- Tony had loved him for it then, but he understood it, now.

Tony saw his words finally land for Peter in a way that they hadn't fully when he'd mentioned having his own things that he wasn't ready for, and Peter took a slow breath while his expression went soft and curious and understanding.

"Oh," Peter said softly, and then he nodded, laying his head back against Tony's chest. Just like back then, he mumbled, "You're great company."

"We make a good pair," Tony agreed, and found with a surprising lightness that he wasn't even tempted to scorn himself for it. "Single-handedly justifying SHIELD's shrink-visit budget."

Peter huffed a little laugh, and then sighed, admitting, "I want to get better. I want to stop… tripping over new problems I didn't know I had, and I want--"

He glanced up at Tony, pink, and he said, "I want to-- do what you were talking about. Once-- once you do, too-- I want you to do that to me."

Tony took a breath, and half-asked, half-prompted, "Yeah?"

"Yeah," Peter breathed, biting his lip, and when he leaned up to elaborate into Tony's ear-- it turned out he had a lot of ideas, too.

It could have felt ridiculous. Trading whispers back and forth while Tony's hand worked between them-- fully clothed for Peter's sake; hard and untouched in his boxers for Tony's--

But as Peter came back to himself after spilling into Tony's hand, breathless and overheated and sticky and beaming, all Tony could think is that it was perfect.

Chapter Text

Peter still hated when Tony went on business trips, but on the plus side, it did mean that they could text as much as they wanted.

They'd already texted constantly during Tony's trip to Cairo, so it hadn't seemed like an excessive risk to keep that up going forward, especially when everyone already knew Peter was weird about Tony being away after the scene he'd made at Thanksgiving. So after months of only getting to see Tony on the weekends, with maybe the odd text here or there in-between, they could finally talk to each other every day.

Peter just wished that it wasn't due to the concern that Tony was going to get attacked at any moment by illusion-wielding creeps, but-- lemons, lemonade.

"Peter," Ned said, exasperated, and Peter jerked to attention, instinctively thumbing off the screen to his phone.

"What? Sorry," he said, and he caught the way MJ was looking at him sidelong, obviously weighing whether she wanted to say something.

They were at Peter's apartment and supposedly working on a group project, outlines and laptops spread out across the cramped dining table, and Peter was-- maybe contributing less than he could have been.

"Is that Tony?" MJ finally asked, and she already knew the answer to that; he'd told them why he was on his phone so much two days ago when Tony had left for his trip to Malibu.

"Yeah, sorry," Peter answered, wincing slightly and hoping that he wouldn't blush. "It's just-- easier to relax when he's staying in touch, but I'll-- I'll tell him I need to focus."

"It's okay," Ned said, but even his tone was a little confused, so-- maybe Peter needed to work harder to be normal about his secret boyfriend even with the whole business trip thing.

Peter ducked his head and followed through on texting Tony that he needed to put his phone on silent while he worked on his project, but that he definitely still wanted to be looped in on Tony's photo log of Malibu's most audacious seagulls to backread later. Tony's immediate reply was a joke about Peter needing to attend to his studies so he could run Tony out of business someday, and after Peter rolled his eyes fondly and put his phone away he realized that Ned and MJ were still staring at him.

There was a beat as they stared at each other, and Peter's stomach dropped as he recognized the dawning look in Ned's eyes that meant he was about to say something he knew he shouldn't, but couldn't help himself.

Ned got through, "Do you still like--" before he cut off with a yelp and shot a betrayed look at MJ, whose expression was still totally neutral.

Peter's cheeks flared with a sudden heat, so there went his hopes of not blushing, and he froze over the question that Ned hadn't been able to finish, because--

Could he answer that honestly? He and Tony were-- still getting their feet under them with their relationship, it was too soon to start telling people, but-- Peter had already had a crush on Tony before everything that happened and Ned and MJ were well-aware of that; would it be more suspicious if he fed them an obvious lie?

"I," he said haltingly, and then, "well, yeah."

MJ's expression sharpened from placid indifference to the boot she had almost definitely driven into Ned's ankle under the table into curiosity, and she prompted, "Yeah?"

"Yeah," Peter said. "If-- I mean-- if anything, I think it's... worse than before? He was-- he was really nice to me."

That was an understatement, but it's not like it wasn't true. His feelings for Tony were stronger than they'd been before-- what had happened, and if they had far surpassed "infatuation" into "in love," then, well, he didn't have to say everything.

"Whoa," Ned said, and he looked-- unsettled, maybe, but not disturbed. "Even though it was...?"

Peter shrugged, red-faced, and said, "I mean-- it-- the situation was-- it was bad, don't get me wrong, but like-- he-- kissed me? You know? So even though it wasn't, real or anything, I..."

"Know what that's like," MJ finished for him, frowning, and Peter nodded with a little embarrassed rush of breath.

"Did you want him to?" MJ asked a little abruptly, and then went a touch wide-eyed, like she was afraid she had crossed a line herself. "Or, I mean, like-- do you wish he hadn't, or--"

"I, um-- no, I was glad, it... It felt less scary that way," Peter admitted, gesturing vaguely. "Like-- it was still... bad. But I could… zone out a little or something, and-- it was still Tony, and it-- felt good--"

Was that too much detail? Did he sound totally insane? Peter shook his head and finished in a rush, "And I just, if it'd-- hurt, or felt like just going through the motions or, clinical or whatever, I think that would've been… worse."

Ned and MJ were both quiet for a moment, letting that sink in, and Peter didn't know how to feel, exactly-- he'd already processed a lot of what he was talking about a long time ago, now that he and Tony were actually together and he did know what love and intimacy felt like when they were real, but he still hadn't really gotten a chance to... talk about it, before. The context meant he hadn't gotten the normalcy of dishing to his friends with red cheeks and hushed whispers about his first time, and-- even in a scenario that didn't ignore the reality of what had happened, he hadn't even told Patty about his feelings for Tony until they were actually together.

Going through it in retrospect, like he was still working through those feelings even now, was-- weird. Freeing. But uncertain, since he still didn't know-- well, how was he supposed to guess what details were too much for his friends, really, when he was the one it had happened to, and he'd already had so much time to sit with it that the stark facts didn't seem so horrifying, anymore?

"Yeah, I guess so," Ned finally ventured, but he blew out a breath of his own and shook his head. "But that's-- messed up, man. You, um, having to even-- think about all of that."

"Yeah," Peter agreed quietly, shrugging. It was messed up, even if-- he'd come to terms, with some of it, and he was actually desperately happy with where he and Tony had gotten as a result of things.

"So are you, like..." Ned hesitated, and cringed apologetically even as he asked, an invitation for Peter to shoot him down if he wanted: "In love with him now?"

MJ didn't kick him under the table again, like Peter had expected. She just watched Peter carefully, in that narrow-eyed way of hers, so-- she wanted to know the answer too.

"Ned," Peter protested, playing it off like it was embarrassing instead of panic-inducing, and he curled his hand around his phone in his pocket without thinking.

"I'm sorry! I just, you said that you liked him even more now, and you were already, like-- really into him," Ned said in a flurry of words, throwing up his hands in surrender. "That would just be-- wow, y'know? You've already got so much crazy stuff going on."

They still didn't know. Even if Peter admitted it, they wouldn't know; they just thought Peter was still mooning after Tony like a lovestruck puppy, and--

He hated the idea of lying about it. And even more than that, he wanted to be able to tell someone.

He looked away from the two of them, angling his gaze to the floor, but he couldn't keep the smile off his face when he said, "I-- well-- yeah."

"Whoa," Ned said again after a stunned beat, but when Peter chanced a peek back at his friends' expressions, MJ didn't look stunned so much as alarmed.

"What?" Peter blurted, a little alarmed himself at her reaction, and she blinked and shook her head slightly.

"Nothing," she said, and, "What does your therapist think about that?"

Oof.

Patty was worried about him, that much was obvious. She'd stopped short of-- accusing Tony of things, or outright insisting to Peter that his feelings weren't real, but-- she'd asked a lot of questions about things that could maybe have been influencing Peter's feelings other than straightforward appreciation for Tony and who he was, and about how Tony interacted with him, and who had started what and when and if Tony had ever given him any signals before things with Westcott, and--

Peter understood. That was her job, and that was why he had told her in the first place, because he did want to make sure he wasn't just-- projecting his own sense of unsafety onto Tony to tell himself that love could fix it, and he wanted to be able to reassure Tony honestly that he'd considered things from all angles and he wasn't just ignoring all the potential issues at play. And she had still been helpful, too, with actually helping Peter navigate his relationship with Tony even though he knew it made her uncomfortable to-- support it, in a way, so-- she wasn't doing anything wrong, and he knew how bad it looked from the outside; he did.

It was just-- tough.

Peter sighed and shrugged, and said, "I don't know, it's weird? I know she wants me to get over it but it's not like she can come out and say that."

Ned frowned, looking between Peter and MJ, and said, "But it's not like you're going to tell him or anything, right? It's just your feelings."

"It's, yeah, right," Peter agreed, doing his level best not to look down at the table in guilt, but he could feel his face heating again.

"Do you want to? Get over it, I mean," MJ said, and it made Peter so nervous when she looked at him like that.

He took a breath, and shook his head slowly.

"Honestly... Not really?" he said, feeling it out. What would he have said, back then? "I'm fine with it. And I sort of-- I mean-- I did already like him, before, and-- I'd hate-- it would kind of feel like… letting that guy win, y'know? If it-- if it got rid of something for me that I liked."

MJ blinked again, but her expression softened, and she and Ned both nodded, thoughtful.

"That makes sense," MJ said this time, and-- she still looked a little uncertain, a little concerned, but she let it drop.

"So--" Peter said, waving his hands with an embarrassed little puff of breath. "We can like-- actually do our project now; I'll try not to be all heart-eyes over Tony about it."

Ned laughed obligingly, and MJ nodded, but Peter still caught her watching him thoughtfully off and on while they worked. And then, when Peter impulsively checked his phone as he was walking the two of them to the door at the end of their stay--

"It doesn't bother you that he wouldn't go for it?" MJ asked without preamble, voice a little low so that Ned wouldn't hear from where he was lingering in the hallway to text his mom. Peter was about to answer, when she spoke again, even more intent: "I mean, he wouldn't, right?"

Peter shoved his phone in his pocket, mouth dry.

"I-- no, yeah, it's just-- just a daydream," he said, and the lie curdled in his gut in a way that he hadn't expected. "I'm-- fine with it."

MJ hummed thoughtfully, but nodded, watching him closely.

"Okay," she said slowly, and then seemed to make some kind of decision, her expression shifting into an attempt at a teasing smile. "Well, if it saves you the embarrassment of a dramatic, tortured confession, feel free to vent about your pining for Mr. Winning-Capitalism in the groupchat. I promise to withhold my judgment."

"Thanks," Peter said drily, rolling his eyes, but he gave her his own best attempt at an unforced smile as he saw the two of them off.

He shut the door after them and let out a sigh, pressing his forehead to the door. That was--

It really was nice, to get to talk about it. But the lying…

Well. He just needed to be more careful.

He talked about it with Patty, and she didn't like the fact that he was hiding the relationship from his friends and from May any more than she ever had, but she did help him figure out some questions to go over with Tony so they could decide when they would feel ready to tell people, and she did make some more suggestions about how he could get more comfortable with-- being undressed.

Because he really, really wanted to be able to get undressed in front of Tony, and if that meant having to be way more open about sex with his therapist than he had ever imagined being-- he would do it.

So he tried to expand his own boundaries by starting with-- nonsexual nudity; not immediately scrambling into anything more than his underwear after a shower, sleeping with his shirt off, practicing mindfulness and body awareness and all of those other things that he had already been doing, and then it was the night before Tony was due to return from his trip.

"Can I spend the night at the tower tomorrow?" he asked May over dinner. She knew he was weird about Tony's trips better than anyone else but Tony himself; it seemed safe.

But May furrowed her brow at him as she chewed overcooked meatloaf, confused but not concerned.

"Didn't Happy say they weren't getting back in until around seven? That's pretty late, sweetie; they'll probably just want to get some rest," she said gently, and by 'they' she meant 'Tony.'

His face went hot, and the embarrassment at recognizing that she was seeing him as some kid oblivious that he was pestering his mentor for more attention than he could fairly ask for at least helped him bite his tongue against the automatic instinct to haggle-- 'what about the day after, then' or 'I can stay in the other guest suite' or 'but he misses me, too.' Because Tony would want to see him, too, and he was Tony's partner and not a burden, but-- he couldn't say that.

"Yeah, okay," he murmured, and May tutted softly across the table from him.

"It'll be the weekend before you know it," she cajoled as he poked at his meatloaf despondently. "Something to look forward to, right?"

"I know," Peter sighed. It wasn't anyone's fault that-- well, whatever. He'd get to see Tony that weekend, and Tony would keep him updated during his flight back to New York, so-- she was right, he could wait even if he didn't want to.

"And," May ventured very gently, a little more uncertain. "It might be good to get to see that he can manage going back and forth on his trips without Spider-man around. He does have to fly all over the world, sweetie."

So Peter needed to get over it, because even if his nerves were understandable, they weren't healthy. And May didn't have a way to know that it wasn't just the nerves that made him anxious to see Tony again.

"I-- yeah, I know. He'll be okay," Peter sighed, and May nodded encouragingly with a little worried smile.

It was hard to wait, and he and Tony pushed the rules a little bit, texting back and forth the way they weren't really supposed to even after Tony landed back in New York safe and sound in the middle of the week.

But there was maybe something to be said about having to wait, because once Friday afternoon finally rolled around and May did give reluctant permission for Peter to go to the tower after school, instead of waiting for Saturday morning--

"Mmh-- I missed you so much," Peter sighed against Tony's mouth as they made their way clumsily toward the couch, already entangled from the way Peter hadn't bothered to pull out of their long embrace before pressing for an urgent kiss.

"I talked myself out of so many excuses to just swing by Queens," Tony admitted with a self-deprecating sigh of his own, and Peter giggled as Tony deposited him on the couch.

"That's probably not a habit we should--" Peter started to say, and the words 'get into' died in his throat as Tony went down on his knees in front of the couch.

Tony only leaned to kiss him though, leaning over Peter's knees with his hands resting on them like a promise, so Peter got just enough of his mind back for it to be totally blown all over again when Tony pulled out of the kiss to murmur, "I want to blow you. Can I?"

"Yeah," Peter answered, dazed. "Oh my god, Tony, yeah."

So Tony tugged him forward on the couch with his hands tucked under Peter's knees, and watched his expression carefully through drawing him out of his boxers and jeans, and kissed Peter before bobbing down when Peter nodded that he was ready.

It was amazing. Tony went slow-- he always went slow-- and it was just as much of a beautiful torture as always, but even moreso, because Peter had never-- he'd imagined it, of course, so many times, but he didn't think there was anything that could have prepared him for how it actually felt. The wet heat of Tony's mouth around him, the glide of his lips and his tongue on Peter's cock, the intense variety in sensation between when Tony mouthed at his shaft or lapped at his slit or suckled just at the head of his cock, letting it slip between his lips over and over again until Peter was shaking with the need to come, and then--

"Come on, baby, go ahead," Tony encouraged after drawing off of Peter in one long, slow slide, a little breathless himself and watching Peter closely with those dark, beautiful eyes, and then he bobbed back down to take Peter back in and Peter saw stars when he came.

Tony swallowed around him, which was maybe the most insane thing Peter had ever felt and he made a truly embarrassing whimper in response to it, but that almost didn't even compare to the way that Tony looked at him after-- attentive and reverent and a little bit wild with want of his own, and--

Peter slid his fingers into Tony's hair where he was still kneeling between Peter's knees, and murmured, "That was... so good, Tony, I... I love you, I want--"

I want to do that for you, too, he thought, but he knew it was too soon to say it.

Instead--

"Did you like it?" he asked, and Tony nodded with a little huff of laughter.

"I loved it, Pete," he said, voice warm but a little bit rough in a way that made Peter shiver. "Been thinking about it all week."

Peter took a little breath, trying to gather his thoughts because he needed to pay attention, here, not just to Tony's words but his heart--

"Would you show me?" Peter asked, almost in a whisper, and he stroked his fingers through Tony's hair again. "How much you liked it?"

Tony glanced up at him, startled, and Peter took his face in both hands, stroking his thumbs over his cheeks.

"I don't have to-- see; you can stay right there if you want," Peter said, biting his lip. "But I just... I know you-- get something out of doing things for me, but I want-- I want you to feel as good as I do-- I want to get to see you feel good, I... I don't want to just, get off and move on while you ignore yourself and wait it out, not every time."

Tony flickered a smile at him, wobbly and uncertain, and turned his face to press a kiss to Peter's palm.

"You want me to jerk off in front of you?" he murmured against Peter's skin, because sometimes he could only acknowledge something by hanging the world's biggest hat on it, but-- Peter knew that didn't mean that he didn't actually want to talk about it, not always.

"I mean, I want to do it myself," Peter answered, and he felt the shaky breath Tony drew in against his skin. "But if you don't want to do that, then-- yeah. I want to see you feel good. I want to know how much you..."

He took a shaky breath of his own, face heating, but he let his voice drop lower when he found the nerve to continue, "I wanna see how much you loved doing that for me."

There was a moment where they just breathed, and then Tony nodded, and Peter couldn't see anything from how Tony was still settled on the floor between his legs, but he could hear the sound of a zipper and shifting fabric, and the little catch in Tony's breath as the set of his shoulders shifted.

Tony pulled out of Peter's gentle touch to press his forehead to Peter's lower thigh, leaning over his lap from the floor, so Peter went back to stroking his fingers through his hair even as his own body started to heat back up.

"I love you," Peter sighed, letting his thumb stroke over the shell of Tony's ear as he pet his hair slowly. "So much. You make me so happy, you take such good care of me. I'm so, so lucky."

Tony made a soft sound, tucking his face further in toward Peter's thigh, but Peter could hear the sound of skin-on-skin speed up slightly and feel the shiver that passed through Tony's body, so he smoothed his palm over the curve of Tony's head and let himself toy with the shorter hairs at the base of his neck.

"You do such a good job showing me how you love me," Peter said, cupping the back of Tony's neck and squeezing soothingly in a gentle massage. "Sometimes I get insecure, but that's just because of my self-esteem issues--"

Tony huffed a laugh at that, strained, and Peter took the opportunity to guide his face back up to where he could see it, brushing his fingers over the line of Tony's cheeks and jaw affectionately.

"--because you're so sweet and thoughtful and you try so hard for me about everything, even things I'm not even thinking about," Peter continued, and Tony closed his eyes but didn't try to turn away again as Peter gently explored the planes of his face with soft touches. Peter swallowed hard at that little, beautiful show of trust, and his voice came out a little more raw than he meant for it to when he said, "You're so good for me. You're so perfect. Tony--"

Tony's breath caught on a groan, and he leaned up to meet Peter in a kiss when Peter bent toward him, a little clumsy from panting and the feeling of his hand on himself. Peter wanted to look, but Tony could have come up on the couch if he wanted him to see, so he just cupped Tony's face and kissed him in-between Tony's ragged breaths and his own soft whispers-- I love you, you're so wonderful, so good to me--

"Sometimes it feels like you were made for me," Peter confided with a kiss to Tony's cheek once he was too breathless to do anything more than pant against Peter's lips, and Tony made a gravelly, punched-out sound as his body tensed and shuddered.

Peter petted at his hair and kissed his forehead as he shook, and let Tony slump to rest his cheek against Peter's thigh once he was done, stroking his hands soothingly over the lines of Tony's neck and shoulders. He was hard again himself, but it was easy enough to ignore under the glow of absolute love and appreciation and amazement that Tony had-- let him be a part of that. Let them take that step forward, even if it didn't look like a "normal" relationship, even if it was weird or out-of-order or didn't follow the same map as anyone else's-- it was their relationship, their version of intimacy, and how was Peter ever supposed to think it should be different when it felt so perfect?

Tony stayed with his head leaning against Peter's knee for longer than it took him to catch his breath, quiet.

"Tony?" Peter asked finally, soft, when the quiet stretched on long enough that he didn't know if he needed to be worried.

"Hmm?" Tony hummed, and he curled his hand around Peter's ankle, thumb stroking over his skin affectionately.

"Do you want to come up here?" Peter suggested, and Tony took a long, slow breath before he started to move, shoulders shifting as he-- cleaned himself off, probably-- and then stood.

Peter laid back on the couch to recline against the arm and held his hands up toward Tony invitingly. He saw Tony hesitate before he moved to settle over Peter and leaned in for a kiss, and-- oh, he thought Peter wanted more sex--

Peter returned the kiss gently, but then laid his hand against the back of Tony's neck, guiding him to rest his head against Peter's chest.

"Like this," he murmured, petting at Tony's hair. "Just lay down."

Tony hesitated again, but then complied, gently settling to let Peter take his weight even as he muttered, "M'gonna squash you."

"You won't; it feels good. Like a weighted blanket," Peter explained, and he sighed as he held Tony close. "I love when you hold me like this."

He didn't say the rest of it-- so I want to do it for you, too-- but he felt how Tony went tense, and then relaxed all at once, tucking his face against Peter's chest.

"I love you," Tony mumbled, a little unsteady, and Peter still didn't know if he needed to be worried.

"I love you," Peter echoed softly. He smoothed a hand slowly up and down Tony's back, and asked, "Was that okay?"

"Yeah," Tony said automatically. He sighed roughly, and then added with more intent, "Yeah, it was-- fuck, I love you. M'just tired, baby."

Peter took a breath, half-relieved and half-contented. He thought he understood, a little-- that had meant something to Tony, just like it had meant something to Peter, and if Tony needed a moment to sit with that, Peter was happy to sit with him.

"Okay," Peter whispered. "Thank you for letting me be there. I really liked it."

Tony only made a soft sound in acknowledgement, and Peter relaxed under the soothing press of Tony's weight over him, drifting in his own contentment.

Tony was sweet, the rest of the night. Not that he wasn't usually, but-- he usually limited himself to initiating quick kisses and brief affectionate touches, and it was almost always Peter that curled up by his side or tangled their legs together on the couch or pulled Tony in for a long, slow kiss. But that night, Tony took a break from drying the dishes to wrap his arms around Peter's waist at the sink, molding himself to Peter's back and holding him close while they chatted about Peter's group project and which movie to watch before bed.

And when they did crawl into bed--

Tony had never said that he didn't want to take things too far in the actual bedroom, but it's not like Peter hadn't noticed that he kept things light between them when they were in bed. But that night, Tony didn't leave things at a 'good night' peck and wishes for sweet dreams-- he pressed himself over Peter for a deep, heated kiss, and trailed his lips down to Peter's neck instead once he slipped his hand past Peter's waistband to take him in hand, and let his forehead rest against Peter's collarbones as he jerked himself off once Peter had come.

It was a shift into a different kind of intimacy, a shift away from fooling around on the couch, and Peter couldn't stop smiling as he waited for Tony to come back to bed after he went to clean up in the aftermath.

And, as he curled into Tony's arms to actually go to sleep this time-- he couldn't help but wonder when they would take that next step, and Tony would want him to do more than just watch.

It didn't take long.

Just a few weeks into their new normal of rolling around in bed, Tony getting Peter off with his hands or mouth and then curling over Peter or shifting onto his side to take care of himself-- and sometimes he actually let Peter watch now, curled against Tony's side so he could trail his fingers over Tony's chest while Tony worked his hand over the flushed heat of his own cock-- Peter got to the tower after his Saturday morning patrol, and FRIDAY informed him that Tony was taking a nap in the bedroom.

Peter had been ready to nestle into Tony's lap and vent about all the drones he'd seen on patrol, now so frequent a sight that he didn't even page the Avengers about it every time, but he switched gears to a quick shower once he heard that Tony was asleep. Tony hardly ever napped that he saw, sometimes sleeping in but always go-go-going once he was awake, so he must have been wiped. And Tony had mentioned being busy at work that week, Peter remembered, something about audits and reports and board meetings all coming up at the same time, so-- his stress could wait.

He crawled carefully onto the bed next to where Tony was sleeping on his stomach once he'd showered and changed, not wanting to wake him up. There was something a little peaceful to it anyway, getting to see Tony's relaxed expression while he slept and hear the rhythm of his deep breaths, and Peter felt his muscles unwind as he settled onto the bed.

Tony must have been on the verge of waking already though, because it wasn't too long into drifting by his side that Tony shifted next to him on the bed with a pleased little hum like a greeting.

Peter reached for his hand lazily, letting his eyes flutter back open and smoothing his thumb across the back of Tony's hand.

"Hi," he said, and Tony tugged his hand closer to press a kiss to his knuckles.

"Hi," Tony answered, all low and rumbly with sleep, and that was always so hot but the thing that caught Peter's attention this time was the note of genuine exhaustion in his voice.

"Were you up all night? Do we need to renew the I'll-sleep-if-you-sleep agreement?" Peter teased, and Tony smiled.

"No can do; then we'd just both be tired. Can't have you swinging into the side of a building because you didn't get your spider-beauty-sleep," he responded, and Peter rolled his eyes fondly.

"Sounds like you need to relax," Peter chided, sitting up, and he put a hand on Tony's shoulder when Tony moved to follow him.

Tony scoffed, but didn't fight it, throwing Peter an unimpressed look over his shoulder.

"What's this, am I on bedrest?" he challenged, and then immediately bit back a groan when Peter slid his hands over his shoulders and squeezed, massaging. "Oh, never mind, this is fine."

"Are you sure? I can stop if you don't like it," Peter teased, and Tony shook his head against the mattress, cheek still pressed to its surface.

"No, no, I think I can live with this," he answered, faux-casual, and then took a long, slow breath as Peter continued to move his hands over him, kneading into the muscles of his shoulders.

"You should get this done by someone who actually knows what they're doing," Peter commented with a wash of affection, feeling the tight knots of muscle slowly loosening under the pressure of his hands. "You're actually really tense."

"Why would I do that when this is an option," Tony mumbled. His breath caught as Peter started gently working out a tight spot at the junction of his neck and shoulder, but his exhale held the hint of a moan, so Peter kept at it.

"We should do this more often, then." Peter dug into that spot with his palm and marveled at the way Tony's body tensed and relaxed under his hands, pliant. "You work so hard. For the Avengers, for SI, for me…"

"It's my job," Tony deflected, but his voice was low and sleepy and half-hearted, words nearly murmured into the bed.

"Not all of it," Peter corrected gently. "Not even most of it, I think. You don't give yourself enough credit."

Tony huffed a little laugh, but it was strained, and he tucked his face in more toward the mattress.

"You're the only one that would say that, Pete," he said, and Peter hummed disagreeably.

"Well, I'm saying it." Peter centered his hands on Tony's shoulders and started to work them down his back, thumbs pressing into the strong muscle on either side of his spine.

A noise caught in Tony's throat, and Peter saw his fingers curl into the blanket as he let out a gust of breath.

"Fuck," he said, argument forgotten, and Peter felt a little curl of pleasure of his own at the reaction.

"And anyway, I want to give you credit," Peter said. "You're always thinking about what you can do to help, or fix things... And I know you'd do more if me and May would let you. You're so sweet."

"Peter," Tony sighed shakily, almost a complaint, and Peter ran his hands soothingly over Tony's shoulders before bringing them back down to focus on a knot of muscle at his lower back.

"And you're so hot," Peter griped, mimicking Tony's complaining tone, and Tony relaxed with a laugh as Peter pivoted from personal praise to focus on Tony's looks. "It's not fair. You complain about me wearing your sweater but you look good in everything; I can't get a break whether it's in the gym or the lab or you're coming back from a board meeting."

"Let me buy you some clothes that actually fit and we'll be in the same boat," Tony said, and then uttered a groan into the mattress as Peter dug in with the heel of his palm to work out a stubborn knot.

"You taking me shopping for clothes I look hot in wouldn't be very subtle." Peter took a breath and felt his face flush as he dared to add, "I could always just borrow more of yours."

Tony made a shocked, hungry sound into the mattress that went straight to Peter's cock, because even now it was still wild that he could-- have an effect on Tony at all, that Tony wanted him at all. He bit his lip and pressed a little further, tucking his thumbs under the hem of Tony's shirt and dragging it up his back to reveal just an inch of uncovered skin.

"Like this one," Peter whispered, his voice weak despite himself. He said, "Can I take it off?"

Tony took a shaky breath of his own.

"You want to?" he said, always, always double-checking, and Peter smiled at his sweetness even as heat curled in his gut.

"Mmh," Peter confirmed, and he stroked his thumbs over that tantalizing strip of bare skin. He was still-- nervous-- about taking off his own clothes, but maybe if he could see Tony like that... "If you don't mind."

Tony thought about it, just for a beat, and then nodded.

"Okay," he said easily, and he shifted his weight so that Peter could push the shirt up over his shoulders and then pull it off of him entirely, hands spread wide to feel the planes of Tony's back as he went.

Peter took a steadying breath before he sat back on his knees to quickly remove his own shirt-- it was fine, it was Tony, and it was just for a second-- and then pull Tony's over his head. It immediately felt nice, the fabric surrounding him and smelling like Tony and warming his skin with Tony's residual body heat, and his own shoulders relaxed at the feeling.

"Oh, you weren't kidding," Tony said, low, his head turned to look over his own bare shoulder at Peter.

The intensity in his gaze as he watched Peter kneel there draped in his shirt burned away any lingering uncertainty from Peter's gut, and if that hadn't done it, the way he was completely pliant and trusting as Peter pressed a hand to his shoulders to guide him fully back down onto the mattress would have.

He had a scar where the base of his neck met his shoulders, left over from the surgeries to insert and remove his shock chip. It didn't at all ruin the effect of seeing Tony's bared skin spread out in front of him, the curve of his shoulderblades and expanse of warm skin and shift of strong muscles beneath it, but it did fill Peter with a sudden swell of emotion, and he ducked down to press a kiss to that spot before he could think better of it.

Tony shivered with a soft little sigh, and so Peter stayed there and breathed in the warmth of Tony's skin, smoothing his hands over Tony's bare back slowly.

"I love you," Peter murmured after taking that one long, warm moment to bask in Tony and his trust and his body, and he brushed his lips along the line of Tony's shoulder. "You're... I can't believe that I have you, sometimes. That we're here. I'm so grateful."

"Pete," Tony said again, voice rough, and Peter went quiet to press a line of kisses down his spine, kneading the muscles of his lower back.

"You're so generous with me." Peter pressed a kiss to the curve of Tony's shoulder blade, letting the pressure of his hands grow firmer against Tony's skin. "With the things I want. I mean, I know you like them too, but... I know you're doing it for me? You wouldn't ask for this for yourself."

"So I have to take care of you," Peter sighed, and he brushed his lips back up to Tony's neck, kissing at the crook there and feeling how it made Tony shiver. "Because you won't ask, and I want to take care of you so, so bad."

He could hear the way that Tony's breathing had changed over the course of the massage, from slow and deep and relaxed to shallow and shaky and wanting. He could see the minute shifting in Tony's hips, the way that even the slightest change in the tension of his muscles must have been dragging his cock against the bedspread for friction that wasn't nearly enough. He knew that if Tony rolled over, he would be able to see the line of him through his pants, thick and hard and hot, god, Peter could still remember how hot Tony's cock had felt even in the heat of his mouth--

Peter swallowed hard, and tried to manage his tone so that he didn't sound too hopeful as he slowly shifted his hands on Tony's body, wrapping one around to tuck his fingertips just barely under the curve of Tony's hip on the bedspread.

"Will you let me take care of you?"

It hung between them, nothing more than an offer to do what Tony had already done for him time and time again, but also so much more important than that.

Peter didn't know why Tony wouldn't let him touch him. He'd broached the topic once, hesitant with the uncertainty of how to balance getting across that he wasn't-- judging, or pushing, or disappointed-- and that he just wanted to understand Tony's feelings. But Tony hadn't been able to explain it, just grimacing and haltingly admitting, "I'm still working through some stuff, baby," and when he hadn't elaborated further Peter had let it drop.

Peter had his own theories, though. And as he knelt on the bedspread next to Tony, lips at his shoulder and hand at his hip, he hoped--

He hoped that Tony would trust him. He hoped that Tony could see and hear and feel his earnestness, the absolute conviction with which Peter meant it when he said I want to take care of you. And he hoped that Tony would tell him if he really wasn't ready, and he hoped that Tony would trust himself enough to be ready, and to tell Peter that he was.

"Yeah," Tony said finally, roughly, and the shock of it went through Peter like lightning. "I-- yeah. Yes, please."

And the sound of that 'yes please' sang through Peter's skin in a way nothing else ever had, and he molded himself to Tony's back and leaned over his shoulder to kiss him, the angle awkward and clumsy but necessary and so perfect, and Peter got to feel the jolt of Tony's body against the entire length of his own when his hand wrapped around his cock.

"I love you," Peter said again, fervently, and he kissed the side of Tony's neck when Tony curled away from his lips to press his forehead to the mattress. "You're so perfect. Thank you-- oh, your skin is so hot--"

"Peter, baby," Tony groaned a little desperately, shifting his hips into the heat of Peter's palm, and Peter could feel the stickiness of precome building up between their skin.

"Do you feel good?" Peter felt like he was on fire himself, but needed to know, needed to hear it, after Tony hadn't let himself feel anything for so long--

Tony just moaned in response, a little bitten-back sound that felt like it shuddered through Peter's bones, and he felt a foreign urge to-- push, to ask again and have Tony answer him in words, but he just pressed another wet kiss to Tony's shoulder, hand working over his cock.

"I love when you do this for me," Peter sighed. "You make me crazy, your hands and your mouth and... Even when you just touch me normally it's so much because I know what it's like when we're together and I can't stop thinking about the last time you made me come, and it just wrecks my senses."

"I want to make you feel like that," he confessed. "I wanna make you feel as good as you make me-- you take such good care of me, I miss you so much during the week because you make me so happy when I'm here, I just want to be with you all the time."

Tony reached across himself and put a hand over Peter's forearm, squeezing, and-- he wasn't asking Peter to stop, not trying to pull his hand away, he was just-- holding, like he couldn't keep himself from touching, like it somehow wasn't enough to have Peter pressed along his back and stroking his cock and mumbling a breathless litany of praise and affection into his neck, and the intimacy of it nearly made Peter's breath catch.

"I'm right here," Peter said, and it was nonsense in context, he didn't know why his reaction was to try and comfort and soothe, but-- "I love you. I'm so glad you're letting me do this-- letting me love you-- god, I wanna make you come--"

Tony grit out a sound that Peter thought he'd hear in his wet dreams for the rest of his life, and then said, "Tell me."

Tell him--?

Peter's eyes widened and he couldn't help the way his hips ground forward against Tony's ass as he caught on to-- wait, did Tony want to-- he wanted Peter to--?

"Come," Peter gasped, his voice strained. "Come for me, I want to hear it, I wanna feel you come--"

Tony shuddered, and Peter could feel the way his cock jumped when he came, spilling hot threads of come over Peter's fingers. He didn't make a sound until he took a breath in the aftermath, the air catching in his throat so that he groaned despite himself while Peter's hand still worked slowly over his cock, until Tony mumbled something indistinct and tugged at his forearm as a cue to stop.

Peter cleaned his hand off on his discarded shirt and then flopped at Tony's side, arm wrapped around him to tuck up against his stomach while Tony caught his breath, his own cock absolutely aching.

"Good?" he asked, suddenly a little shy-- he'd said-- wow-- a lot of stuff, there was something about sex that made his brain-to-mouth filter utterly turn off, even when he wasn't the one being touched.

Tony laughed, and Peter tucked his own smile against the curve of Tony's shoulder with a swoop of relief.

"'Good,' he asks, like you didn't just wipe the evidence all over your shirt," Tony said, and god it was so hot how his voice got all slow and low and melty after he'd come.

"Tell me, though," Peter said, teasing, his cock still throbbing at the memory of Tony asking him for the same thing.

He felt Tony go a little tense under his arm, and pushed himself up onto his other elbow so that he could see his expression, suddenly concerned.

Tony rolled onto his back accommodatingly, smoothing a hand up and down the arm Peter had across him as a reassurance, but his expression was-- cagey. A little too tight, somehow, or regretful, or…

"I-- good, yeah, you were incredible, baby," Tony said, but he must have been able to see the concern on Peter's face, because he sighed.

"You were. You-- god, you have such a way of getting to me, you were fucking perfect, Pete." He grimaced, and said, "I got carried away. Shouldn't have-- asked you to do that for me in the middle of things, it was weird."

"To do-- what?" Peter frowned at him, thinking back over what had happened. "Wait, when you-- told me what you wanted? No, Tony, that's fine, I want you to do that."

Tony shook his head, reaching up to cup Peter's face and press a thumb to the corner of his mouth, as if he could smudge away Peter's frown.

"Yeah, but I should keep the actual-- kink shit out of it until-- you haven't been at this very long, I shouldn't have just thrown that at you," Tony said, and Peter frowned more deeply instead.

"I liked it," he insisted, and he leaned to kiss Tony's chin for emphasis. "I would have told you if I didn't. And it's-- I mean-- is that really any different than anything we've done before? That was just dirty talk, that's not even a kink, really."

"There-- well, okay, if that's how you were thinking of it," Tony allowed, and he brushed Peter's bangs back from his forehead, responding to the intimacy that Peter was trying not to lose in their disagreement.

Peter leaned into the touch, thinking hard-- he didn't believe for a second that Tony actually thought a little bit of dirty talk was a kink thing he needed to ease Peter into, especially when they had already talked about it, so--

"If that wasn't it for you," Peter said slowly, "then was it... you like me telling you what to do?"

Tony looked embarrassed, which Peter always felt conflicted about-- he didn't want Tony to feel bad, but the idea that Tony cared what he thought enough for it to matter was still a rush-- and looked for a moment like he was going to brush it off, but then sighed.

"There was... maybe more going on in terms of... power dynamics there for me, than for you," Tony admitted reluctantly. "But that's not something to jump headfirst into, especially on-- that side of things, so I'll-- get a grip on it."

"Why can't we just talk about it?" Peter turned the idea over in his head, a flush rising in his cheeks. He hadn't really-- recognized that maybe there was some kind of control thing going on in the things he'd been doing with Tony, but he could maybe see it now. Tony kneeling on the floor in front of him with his head in Peter's lap while he touched himself, Peter touching him from behind and telling him when to come-- that was--

Well, he'd never really thought about doing that kind of thing in the bedroom, or having that kind of relationship with someone, but he'd liked feeding into that for Tony by accident, so he thought he could get used to the idea of doing it on purpose.

"We can, but I-- Pete, I don't want you to do something just because I like it, not when it comes to this," Tony insisted, and his expression went halfway between amused and offended when Peter scoffed.

"Oh, because I definitely think that pushing me into something is something you would do," Peter said, and he flopped over Tony's body, settling himself between his legs so he could pillow his arms on Tony's stomach. "I want to talk about it? I'm not-- I mean, I'm surprised, because I didn't know that's what you liked about what we were doing, but it's... interesting? I want to know what you like about it."

Tony groaned, but reached to card his fingers into Peter's hair, frowning at him with an edge of fondness.

"I mean it, Pete, I don't want to make you-- responsible for me like that. Not when you're still figuring out what you like."

"How am I supposed to figure out what I like if I can't try new things until after I know what I like?" Peter retorted, and he knew that the point had landed by the way Tony's eyebrows pinched together slightly and he didn't immediately have a response.

"I've liked what we've done so far," Peter continued, seeing that Tony was still mulling that over. "I liked getting to take care of you while you were a little-- I mean--"

He didn't want to say 'vulnerable,' even if that's what felt right-- he hadn't really verbalized it to himself until that moment, but he'd noticed the way that Tony went dazed and desperate and-- delicate when Peter was nice to him, and Peter did want to take care of him when he was like that; he felt it like a hook in his gut.

"When you were distracted," he finished, but he could see the way that Tony read into his meaning and glanced away, embarrassed. "And I liked telling you to come for me. I wasn't doing a-- a controlling thing on purpose, but I could. I mean--"

Peter flushed deeper himself at remembering the conversation and how viscerally it had affected him when Tony had made that stupid little joke, but he said, "I already told you I want to tie you up."

Tony took a slow, considering breath and passed a hand over Peter's hair, idly affectionate in a way that Peter loved, and he finally said, "That's… true."

"Would you like that?" Peter said, and he'd meant it as the straightforward question it sounded like, but his flagging erection sparked with interest when he saw the way it made Tony's eyes go hot and dark.

Tony's voice was matter-of-fact when he said, "That's something I like, yeah," but Peter could hear the change in his breathing.

Peter raised his head from where it had been pillowed on Tony's stomach so that he was looking down at Tony, just a little bit, and trailed his fingers through the hair on Tony's chest as he found the nerve to ask, "What would you want me to do with you like that?"

Tony glanced away again even as Peter heard his heartbeat speed up, and it clicked.

"Oh-- no, that's the thing, right? You want me to pick. So you don't have to think about it, and I can just do whatever I want."

Peter found that he was becoming less ambivalent about the idea by the second, especially when he felt Tony's cock give a valiant, spent little twitch where it was pressed under Peter's stomach.

"Peter," Tony protested, rubbing a hand over his face, and Peter gently tugged at his wrist.

"Why are you embarrassed about this? You were already into it, right?" Peter laid Tony's hand back along his cheek, nuzzling into it and watching him imploringly, brows knit.

"I'm not embarrassed," Tony said, affronted, but he picked up where Peter had left off and slid his fingers into Peter's curls. He visibly struggled with his words for a moment before he insisted, "I'm-- I should just be taking care of you, Pete; I'm being-- selfish."

Peter frowned and sat up out of Tony's touch, straddling his waist.

"No, that's not fair. I want to take care of you too, I told you that, you know that," Peter said, looking down at Tony under him, and they weren't just talking about sex anymore.

Tony's eyes widened a little, and he swallowed, nodding.

"I know," he said quietly. His tone more careful this time, he ventured, "It just… feels... like I should be doing the heavy lifting, here. Since I have more experience."

Peter relaxed, reaching to curl his fingers with Tony's as a rush of appreciation washed through him. Tony was-- trying; he was actually telling Peter what he was feeling and being mindful about how he said it and it was wonderful.

"I love you," Peter said, soft, and he felt Tony relax under him, too.

Peter smiled, so relieved, and then let it turn into a playful scowl as he said, "But if your experience is with getting bossed around, just let me boss you around and it'll be fine."

Tony laughed at that, at least, and said, "Oh, because historically you've needed my permission to boss me around--"

Peter grinned, but it softened as he said, "I mean it, though. It doesn't have to be a-- thing, with roles and leather and whips and whatever? I wouldn't like that anyway."

He squeezed Tony's hands gently, and finished, "And we don't have to do it all the time. But if you… If it makes it easier for you to let me take care of you, when I tell you to do it… then I'll tell you. And I'll like it, and you'll like it, and… it'll be really nice."

Tony let out a slow breath, thumb stroking over Peter's knuckles where their hands were entwined, and he still winced a little as he said, "You're honestly telling me it's not weird for you? Diving in and having me be a slouch that makes you do all the work anyway?"

He tried to give it the hint of being a joke, like he still wasn't totally comfortable with just coming out and saying it-- it makes me feel like a bad boyfriend; it feels like asking too much; whatever lens he was seeing it through that Peter hoped he'd be able to articulate someday-- and Peter untangled their hands to lean down over him for a brief kiss.

"It's hot," Peter said afterwards, still lingering over Tony, hands on either side of his face. He took a moment to think of what he actually had the courage to say, and pressed another slow kiss to Tony's lips to bolster himself before he murmured, "And… I'd be making the plan. You'd still be doing the work."

Peter could only hear the slight hitch in Tony's breathing because of his overpowered senses, but it went a long way toward settling his nerves. He sat back up to straddle Tony's waist so that he could run his hands over Tony's chest, feeling-- powerful and sexy and proprietary, even if it still brought a flush to his cheeks to think of himself that way-- and added, "Right? If I asked you to."

Tony shifted under him, restless but looking up at Peter with rapt attention, like he'd forgotten anything else even existed, and his voice was molten as he said, "Whatever you want, Pete."

Peter sucked in a breath as the freedom of it flooded through him in a swell of heat. It wasn't like he was unconscious of his experience compared to Tony's, and he'd had those little isolated flashes of insecurity at times, but like this--

Like this, it didn't matter. If it was his job to tell Tony what he wanted-- whatever he wanted-- he didn't have to worry about if it was weird or inexperienced or embarrassing to want. He just needed to say it, and if it was Tony's job to listen-- then Tony didn't have to think about it, either. Didn't have to worry about what was okay to do or say or want from Peter, the way Peter knew that he always did, and--

It wasn't at all the burden that Tony had worried it would be. It was a pressure sliding off of Peter's shoulders, so abruptly that he had to sit with the feeling of lightness it left in him before he could respond.

"Okay," he whispered, reaching to trail his fingers over Tony's face. He smiled crookedly then, though, voice a little steadier as he said, "First, I want you to tell me if you don't like something."

Tony smiled helplessly, fondness breaking through the heat in his expression.

"Yeah, yeah," he said, nodding, and Peter tutted.

"Promise," Peter insisted, because-- he loved Tony, and he trusted him, but sometimes he suspected that Tony didn't even consider ranking himself anywhere in his own priorities, and-- this way, the guilt of breaking a promise to Peter might override any instinct to forget to say 'no.'

Tony sighed teasingly, dramatic, but he ran his hands up over the tops of Peter's thighs reassuringly and made his expression completely earnest as he said, "I promise, Pete."

"Good, thank you," Peter said with a grin, scritching under Tony's chin like a reward, and-- Tony blinked rapidly and shivered under him, hands tightening on Peter's thighs.

Peter's gut clenched, and he dragged his fingers down over Tony's shoulders and chest, needing suddenly to feel more.

"God," he sighed while Tony squirmed under his touch, muscles shifting. "I still want-- I still want all of those things we talked about-- I want you to use your tongue on me, I want you to use your fingers, I want to make you feel good-- I really want to tie you up."

"Okay," Tony agreed, strained, his hands roaming their way up to Peter's hips restlessly. He managed a distracted grin, asking, "Is that a-- is that a spider thing, the whole bondage fixation; what's going on there--"

Peter shifted back where he was straddling Tony's waist, deliberately grinding his ass against the hardness of Tony's cock, and Tony's breath left him in a gasp.

"I told you, I want to make you feel good," Peter said, rolling his hips slowly and moving beyond that initial, unformed thought of Tony tangled up in rope or webs and making plans. "I want you to just sit there and take it and feel good, and not overthink it, and let me make you come."

Tony's hips jolted to rut against Peter's weight above him, and he squeezed his eyes shut, biting back a groan. He looked so incredibly hot like that, all worked up and losing himself over what Peter was doing, and Peter took a steadying breath, torn between staying in place so he could savor the sight or pressing himself close so he could feel Tony against his body.

And then Tony's eyes fluttered back open, his gaze all heat and desperation, and it wasn't a question anymore.

He leaned down to cover Tony's body with his own, uttering a little whine as he ground his hips to Tony's and finally, finally paid some attention to his aching cock, and panted, "I want-- I want to do it so many times you forget you were ever worried about it; I want you to ask for it--"

"Peter," Tony groaned, sliding a hand into Peter's hair without even being asked, just the way Peter liked it; he really was--

"So perfect for me," Peter breathed into Tony's ear, mouthing at his neck, and Tony clutched him close as they rocked against each other.

Peter cleaned the two of them up in the aftermath, Tony thoroughly spent after coming twice in close proximity, and he reveled in getting to do it. Tony actually letting Peter take initiative and treat him gently still felt precious, and when Peter curled back up by his side to doze in the afterglow, it was with total contentment.

They talked, after. About what they had liked about it-- and if it took more of an effort for Tony to spell out his side so Peter knew what to play into next time, he still did, and Peter loved him so much-- and about the things that they didn't want to try, too.

And-- it finally felt like the right time, so Peter peeked up at Tony from where his head was pillowed on Tony's chest, mustered his nerve, and asked.

"Would you… want to let me give you a blowjob?"

Tony went still with surprise, so Peter rushed to add, "Not-- soon or anything, but-- sometime? Ever?"

Tony cleared his throat, and still took a long, slow breath before he asked, "...You actually want to?"

Peter knew what he was thinking.

It wouldn't be a first for them, because it had already happened in the cell. And that part of things-- Peter having to do something new in as vulnerable of a position imaginable, Tony being forced to be rough with him, the way Peter had cried through the last of it, and all of it without even the benefit of Tony getting to hold him like when they'd actually had sex-- well. It had been bad.

"I think so?" Peter ventured, shrugging. "I mean, it might-- I don't know. It might be one of those things that surprises me; it might end up feeling bad. But-- I really like the thought of it, and..."

He hesitated, because even now they didn't talk about the cell openly, not often. Their nightmares, yeah, their feelings about it, their coping, but-- not what had actually happened.

"Even... back then," he said carefully, and Tony shifted but his expression didn't utterly shutter off into blankness, so Peter gently pressed on. "It was... I mean, it was horrible, obviously, but there was-- a moment where... I was able to kind of... tune out what was happening enough, and I-- I sort of-- liked it? Not-- I mean-- you know what I mean."

Peter hoped that he did know what he meant. Tony had-- been able to get hard, had been able to come while they were in the cell too, but-- maybe that had all been simple biology, and there hadn't actually been any moments for him where he'd been able to block out the context enough to feel good. Maybe he hadn't been able to separate himself enough to retreat into imagining what it would feel like if it was happening for real-- well, no, he wouldn't have been looking at Peter like that back then, and he probably would've hated himself for it if he had, so--

"...I know what you mean," Tony said slowly, and Peter let out a little breath of relief. "I…"

Tony went quiet again, raising Peter's hand to his mouth to press a kiss to the back of his hand while he thought. It was a sweet gesture of reassurance, letting Peter know that he wasn't too uncomfortable to even have the conversation, and Peter stayed quiet to let him think.

"I don't know," Tony said finally, and Peter's heart swelled with sympathy and gratitude that Tony trusted him enough to be honest about it. "It'd... I'm-- I really. Hurt you, then."

He cleared his throat, and Peter nodded rapidly.

"I love you." Peter echoed Tony's gesture, curling close and kissing his hand. "It's okay if you don't want to. I just wanted to ask."

Tony hugged Peter against him with the arm around his shoulders, and admitted, "I don't think it's a-- 'never.' I've just gotta… get my head around it right."

"Do you want to?" Peter tipped his head to look back up at Tony, frowning slightly. "You don't have to work on it just for me. Like-- I'm working on having my clothes off in front of you, but that's because I want it?"

The question made Tony's heart beat a little faster, and it took a long moment for Tony to find an answer-- long enough that Peter was about to reassure him that he could think about it and they could come back to the idea later. But--

"Yeah," Tony said abruptly, and he nodded. "It'd-- be nice."

Peter's face lit up with a delighted smile, startled and so proud that Tony had found it in himself to say it, and he asked, "You think?"

"What, you think I'm a saint?" Tony said, raising his eyebrows, but he sighed when Peter rolled his eyes fondly at the deflection. "We'd just-- have to take it slow. Avoid some stuff. Maybe do the whole candlelight-and-roses routine so the place is as non-torture-y as possible."

But his expression was still just a little bit tense and his heartrate a little bit fast at the thought, and Peter nodded, turning the idea over in his mind. Making sure it felt-- sweet and intimate made sense, if Tony was worried about it feeling violent or disrespectful towards Peter.

"Laying on the bed would feel nicer," Peter agreed slowly. "More comfy, and it'd give you more to do with your hands if you didn't want to-- hold onto me. Oh--"

He felt his face flush, a thought striking him suddenly, but-- no, that was stupid, that was a terrible idea--

"What?" Tony said, curiosity overtaking the slight tension in his expression.

"No, I just-- had a thought, but it's a bad idea; never mind," Peter insisted, shaking his head, and Tony raised his eyebrows sky-high.

"Well now you have to tell me," he said, and Peter groaned.

"No, it's-- really stupid, okay, because the whole thing is already, like-- something sensitive for you, so adding something else on top would be a bad idea; it was just-- a dumb thought," Peter said, blushing and waving a hand for emphasis.

Tony's eyebrows were knit together in thought while he watched Peter's stammering, a puzzled smile on his face, and Peter knew exactly when it clicked for him from how his face lightened and he laughed.

"You want to tie me up," he said, delighted, and if Peter's face was bright red from the embarrassment, at least Tony wasn't upset.

"It's not even-- because I'd like it, I just-- had the thought for a second that maybe it wouldn't feel like you were doing something bad to me if it was where you couldn't do anything at all," Peter mumbled, rubbing a hand over his too-hot face. "But-- I get it, that's-- probably too much, so just forget it."

Tony breathed a softer laugh, hugging Peter to him, but he didn't actually say anything for a moment. And then--

"No, I think… I think that might actually… be really good, Pete," he said, voice soft and contemplative instead of teasing, and Peter blinked.

"Really?" Peter uncurled himself from where he'd tucked his burning face down further against Tony's chest, looking up with a little surge of hope. "You think you'd like it?"

Tony actually met his gaze instead of looking away uncomfortably-- expression still a little tentative, but not in a way that felt resigned.

"I think it… might be the way to go," Tony said slowly. "We could try it."

"Okay," Peter breathed, and then rushed to add, "Okay! Obviously-- take your time-- no rush-- but I just, um, I want to get to do that for you too, if it's something that can feel good for both of us, so-- so."

"So," Tony echoed, and he quirked a little uncertain smile at Peter-- always so brave on Peter's behalf, and it shocked Peter to his core every time. He said, "Look at you. Problem-solving in the lab and the bedroom."

Peter flushed with pleasure instead of embarrassment, and said, "I just-- want us to be happy-- and to get things to where they don't feel weird anymore, and--"

"--and I do really want to try it," he finished with a sheepish grin, and Tony laughed, light and not uncertain at all.

"All right," Tony said, and he pulled Peter in closer to press a kiss to his forehead. "Give me a little time, and we'll try it."

It took a few weeks. Tony didn't bring it up right away, so neither did Peter-- he really didn't want to rush anything, so even if Tony hadn't brought it up again at all, he would have just accepted that Tony had changed his mind.

But then, one night as they were cleaning up after dinner--

"I got some new things for the bedroom," Tony said into a lull in their conversation, glancing sidelong at Peter from where he was putting away the last of the dishes. "Do you want to-- check 'em out?"

"Oh," Peter said, unprepared for the sudden flood of images those words brought to mind. "Oh-- yeah! You can show me."

So Tony did, pulling out a sleek wooden box that he set on the mattress and opened to reveal lengths of satin ribbon and leather belts and braids of butter-soft rope, all in an array of colors, and Peter ran his fingers over them with wonder.

"I didn't know what you would like best, so I got a little of everything," Tony explained, rocking on the balls of his feet by the side of the bed. He grinned, just a little pinched at the corners, as he added, "I mean, you can use your webs on me if you want, but I thought it might be messy."

"Yeah, I don't think I need that association while I'm on patrol," Peter quipped absently, mind running wild with possibilities. Tony would be on his back, so the easiest thing would be to put his hands over his head, but if they propped him up to recline on some pillows and folded his forearms against each other it could work with them behind his back as well--

He found himself drawn to the braid of bright red rope, though, pulling it out of the case slowly and feeling the weight of it in his hands.

"Going for the classics?" Tony teased, but his eyes never left the loops of rope sliding over Peter's hands.

"It's your color," Peter said with a shrug, and Tony paused.

His voice was a little lower when he answered, "It's yours, too."

And Peter would have been lying if he'd said that didn't do something for him.

Peter took a slow breath, winding the rope around his hands in a fidget as he asked, "Are you… can we do something that takes a while? I-- watched some videos-- I thought maybe, something decorative?"

He saw Tony swallow hard, and Tony's voice was even lower when he said, "It's your show, Pete."

Which-- oh.

Something settled in Peter's gut, his nerves fading as the implication of Tony's words sank in.

Peter's voice was remarkably steady even to himself when he said, "Take off your shirt."

And Tony listened.

It was incredible, from there. Taking his time winding the ropes around Tony's body, looking and touching as much as he wanted as he went, and watching the way that Tony shifted from jokes and chit-chat to distracted nods and hums the more he was bound up. Seeing Tony all wrapped up like a present in front of him, watching Peter's every move and hanging on his every word with hot anticipation of what would come next. Getting to watch Tony shudder and squirm in his bonds, the ropes accentuating the planes of his body and giving Peter handholds to use to move him around as he pleased.

And then, finally--

Hearing the hitch in Tony's breath as Peter wrapped his lips around him. Feeling the heat of Tony's cock on his tongue, and tasting the salt and musk of his skin. Taking his time to relearn every sensation of what Tony felt like in and against his mouth, and what made Tony groan and gasp and shiver, all at his own pace.

Tony had asked that Peter finish him off with his hand, so Peter did, and it just meant that Peter got to see the beauty of Tony's expression as he came, flushed and panting and forgetting to even try to bite back his moans.

Tony let Peter hold him again, after. Peter knew that he had liked it-- that it hadn't gotten too intense, because he'd checked in and made Tony swear up and down that he'd tap out if he needed to before they even got started besides-- but just like that time on the couch, Tony was a little subdued and dazed, after, and Peter knew it still meant something important to him that it had happened.

And, also just like after that time on the couch-- things changed.

Tony was less careful with him, now. No, that sounded bad-- Tony was more open to him now, more demonstrative, taking even more initiative to kiss and touch and hold and talk, instead of patiently waiting for Peter to initiate and responding only in kind. He still went slow, and he still checked in, but he stopped-- acting like he was afraid that anything but the perfect response might cause Peter to break, and Peter hadn't totally realized that it was what Tony had been doing before until he stopped.

And the way he looked at Peter sometimes, now… He hadn't been unaffectionate by a longshot, before, but it wasn't-- this. Raw, unmasked adoration and reverence, sometimes even with an edge of surprise like he was taken aback by his own feelings, like letting himself be loved and taken care of by Peter had unlocked something that let his own feelings burn even brighter--

It was almost overwhelming, but in a beautiful, soul-grabbing way that Peter never, ever wanted to stop.

But.

It changed things outside the bubble of their relationship, too. Peter didn't exactly know why, because he and Tony were both still careful around the others-- Peter didn't take liberties with Tony's personal space the way he did in their suite, and Tony didn't look at him like that when other people were around. Tony almost ignored him sometimes when they were all together, even, and it didn't chafe because Peter knew why he was doing it, but-- he just didn't understand what might have changed, what might have prompted--

"You and Tony have been getting along well," Natasha said casually one Saturday as she corrected the angle of Peter's arm, the two of them standing at the barre Tony had installed at one corner of the gym. "Did he stop beating himself up about everything?"

The second it took for Peter to remember that she was talking about their conversation from months ago, when she'd taken Peter out the day after his big blow-up in the gym-- the day after he'd woken up to Tony having that dream next to him in bed-- wasn't the longest second of his life, but it was up there.

"Oh!" he said, and he tried his hardest to keep his lines strong but not suspiciously tense; not while Natasha was right there watching him critically and asking him about Tony. "Maybe? It seems like it, anyway. He hasn't been, like-- weird."

He didn't glance at her, because a Peter that didn't know how Tony was coping with his guilt over what had happened on an intimate level wouldn't have needed to check her expression, but he desperately wanted to.

"He's definitely seeming more relaxed," Natasha said, and she instructed him into a different position before adding, perfectly neutral, "Something must have changed."

Did she know? Peter scrabbled for any sense of what he would have said about that without the knowledge of exactly what had changed, and settled lamely on, "Yeah, I don't know. I'm glad he's feeling better."

"Your shoulders are too tense." Natasha's tone was blunt. "Drop it for a second; you're distracted."

She stepped away to grab both of their water bottles, and Peter relaxed out of his pose and shook out his limbs, restless. Was she dropping the subject? Or--

"Here," Natasha said, and she quirked a half-there smile as she passed his water to him. "I told you he'd work it out. He puts himself through a lot, but it doesn't stop him. He's Tony."

Maybe she was just continuing that conversation from back then. Checking in on him and Tony; recognizing the way that Tony's everything wasn't weighed down anymore with guilt, guilt, guilt.

"He's Tony," Peter echoed, and he hid a soft smile into the lip of his water bottle as he went to take a sip.

"But what about you, Peter?" Natasha's voice was still casual, but there was something calculating in the gaze she leveled at him. "Not putting yourself through anything you can't handle?"

Shit.

Peter froze, and the stream of nervous deflections was almost out of his mouth before-- he caught himself.

He took a breath and relaxed his shoulders, and said, "I'm doing really good, actually? I always have a lot going on, but-- everything's really working for me, right now. The only thing that's really bothering me is the drones, but I know the whole team has an eye on it, so… Things are good."

He didn't need to be nervous. He wasn't lying.

Natasha watched him carefully for a moment, but then nodded, cool.

"Glad to hear it," she said simply, and then held out a hand for his water. "Break time's over, Spidey."

Peter brought it up to Tony over dinner.

"Do you think we need to start thinking about… telling people?"

Tony glanced up at him, sharp, but after a short pause he only said, "Sure. Did something happen?"

So Peter recounted his conversation with Natasha, ending with, "--so I don't know if she knows, but-- I don't know. It feels like if we push it too much further…"

"Someone's going to go Columbo and connect the dots," Tony finished his thought with a grimace, nodding. "And it'll be less Columbo and more Jerry Springer if we don't get out in front of it."

"Who's Columbo?"

Tony leveled him with a pained look, and then rubbed a hand over his face as he muttered, "And there's why it would be Jerry Springer."

"Sorry," Peter said, grinning-- it wasn't his fault Tony didn't match his references to Peter's scope of pop culture knowledge-- but his smile faded as the nerves caught up with him.

"Sorry," Peter repeated himself, softer. "I know… I mean… obviously you're the one who-- who'll get it the worst, when we… Do you feel ready? Does it make sense for us to, keep…"

It felt almost like inviting bad luck to actually say it, after they'd come so far. After Tony had come so far, finally trusting Peter enough to let him in, finally settling whatever he needed to with himself to let Peter treat him like a partner.

But that had been the point of holding off on telling people in the first place. It was to give themselves enough time for the relationship to get its legs, and to see if there was enough there to make it worth moving forward. To see if it made sense to stay together, even with everything that would mean for them.

Tony looked up again, startled.

"Pete, are you really-- is that a question? That's a question you have?" he asked, baffled, and a reluctant smile tugged at Peter's lips.

"I just-- I just want to know that you're sure. You've got a lot more on the line than me," Peter said, soft. "I don't want to… assume anything."

Tony went quiet, and he took a long, slow breath before he reached to cover Peter's hand with his own over the table.

"You don't have to assume," he said slowly. "I'm… It's going to be a mess, Pete. But it'll always be a mess, and…"

Tony smiled at him, crooked, and said, "I'm not going anywhere."

Peter breathed out a sigh of relief so deep that it left him feeling cleansed, and whispered, "Me either."

They made plans. They'd always talked about telling May first, and Peter thought it made sense to invite her to one of his therapy visits to drop the bombshell, with Tony waiting to be called in so Patty could mediate between the three of them.

"Maybe over spring break?" Peter suggested, as much of a knot as it put in his stomach to actually nail down a date. "I could see if she'll take some days off, and then we'd have-- time. To talk about it."

Tony checked his calendar.

"The only big thing I have around then is a conference the week before, so that won't leave anything in the lurch when she murders me," he said, nodding, and Peter groaned.

"Don't," he complained. "No murder. That's why Patty will be there."

Tony squeezed his hand, but squinted at him doubtfully.

"Didn't you say that you thought Patty also wanted--"

"No murder!" Peter interrupted, and Tony sighed as he leaned to press a kiss to Peter's temple.

"She's not going to like it," he said, soft and low and with the full weight of what that meant behind it.

Peter frowned even as he nodded reluctantly, squeezing Tony's hand.

"I know," he said, and he did. She would be confused-- maybe hurt, angry, betrayed-- "And I know it'll take… time. But I just… I want to think it can be okay in the long-run. If she-- if she hears how I've already been talking about it with Patty, and sees that it's not just a fling and we're not just confused and that you're not just-- you know--"

"Taking advantage of you," Tony supplied drily, and Peter cringed, knowing how hard Tony had worked on not feeling that way himself.

"Yeah," Peter agreed, and he brought Tony's hand up to his mouth so he could kiss his knuckles, slow and purposeful and apologetic. He knew how hard Tony had already worked for him-- how much Tony was agreeing to give up for him-- and he wanted to be sure that Tony knew that he did.

And Tony smiled at him, even if it was tight with nerves, so he thought that maybe it had gotten through.

"I don't know if it'll be okay, Pete," Tony said with a little shrug. "But. We can only manage our own part of it, so. We'll do it right."

Peter smiled helplessly, immediately recognizing Iris's influence in Tony's words-- he could pull up a half-dozen examples from his own memory of Patty telling him 'you only have control over your own actions, not other people's reactions' himself. Tony really was working so hard to change his thinking, and Peter always felt so incredibly lucky to get to see it in real time.

"...Maybe we should do our older-boyfriend-family-mediation visit with Iris," Peter muttered, and Tony laughed.

The next few weeks passed. Peter went to school and went on patrol and ignored drone after drone, and spent his weekends with Tony. Natasha didn't say anything else to him-- or to Tony, which was kind of a relief and kind of maddening because Peter still didn't know what she had actually meant-- and neither did anyone else, but Peter could feel the weight of keeping the secret growing heavier now that they'd agreed to come clean, and he watched the approach of spring break with anticipation and dread alike.

Tony's tech conference was the weekend before the week leading into spring break, which didn't help with the anxiety. It was only about two hours away, and Peter knew it was ridiculous to get hung up on Tony going further away when he'd been taken right there in the city the first time around, but-- the idea of something happening to him while he was too far away for Peter to help always gnawed at him regardless.

Tony had offered to come back Saturday night, but Peter turned it down-- Tony had to be back at the conference at 8am on Sunday, so that would be stupid, and he told himself that MJ wouldn't forgive him for the excess pollution to give himself more incentive to stay strong in refusing-- but at least Tony heading out on Friday evening meant that Peter didn't have to miss school to see him off.

They always talked and hugged in the apartment before they went down to Tony's car or plane so that Peter could check things over, but it still felt off to do the security sweep in his Spider-man costume and then to have to stand back with a casual wave as Tony got into the vehicle. He wanted a send-off kiss; he wanted to tell Tony he loved him before he went on his trip, but-- even when Tony wasn't leaving with Pepper and an assistant or two, he always had Happy with him, so they were never alone.

But he always managed to cope with it-- being a total baby about Tony going away for the weekend would be the stupidest reason to get caught-- and having to stay in the Spider-man frame of mind did help with the anxiety a little. Because-- Tony was fine; he would be fine.

Peter spent the weekend at the tower anyway. As far as anyone knew, he spent his time there as much for the lab and getting to hang out with the other Avengers as he did for Tony, so while it was lonely being in Tony's suite without him, it maybe helped smooth out some of the oddities in his and Tony's relationship that the others might have noticed for him to spend time at the tower while Tony was away. And-- it was comforting to sleep in Tony's bed, surrounded by those soft pillows and blankets that smelled just like him and listening to the pulse of his heartbeat over FRIDAY's speakers instead of through his earbuds. And they texted all weekend, of course.

And then Sunday afternoon came around, and Tony texted Peter that he and Happy were on their way just when he'd said he would, but then at five minutes after, he still hadn't sent his first hourly check-in.

Peter tried not to panic. Five minutes was nothing, essentially; he knew it was, but Tony was always early on his check-ins by a few minutes if anything. Tony texted him every hour even for flights that he slept during, setting an alarm to make sure he didn't miss, and Peter didn't want to make him feel bad about being five minutes late if it turned out that he'd dozed off accidentally or he and Happy had stopped for the bathroom or-- something-- whatever-- but five minutes, really?

Skin prickling all over with goosebumps, he finally snatched his phone back up from the bedspread where he's thrown it in disgust at his own panic, and sent:

everything ok?

Three dots appeared to let him know that Tony was typing, and Peter breathed a sigh of relief, fingers going shaky as the repressed fear flooded out of his system, until:

Everything's fine, kid.

Peter's blood turned to ice.

"FRIDAY," he said, voice shaking. "Where's Tony?"

"I'm afraid Boss's location services have been disabled on his phone," FRIDAY replied, calm.

"He gave me full access; turn them back on," Peter demanded, and he darted to his own room, tugging off his clothes frantically as he went. "Transmit his location to the Avengers with instructions to meet at the jet. Tell them--"

His voice caught in his throat as he started to pull on his suit, but he forced himself to push past it; he didn't have time to get emotional--

"Tell them Tony's in trouble."

"Very well, Peter," FRIDAY agreed immediately, and Peter pulled on his mask with trembling hands.

He'd been waiting for the other shoe to drop, and praying that it never would. But he'd known somewhere that this day or another one like it would come, and here it finally was, heralded not by a blaring alarm but by three simple letters, because--

Tony didn't call him 'kid' anymore.

Chapter Text

Tony's neck hurt.

Realizing it as he came to felt like waking up from the longest, most bittersweet dream he'd ever had, and there was a part of him that genuinely expected to see bars when he managed to force his heavy eyelids open. Like maybe the whole thing had been a dream, and he was about to wake back up on the floor of a cell to an entirely different nightmare than the one he'd been given in the first place.

It was different this time, though. He wasn't on the floor of a cell, but belted to a chair. There was rough fabric shoved between his teeth, gagging him. And this time, he could feel the itchy, tacky stain of blood at his neck and shoulders, like whoever had operated hadn't bothered to stitch him up afterwards.

The room swam in and out of focus for a moment until Tony finally managed to lift his head, grimacing at the way it pulled the wound at the back of his neck.

"Look at that, he's awake."

The man that spoke wasn't on a screen, this time. He was in the room-- thin, cheap walls, a bare concrete floor, the office of some kind of warehouse?-- and Tony recognized his face immediately, but found that even this time, he couldn't remember his name.

Not that he cared. Another angry ex-employee that wanted him dead; if anything it was anticlimactic after all the theorizing. They'd been on the right track from the very start, from the very first list of potential suspects he'd given SHIELD, but then-- Tony closed his eyes briefly at the recognition of it, even if there wasn't anything else they could have done without proof-- of course it would be the easiest thing in the world for an asshole with illusion tech to fake an alibi.

Tony ignored the guy in front of him, setting his jaw against the pain in his neck and looking around to see if anyone else was with him, this time. He couldn't remember anything past breakfast with Happy this morning-- Happy had been with him at the hotel-- god, if they'd hurt him, if they'd killed him because Tony hadn't been fast enough at cracking their tech--

"Hey!" the man burst out suddenly, escalating rapidly from gloating smugness to rage. "Listen to me when I'm talking to you! It's your turn to listen now, Stark."

Tony turned his attention back to the man upon seeing that they were alone in the room; as far as he could see, Happy wasn't there. (Or Peter, but-- Peter was two hours away in New York, so that should have been more of a given than Tony's panicked heart gave it credit for.)

"That's better," the man said, pushing his hair back as his angry outburst rapidly cooled. "This is what you love anyway, isn't it? Center of the room; center of attention. Even when you haven't done anything to deserve it. Even when you only got there on the hard work of the lowly worker bees you claim to be better than."

Tony wasn't even tempted to roll his eyes. He slumped back in his chair, exhausted with the sedatives they'd given him and the inevitability of the whole situation alike.

He was so tired. He just wanted to be done.

"I'm not going to embarrass myself assuming you'd ever go out of the way to remember anyone who worked for you," the man continued his speech, oblivious to Tony's indifference. "Not like Westcott, the poor idiot. He really thought you'd remember him, like you'd actually have ever listened to a single word the guy said, even before he went off the deep end. No, I know you don't remember, so allow me to introduce myself again: my name is Quentin Beck."

Oh, that was right. Beck. He'd had a strong resume and good ideas, but he'd had to be fired-- Tony had only witnessed it himself once, but the guy was hyper-aggressive, competitive and jealous of anyone in R&D whose projects got more attention than his even if it was just a matter of timelines. He'd also had to be told, over and over again, that SI wasn't interested in any ideas he had for weaponizing the tech in his projects or anyone else's. He hadn't lasted long at SI-- less than a year?-- and Tony imagined he'd probably had a hard time finding work after that.

"--so you fired me," Beck said, still talking, the indignation coming through his faux-reasonable tone in the way he voice shook. "For having a vision and being bold enough to advocate for it. But Stark Industries doesn't actually want visionaries, does it? Tony Stark just wants to surround himself with yes-men, and to punch down anyone that doesn't fall in line. Well, punch down and push out enough visionaries, Tony, and you might find yourself with a very powerful team of enemies."

Beck looked at something over Tony's shoulder then and grinned, and-- was he playing to a camera? These fucking voyeurs, Tony was sick of it--

"Enemies like your engineers," Beck continued, "fired for shining too bright, even though we were brilliant enough to create this."

Beck spread out his arms, and the office warped around them-- flickering between scenes, endless jungle and deep ocean and baked desert and glittering space, and Tony could even feel the change in temperature and humidity as their surroundings shifted. It was genuinely impressive, and all the more because-- how had Peter been able to see through this?

"And enemies like your lawyers, left to be condescended to for cleaning up your messes after you failed to listen to their advice," Beck continued, and-- fuck, okay, Tony really did have to be nicer to his lawyers then, because--

"Truly stupid to treat them so badly, Tony, honestly. Because it wasn't hard for me to hunt down a group of like-minded employees of yours that were sick of being talked over and ignored by your ego, and that lawyer? Well, she noticed something interesting in your will," Beck explained. "Two somethings, really. First, mention of a project named EDITH."

Shit, shit, shit.

"And it took some collaboration to crack what exactly that project was, but once we did-- well. The second interesting thing was who EDITH was willed to, in the event of your death."

Beck grinned again, eager and mean, and Tony felt his pulse spike as a hologram of Peter flickered to life next to him.

"Peter Parker," Beck announced, voice laden with faux-surprise. "A sixteen-year-old boy! Bright, sure, in the top 10 of his class at Midtown Tech, but why on earth would this kid be trusted with control over a global defense system?"

Beck dropped the fake curiosity from his expression and leered at Tony, ugly.

"We had a bet about whether he was your kid or whether you were just fucking, y'know," Beck said, and he shrugged. "But then Westcott settled that one for us, didn't he?"

Tony couldn't help it. He flinched, and Beck's smirk grew wider.

"That was unfortunate, honestly. I didn't mean for that to happen to poor little Pete, and did you know, we actually didn't know he was Spider-man until then?"

The hologram shifted-- Peter in the older version of his suit now, with bruises on his face, and Tony's stomach dropped as he recognized that it was Peter from-- the cell.

Beck said, "That certainly threw a wrench into our plans. There you were in Westcott's little dungeon, ready to be done away with, but suddenly we couldn't. Not when Spider-man could see through our illusions."

"You see," Beck continued. "We wanted EDITH. Can you imagine what I could do with our illusion-tech, with the power of EDITH behind it? I could become anything. I could become anyone. Infiltration, impersonation; the power of the perfect heist would be at my fingertips, but no-- that would be too easy. Child's play. What I could do is become someone that people would listen to. And thanks to your example, nowadays what you need for that is a cape and a stupid, stupid name."

Peter's illusion disappeared, replaced with a hologram of a figure flying through the room, clad in a bulky suit and an opaque, fishbowl-like helmet, shooting a beam of energy from his hands.

"With my illusion-tech and EDITH's firepower, I could create my own supervillains, and my own superhero to defeat them," Beck explained, watching his own illusion circle the room as if enraptured. "I could become Mysterio."

Christ, this guy was insane.

Beck managed to pull his attention away from the hologram, refocusing on Tony, and he said, "So if we wanted EDITH, we needed you dead. And then there would be poor broken-hearted Peter Parker, left with too much responsibility and down one superhero mentor, and who better to step into your place than Mysterio?"

Beck grinned at him again, but his eyes had gone cold and flat in contrast to the friendly indifference of his voice.

"You know, at first I was just going to play up the mentor angle? An older, more experienced hero knowledgeable in the kind of bullshit magi-science that a kid like Peter Parker would eat right up, filling the void that Tony Stark left behind. But then Westcott got his hands on the two of you, and--"

The illusion of Mysterio faded, and Tony flinched again at what popped into view in its place, nausea flooding his gut.

Peter and himself in the cell. His hands clutching at invisible bars behind him, a silent moan on his lips while Peter sucked his dick. Peter reaching for his own cock, spurred on by Tony's reaction.

"--And I got to thinking," Beck said, watching the illusion for a moment before turning his attention back to Tony. "Peter turned seventeen not too long after this, huh? And unless he's just a little slut for anyone, it looks like he's into older guys. Maybe instead of a new mentor, he'd do better with an older, experienced boyfriend?"

Tony's heart jumped so hard in his chest that it hurt when his vision went red, and he yanked at the restraints belting him to his chair as he snarled impotently into his gag, "You motherfucker--"

Beck laughed, and said, "Ooh, sore spot, huh? Oh, come on, I'd be good to him. That would be the point, after all. Seduce him, make him trust me, convince him that EDITH would be better off in my hands than his. Maybe we'd even keep it up afterwards, you never know. It looks like he actually gave pretty good head for his first time, so why not stick around?"

Tony swallowed harshly around the gag, suddenly too obtrusive and overwhelming in his mouth when his stomach was churning and his heart was racing and he wanted to puke, and he closed his eyes to draw in deep breaths. Peter was fine, he was fine, and this scumbag couldn't touch him--

"I admit, I knew Westcott's history, but I didn't think that's where he would go when I gave him permission to do whatever he wanted with the two of you as long as he didn't kill you," Beck continued off-handedly, while the hologram continued to play in the background, illusion-Tony's hands shifting into Peter's hair. "Peter for obvious reasons, but you-- well, I knew our tech needed more work if Peter could see through it, and I was worried that someone else would swoop in to charm EDITH out of his grief-stricken hands if we got you out of the way before we were ready."

Tony went frozen and still in his chair.

Westcott was never going to kill them. From the moment Peter had intervened, that had never even been a risk.

Something of the surge of shock and retroactive regret and renewed grief must have shown on Tony's face, because Beck laughed.

"Realizing it was all for nothing, huh?" he taunted, and then threw a considering look at the hologram beside him. "Of course, it seems like you didn't not have a good time."

Tony recoiled in his restraints as the visual of the hologram was abruptly accentuated by audio-- Tony's own voice gritting out, "You're beautiful, baby; you're perfect--"

Is that how he had sounded? Beck was trying to taunt him over actually getting something out of it, but all Tony could hear in his voice was the grief and barely-repressed panic and desperate desire to soothe.

All for nothing, though. Beck was right on the money with that.

"Ugh, really?" Beck said, disgusted, and Tony pulled his attention away from the hologram and the memories it had pulled screaming back into focus with difficulty. "Are you really getting into watching your little sextape with Spiderboy, there? Maybe Westcott did actually have you pegged. As I was saying--"

Tony tried to keep his eyes focused on Beck-- tried to actually focus on Beck; if he was rescued then it might be important for him to be able to report on all of this, and if Beck was sloppy Tony might be able to rescue himself-- but his mind kept drifting, fading away back into the recontextualization of everything that had happened between he and Peter.

He'd made Peter a target. It didn't matter that he wasn't expecting himself to die anytime soon-- he knew it was a possibility-- and he'd done it anyway. He'd made Peter a target of these people, just by putting Peter in his will and-- what, being an asshole to his lawyers apparently-- and he'd done things that hadn't even been necessary because they wouldn't have been killed anyway-- it was all for nothing--

Beck punched him, and the pain rang pure and clear through the noise building up in Tony's mind.

"Still with us?" Beck asked, unimpressed, like he wasn't the one monologuing at a man that couldn't talk back.

Tony didn't know if he would be rescued, and he didn't know what kind of shape he would be in if he was, but he did know that if it was at all possible, he was going to murder this guy.

"So that's all I needed you for," Beck said with a shrug, picking back up from where Tony had stopped paying attention. "Keeping the kid happy until we got our tech in order. So today you'll die, and EDITH will transfer into Parker's hands, and within the next month Mysterio will be cemented as a hero to the masses."

"But," Beck said. "You'll be relieved to know that my idea of fun is very different than that nutcase Westcott's, but while I have you here--"

He pulled back a fist, and Tony closed his eyes against the impact.

Peter would know something was wrong. Even if these guys had been stalking him closely enough to know to send check-ins to Peter's phone, Tony could feel the barely-there pressure of his vitals sensor resting over his heart, diligently recording the jumps in his heart rate every time a blow fell and reporting them directly to Peter.

Tony hoped Peter wouldn't be scared. He hoped that Peter would arrive in time. The last thing that he had ever wanted to do was break Peter's heart.

Tony slumped in his chair, clenched his jaw around his gag to protect his teeth, and let himself float away from the pain and into thoughts of Peter.

Three weeks into things, they were curled up on the couch, having fallen into companionable silence after Peter finished teasing him mercilessly on the heels of their movie night pick-- Crazy Rich Asians, and Tony should have known better than to let them watch a rags-to-riches romcom together even before the third time Peter had turned to him with a grin during a scene of dumb-rich-guy excess to ask "Have you done that before?"-- when Peter suddenly looked up at Tony from where his head was pillowed against Tony's chest, and he said, "When did it change for you?"

"What?"

Peter did that a lot-- picking up on his own thread of thought and verbalizing it out of nowhere as if Tony had been privy to the rest of it, and Tony couldn't find it anything but cute when he knew he had the exact same habit.

"Your-- feelings? Towards me," Peter clarified quickly, wrinkling his nose in acknowledgement of the non-sequitur. "Or like-- when did you realize, maybe? I didn't notice a change in how you were acting until-- well, anyway, when was it?"

Tony wondered how Peter would have ended that sentence if he'd followed through on it-- 'until that time you had a wet dream right next to me and freaked out about it?' He fought back a cringe, and then distracting himself by thinking about what Peter had actually asked wasn't any better, because--

Well, he tried not to ask himself that first question, personally. He didn't know how long he'd been lying to himself about his feelings for Peter, and he didn't exactly want to figure it out. But the second part...

Ugh, no, that made him want to cringe too.

"You first," he deflected, even though it was stupid-- Peter'd had a crush on him since always, and Tony didn't like thinking about that, either-- but at least it wasn't anything he didn't already know.

"Oh," Peter said, like he was surprised to have the question turned around on him, and he hummed thoughtfully. "Probably... I mean-- if we're talking for real-- probably after you found out about me stealing your jacket? Yeah."

Tony blinked, a reflexive frown tugging at the corners of his mouth. That wasn't-- the breathless and bashful admission of a long-term crush that he had been expecting, and even more than that, the moment Peter had picked--

"You mean the night I totally stomped all over your chance to talk about your Vulture nightmare by blubbering on you?"

(He hadn't, but it had been a near thing.)

Peter frowned at him in return, curling in tighter towards Tony's body like he could protect him from his own words.

"No," Peter chided, butting his forehead gently to Tony's shoulder in offense, and Tony didn't deserve him at all. "I mean the night that you came and got me because I was upset, and the night you really let me know what you were thinking and feeling about what happened for the first time, and the night you let me hug you about it instead of me doing the blubbering all the time."

"Tomato, tomato," Tony said automatically, countering without thinking about it, but-- well, okay, maybe that was...

Peter huffed and looped his arms around Tony's neck, pressing himself along Tony's front and covering his body on the couch.

"It was important to me," Peter said, and Tony smoothed a hand over his back, reflexively soothing. "It was really... I guess the very very start of it was when we talked on my birthday, since you told me about the 'kid' thing, but-- it was like... the first time I really felt like you were letting us be in it together? Like, both going through something? Instead of pretending it only happened to me. It was-- you let me help you, and I... It's not like I could've really let myself fall in love if I was just still thinking of myself as your-- annoying tag-along, so after that..."

It was a relief just as much as it was a shock, to hear Peter talk about it so thoughtfully-- to hear him differentiate, even to himself, between his feelings of idol-worship puppy love and... the thing they had between them now. Tony-- had known that Peter meant it, when he said that he was in love, that he wasn't just confused-- Tony wouldn't have let this happen, if he still really believed that Peter was just confused-- but...

Peter had really, truly thought about it. Hadn't just-- accepted that he loved Tony, that those feelings were a natural extension of sex or admiration; he'd-- thought about why he loved Tony, and when it had happened, and how.

"I love you," Tony murmured, and Peter smiled up at him, sweet and beautiful.

"Your turn," Peter prompted, and Tony sighed.

"If you were hoping for something romantic…" he warned vaguely, and Peter only grinned more brightly.

"Tell me," Peter wheedled.

Tony let his head fall back against the arm of the couch, dramatic, and said, "Remember that time you crawled on me to vent about the subway thing and I stomped all over your moment again by having a panic attack?"

Peter's eyebrows shot up, and he said, "Then?"

Tony shrugged, like he could make it less embarrassing by pretending that it wasn't, and said, "It's no 'you had me at hello,' but."

"Wait--" Peter pushed himself up over Tony, fully startled. "Is that why? Did you freak out because you--"

"Had a love epiphany with a lapful of sad teenager? It may have been related," Tony said drily, and Peter-- frowned.

"Don't try to make it sound bad on purpose," he chided, but a little weakly, and Tony's heart lurched, because--

Peter wasn't just offended on Tony's behalf. His feelings were hurt.

Because of course they were. Because Tony was an idiot, and making it sound like he was embarrassed of his feelings for Peter instead of the way he'd handled them, and treating what could have been something-- sweet-- something that was sweet; Tony would never forget that they'd ended up laughing over it hard enough to cry-- as if it was shameful.

"I wanted to protect you," Tony blurted, and Peter blinked at the suddenness of it. Mouth dry, Tony said, "You were just-- having such a hard time. And I. It just came over me all at once, how much I wanted to-- fix it for you."

Peter's expression smoothed out, softening, and Tony swallowed hard before he finished, "But it wasn't something I could fix, so I just had to. Sit with it. How much I... felt about you. And then I thought, oh, fuck."

'Oh, fuck' was right; that had probably been too honest and Peter would be upset again, but--

But Peter grinned instead, if a little ruefully, and tucked himself back against Tony's chest as he admitted, "That's… fair."

"It seemed appropriate at the time," Tony said, relaxing under Peter's weight and holding him a little tighter in relief.

Peter breathed a laugh, and then laughed again more suddenly, and said, "So your answer was a time you wanted to protect me, and mine was a time I wanted to protect you? Uh-oh, I think we might both have a hero complex."

He grinned up at Tony, cheesy, and Tony groaned indulgently while his heart swelled with affection.

"That was terrible, and I'm revoking all the romance points you earned for telling your side of the story," he said, but then he kissed Peter's laughing mouth because he was well past pretending he wanted to do anything else.

As zoned out as he was, and as bad of news as it was for Beck to change things up, Tony had to admit to a little swell of spiteful vindication when Beck gave up on hitting him pretty quickly. Punching someone hurt, and it seemed like Beck hadn't actually done anything to prepare himself for that while he was making up a superhero alter ego for himself. Not much of a method actor, apparently.

Beck played it off, stepping back from Tony's chair and swooping a hand through his disheveled hair to push it back into place, but Tony could see how he was clenching and unclenching his other fist at his side.

"I have to admit, I've been waiting for that," Beck said with a grin, all aw-shucks charm, and Tony hated that even with a direct insight into the guy's insanity, he could see how Peter might fall for it.

(Might have fallen for it, Tony corrected himself with a little renewed swell of nausea. Peter wasn't going to fall for it, because Peter would know that something was wrong.)

"The great Tony Stark, helpless without his suit," Beck said with a grandiose shrug. "Because no matter how many people clamor to swallow your bullshit, that's all you are, isn't it? A man in a suit. You couldn't even get yourself out of Westcott's hands on your own, and the guy was a total loon."

It was a little therapeutic, in a way. Tony had spent so long wanting someone to blame him like this, but he'd always pictured-- his friends. His teammates. May. Peter.

People he cared about.

But now those words were wearing the face of-- this guy, this asshole who was so egotistical and so paradoxically insecure about it that he was willing to murder over it, willing to let-- let what had happened to Peter happen because of it-- those words were wearing the face of this pathetic scumbag, and all Tony wanted to do was get rid of that face.

"He was just a scapegoat, by the way," Beck explained breezily. "He was barely in on it, honestly. We needed someone for a dry run of the plan that I could get rid of if any bumps came up, and there was poor Skip, living in squalor and half out-of-his-mind already. It didn't take much to convince him that you'd had a role in the time he served for his naughty pictures after he had his little breakdown and went off the grid; I just fed him something about SI doing illegal surveillance on its employees' home devices. It's a good thing we tracked him down, too; imagine what a mess it would've been if we'd gone whole-hog without knowing about Peter's spider eyes?"

"What a shame for Peter, though," Beck said. "Wrong place, wrong time. Wrong person. Shame he had to go and get attached to Tony Stark, huh? And I bet you told yourself you were protecting him, suiting him up like that, letting him fall into your orbit. The poor kid really trusts you."

But, then, some of it still hurt.

"Mr. Stark," the hologram of Peter said brokenly, the scene playing on loop in the background, and Tony closed his eyes against it.

"Ah, well," Beck said, dismissive. "Don't worry about it, Tony. He'll look back and figure it out once you're gone. That none of it was his fault, and his only mistake was trusting you to protect him. I'll make sure of it."

Tony's only warning for what was coming next was the preemptive flare of heat at his incision site, and as his muscles seized with the contractions of electrocution, it was at least a reprieve from hearing himself think.

Nearly two and a half months in, Tony still hated that Peter had to grapple with nightmares, but the nice thing about being together is that he got to be there to pick up the pieces when they happened.

Peter said that he didn't have them as often as he used to, but Tony still woke up to Peter's rapid, panicked breathing or the shivering of Peter pressed into his side far more often than Tony liked. Most of the time Peter would relax from nothing more than Tony pulling him in close and murmuring some reassurances into his hair, but this time--

Peter was quiet where he was tucked against Tony's side, but Tony could feel that he was still too tense, the silence strained instead of soothing.

Tony ran a hand over Peter's hair, and said, "Let's get up."

Peter looked up at him, and it was too dark to make out his expression, but Tony could tell he was confused.

"It's 3:30," Peter said, and Tony shrugged.

"The perfect hour for hot chocolate," he said, and he started to sit up.

He wanted to ask what was bothering Peter-- what exactly had happened in his nightmare that he was so much more shaken up than normal-- but even though Peter was a lot more forthcoming about that stuff than Tony himself, sometimes he still needed time to process what he was thinking before he'd be willing to talk about it. Tony thought that this was going to be one of those times, from the way Peter had pressed close without even returning Tony's 'I love you,' but when he tried to get up--

Peter put a hand over Tony's where he had it braced against the mattress to shift his weight, and mumbled, "Wait."

So Tony sat back against the headboard instead, silently raising his arm to invite Peter to tuck himself back under it, and waited for Peter to gather his thoughts.

The last thing he was expecting Peter to say once he did was, "I'm sorry."

Tony paused, going back over the previous day in his mind and trying to pick out any moments Peter might have felt that he was too mean or something-- he never was; even when he got irritated with Tony he never actually said anything that wasn't entirely warranted-- and coming up blank.

"For what, baby?"

Peter looked away from him even as he stayed pressed to Tony's side, and he went quiet for a long moment before he finally murmured, "I lied to you."

What?

"When? About what?" Tony said, frowning and holding Peter closer as a reassurance. He couldn't imagine Peter lying to him about something that he'd actually be mad about-- well, no, okay, he could, but he felt like they were long past Peter doing reckless shit behind his back to try and impress him.

"In the cell," Peter said, even softer, and no matter how stupid it was that the c-word still made Tony's stomach drop, he couldn't help the way that he tensed.

Peter sighed in response to feeling his tension, shuddery, and Tony hunted rapidly for a response to make up for it.

"Pete, you can't think I'd be mad at you for anything you said-- back then," he settled on, and he still hated the way his mind had to try and answer any question put in front of it, because he didn't want to remember the things Peter had said to him in the cell. Not even to guess at the lie.

Peter shook his head, and Tony heard the sound of his throat clicking when he swallowed hard.

"When I told you not to leave me alone with him," Peter said, unsteady, "I wasn't actually scared of that. He just told me that he'd stop hurting you if I could make you listen, so I said what I thought would work."

That-- oh.

Tony blinked slowly, feeling suddenly like he wasn't quite awake enough for this conversation.

"I'm sorry," Peter continued, tucking his face to Tony's shoulder. "I just didn't want you to... to get hurt."

"Peter," Tony said, cautious, because he really felt like he didn't understand. "Are you apologizing for saving my life?"

"No," Peter insisted, and that had been the wrong move, because he was getting more upset. "I-- I manipulated you-- and if I hadn't, maybe you would've-- maybe you would've found a different way? And you wouldn't have had to feel so guilty--"

His breath caught, suddenly, and Tony wondered what the fuck he'd been dreaming about that had set him thinking about this.

Tony shook his head, giving Peter another squeeze for emphasis, and said, "We can't play the 'what if' game, Pete. What if I hadn't lost my shit and he never needed to shock me? Maybe I could've talked him down. What if I lied and told him you were my kid? I thought about it. But I didn't know if it'd make him stop or just-- double down."

He could remember the panic of it. Playing out those what-ifs in his own mind even in the moment, as rapidly as he could, trying to get a read on Westcott and figure out which way was the right way to go, or if there even was a right way to go--

"What if I'd treated you differently? What if you hadn't come after me? What if I'd woken up faster and talked him down before you woke up?" Tony swallowed hard, shaking his head again. "There's-- too much, Pete, too much that could have happened but didn't and too much that did happen but might not have and-- you can't. Do that to yourself."

Peter sat up, pulling himself away from Tony's arms, and only then did Tony realize with a little guilty start that he'd been holding him too tightly.

"Sorry--"

"It's okay," Peter said softly, and he reached to take Tony's hands. He was quiet for a moment, just watching Tony's expression while they sat with their linked hands between them.

He sighed, finally, and nodded.

"I get it. I don't want… I don't want you to blame yourself, either." He squeezed Tony's hands, and his expression shifted from quiet regret to earnest apology. "But I just… I never told you, and I felt bad. I'm sorry."

"It's okay," Tony echoed, and maybe it was that he was still a little hazy from all his own what-ifs or the late hour, but without thinking, he added, "I forgive you."

He wanted to walk it back with horror immediately-- Peter didn't really even have anything to apologize for, why had he said that-- but then Peter's face went soft and light with relief all at once, and Peter leaned in to kiss him.

"Thank you," Peter murmured against him, and he quietly added, "I forgive you, too."

Oh.

Tony sucked in a breath and pulled Peter back against him, holding him and kissing him again, because that was--

He knew that Peter didn't blame him. He really did. And that was its own kind of comfort, sure, knowing that there wasn't any secret resentment there, knowing that Peter had felt-- comforted and taken care of instead of taken advantage of, back then, but…

In all of his blaming himself-- in all of his wanting to be blamed-- he hadn't known how much he wanted to be forgiven until Peter gave it to him.

"I love you," Tony said, pressing kisses to Peter's lips and cheek and forehead, and Peter did him the favor of pretending he couldn't hear the scraped-raw tremble in his voice.

They fell asleep in each other's arms after, and as he drifted off, Tony let himself start to think-- if he could keep this-- if he could get lucky enough for that to happen-- he wouldn't waste it. He would do it right. He was going to do things right, this time.

Beck was saying something. Tony wasn't sure what-- his ears were ringing, like they were trying to anticipate the sound of electricity buzzing through his system, like they didn't know what it should sound like without anymore.

Something about the video, anyway. About Tony being a pervert or Peter being-- it didn't matter, really. Tony watched the video loop, and Beck tried to mock him over it, and all Tony felt was--

Sympathy. Sympathy for the version of himself that was watching Peter at his feet with such desperation and adoration and guilt, guilt whenever Peter flinched or whimpered or cried, guilt whenever his body had the audacity to respond.

And sympathy for Peter, of course. So scared, so overwhelmed, so trusting-- Peter did still trust him, and the thing was, they had made it out. They'd whispered to each other and clung to each other and they had made it out, and of course Tony wished that it had never had to happen, but--

It was the seed for what they had now, too. And Tony could see it on his face in the hologram, when he dragged Peter over to him on the cell floor, Peter crying into his neck, when he pushed into Peter and Peter gripped at him like a lifeline, when he finally bent to kiss him and Peter let the comfort of it finally carry him over the edge.

His hearing was still a little funny, but he could see himself say "--because I love you, kid," and it hadn't been the same back then, but. Yeah. The seed had been there.

Beck slapped him, angry that Tony wasn't listening to his bloviating. Tony forgot himself enough to actually try to say 'well whose fault is that, don't you know what electricity does to the human body, aren't you an engineer,' through his gag, dazed, and that was probably bad.

And once Tony's eyes focused again, Beck was holding something sharp, which was even worse.

Three months in--

It was different in the bedroom than it had been in the cell.

Which, of course. He and Peter were doing this on purpose, because they loved each other. They were alone and comfortable instead of watched and sore and afraid. They were in a warm bedroom, on soft blankets, instead of a cold cell with stark tile and iron bars.

And they could take their time.

Peter did take his time, lingering over tying Tony up, lingering over touching and looking at his body, lingering over putting Tony on the floor between his knees so that Tony could take care of him first, and then--

He went so, so slow as he stripped Tony the rest of the way so that Tony was fully naked on the bed in front of him, and Tony knew that he was partly giving Tony time to speak up if he changed his mind, but that wasn't all. Peter wore it on his face, plain as day and without any modesty, just how badly he wanted this, and wanted to savor it, wanted to make Tony feel good and revel in the vicarious pleasure of it. He was taking his time to drink in every detail of Tony's body and shivers and expressions not because he was stalling or nervous or uncertain, but with the decadence of a gourmet, and--

If Tony'd had any lingering doubts about doing this-- letting Peter do this, because he may have been tied up but he could have stopped it with a word at any time-- that would have taken care of them. Because watching the utter revelation on Peter's face as he got to lean in and wrap his lips around Tony, looking up under his eyelashes so he could watch Tony's expression as he did it-- watching how Peter nearly glowed with self-assurance and curiosity as he explored Tony's body, pulling off to murmur toe-curling praise against Tony's skin when he wanted a break-- watching how happy it made him, for Tony to trust him with this--

Tony gave himself over to it, to the reality and inevitability of Peter's love and how that meant that Peter was honestly, genuinely just as fed by taking care of Tony as Tony was by taking care of him. He sank into that beautiful void of nothing but listening and reacting and pleasure, he let Peter hear the heat and desperation in his voice, he let Peter drink in every detail of how good he was making Tony feel, and he listened when Peter stroked his cock and pressed kisses into his stomach and told him to come.

Peter held him again after, before he even untied Tony's ropes. He drew Tony against him, Tony's back to Peter's chest, and kissed the top of Tony's head and kept his arms solid and comforting around Tony's body. He was a natural, really-- he was so good at knowing what Tony needed, even though Tony didn't know how, because he didn't think he was giving off any signals and he'd been doing his best to fight them before he and Peter had actually talked about it.

But now--

Tony didn't fight it as Peter stroked his hair and told him he'd done a good job. He didn't try to pull himself out of the haze that submission put him in, and he didn't think about whether or not that was selfish, and he didn't think about the cell. He just sighed, and sank into Peter's arms, and let Peter take care of him.

Red, red, red.

Tony usually liked red. It was bright and powerful and optimistic, and you couldn't miss it for the world. His suit was red; Peter's suit was red. It was their color-- they'd said so; they'd agreed. Sappy but true. He laughed at himself sometimes over how sappy Peter made him, because it really was ridiculous, but he wouldn't give it up for anything. They could have red at their wedding.

But no, that was stupid and sappy too; it had only been two months. Three months. Four months? Tony tried to count back to January-- New Year's kiss, he reminded himself-- but he lost track and gave up. It hadn't been long enough, was the point, and Peter wouldn't marry him anyway. Imagine the media zoo, even if they waited for ages. No, no. No matching rings and no cake and no dancing and definitely no kissing in front of other people and no Rhodey to tear up during his best man speech and no May to give Peter away. It just wouldn't happen. So no wedding hall bedecked with red, either, even if it would be nice, even if it would make him so happy, even if red was Tony's favorite.

Oh, right. Red.

Tony usually liked red. But the problem with it right now was that Tony's shirt hadn't been red before Beck got to it, and that was pretty bad. And now even when Tony closed his eyes, he just saw red, flashing, over and over again, and he didn't know what that meant for him, but it seemed bad, too.

Only a week ago, Tony nudged Peter gently with his foot from where he sat on the couch, because Peter had stopped scribbling into his chemistry notebook to stare blankly at the pages instead about three minutes ago.

"Stuck?" Tony tucked away his phone into his pocket-- he was just scrolling through his agenda for the next week anyway-- and smiled at Peter as Peter lowered his notebook to look at him.

"What if I don't go to college?" Peter blurted, and it was such a non-sequitur that it took Tony a beat to process.

And then it took another beat after that to bite back his instinctive, horrified response, because that would-- not be good boyfriend-ing. Not at all. And he was Peter's boyfriend, not his dad, so he definitely should not say the first thing that popped into his head, here.

Tony took a slow breath, and carefully said, "What if you don't?"

Peter let out a rush of frustrated breath, and shoved his notebook and pen over onto the coffee table, crawling to Tony's side of the couch.

"I just," he said, tucking himself against Tony's chest. "If I go to MIT, or some other out-of-state school, that's-- so far away. And even if I go to Columbia, I'm going to be so busy between classes and Spider-man and keeping up with May and-- a degree takes so long, especially if I go for a Master's and especially-especially if I go for a PhD, which-- I mean, I'd have to, right, if I'm going to take any job that requires a STEM degree at all to make college worth it, so-- I don't know. I don't need a lot of money, I could do fine just with a lab job that doesn't take a degree or just some certifications or something."

Boyfriend. Boyfriend, not dad. Good boyfriend, not-- stereotypical controlling older boyfriend--

Tony said, "You could. You wouldn't get to do your own research, and you'd miss out on a lot of stuff your friends will get to do, but you could."

Peter peeked up at him reproachfully anyway, and said, "You don't think I should do it."

"I think you should do whatever you want," Tony said, and that at least came easily, because it was true. "Tell me what you want and we'll make it happen. If you don't think you'll regret skipping college-- the people and the parties and getting up to stuff without-- me and May and the others over your shoulder all the time-- if you won't regret not getting to work on your own stuff, seeing what you come up with when it's not just me and Bruce as resources-- then-- yeah. You should do whatever you want."

He took a breath, and couldn't help from adding, "But-- when we talked about... us. We did talk about college being a way to... make sure you have a real chance... to. To, to-- have something other than-- Tony, Tony, Tony all the time."

Peter was quiet, and then he sighed and said, "I know, I know. We talked about it. And... And I do want to do the whole... college thing. But I also want..."

He shook his head and looked up at Tony, imploring, uncertain.

"Aren't you scared of things changing?"

Tony passed a hand over Peter's hair, quiet himself.

He tried not to think about Peter going off to college, anymore. It was hard not to fall back into his pattern of-- assuming the worst, assuming that it would just be the first step in Peter realizing how much better he could have it with anyone other than Tony-- so he tried to stay in the moment, instead. And it was-- awful, obviously, to think of Peter being so far away that they couldn't even see each other every weekend like they did now, when Tony wasn't any better than Peter in the clinginess department and knew that he'd--

He'd miss Peter so much.

"Yeah," Tony admitted finally, because there was no way around it. He squeezed Peter briefly, though, adding, "But I was afraid of things changing before-- us, too. And now look."

Peter smiled at that even through his uncertainty, but he sighed again and knocked his forehead to Tony's shoulder.

"Yeah, but I could at least picture the good changes when it came to that part," he said. "I just... know this is going to change stuff for us, and-- and I can't see any good parts."

"The good parts don't have to be for us," Tony said. "They can be for you. Getting smarter, getting more experience, seeing who you are on your own. Not May's nephew, not-- my boyfriend-- not Spider-man, but Peter Parker, Strong Independent Young Man."

Peter huffed a laugh and rolled his eyes, smiling reluctantly. Tony smiled himself at seeing Peter relax, and-- fuck it. It was sappy, but it was true.

He added, "And, good parts for you are gonna be good parts for us, Pete. Because, y'know-- if things are good for you, they're good for me."

Peter's smile softened, and he leaned to kiss Tony softly before he nodded, slow.

"Yeah, okay," he said.

And then huffed a theatrical sigh, drawling, "I guess I'll go to MIT."

Tony grinned, and plucked at his-- Peter's-- sweater where it lay over his shoulder.

"You already look the part," he said, and Peter grinned back at him.

"You did such a good job of saying the boyfriend thing instead of the dad thing," Peter laughed, and the fact that he'd recognized it startled a laugh out of Tony, too. "I know that was killing you."

"I was so good," Tony sniffed, whining, and Peter pressed a kiss to his chin as a treat.

"I kind of want to hear the dad version now, though," Peter said, grinning.

"Of-fucking-course you're going to college; are you kidding me?" Tony blurted, and Peter laughed.

Tony tried his best to stay conscious.

It would've been easier to sleep. To not have to feel the ache of his bruises and throb of his wounds and stickiness of the blood soaking into his shirt and bone-deep exhaustion in his muscles, cramped and spent from his convulsions.

But even when he couldn't keep his eyes open anymore from the fatigue and the swelling alike, and even when the sounds of the room around him went distant and dreamlike, even further away than when his ears had been ringing, he knew he couldn't sleep. Because if he slept, he might not wake up, and he couldn't break Peter's heart.

So he sat in his chair, and noted absently, distantly, that Beck hadn't hurt him in a long time. Maybe Beck didn't have the stomach for murder, in the end? Maybe they were just going to leave him there to rot. That would be a joke on them; Peter would definitely find him.

How soon it would happen, though--

He was trying to stay awake.

It really had been what felt like a long time, though. And even though he couldn't hear Beck's voice anymore-- just his and Peter's if he focused, on loop, oh, fuck and you're perfect, baby and the sound of Peter's whimpers-- it seemed… loud? The noises didn't make sense, and felt very far away, but it was loud, and busy, and familiar in a way that Tony couldn't really place. He was used to noise. Parties and workshops. Conferences and races. The drone of a drill and the buzz of conversation and the roar of applause and the throttle of an engine and the shutter and flash of cameras and alarms and the scrape of metal on metal, like a lathe, like a saw, like a battle.

He couldn't fall asleep. There was something he had to do. A paper? No-- stupid, he hadn't been in school in ages. A deadline? A speech? He couldn't remember. But it was important, and he couldn't fall asleep.

He heard something, then, something other than the faraway loud-busy and the closer you're okay, sweetheart, don't cry from the still-looping hologram; a sound like a crying animal that ached in the pit of his stomach, and then he heard his name.

"Tony," he heard. Maybe from the moment when he'd pushed inside Peter's body, or from when Peter had dragged him down with that wild, desperate look in his eyes, that want that Tony hadn't been able to say no to before he'd leaned down and kissed him. "Tony, Tony--"

Peter had been so scared. So hurt. Tony had hurt him so badly, and-- right-- all for nothing, Beck had said so.

He'd tried not to, though. He'd tried to make it okay. He'd tried to make Peter feel as safe as he could. As secure, as unashamed, as protected, as loved.

And Peter loved him too. He knew that, now. That was such a wonderful thing to have, and Tony was so, so scared to lose it. He didn't want to lose him, but it was so hard to stay awake.

He felt hands on his stomach, over one of his wounds, and flinched in his chair to try and escape.

"I know," Tony heard, in a tearful voice. "I know, I'm sorry, but you're bleeding-- Natasha, help me; Rhodey--"

A flurry of hands and movement and pain and changes; his shirt being peeled away, the gag being pulled from his mouth, stinging and stickiness and pressure on his wounds, and he groaned with the pain of it.

"You're okay," he heard, but it sounded wrong, his voice was wrong on this loop somehow. "You're okay, I've got you-- here--"

More hands, unbuckling his wrists from their restraints.

He couldn't hear the loop at all anymore, actually, after following it like a lifeline since the first blow to his face, horrible and bitter-tasting but that ever-present reminder of why-- why he needed to stay awake. Because he'd already made Peter cry enough, and he wasn't going to do it again, so he needed to stay awake for--

For Peter.

Tony blinked one eye open, bleary and hazy and wet with something that clung to his eyelashes and stung, but then--

There he was. Not a hologram. Not a memory. Here.

"Hi," Tony murmured, and a wobbly smile broke through the terror on Peter's face.

"Hi," Peter said, sweet and beautiful and everything Tony wanted but didn't deserve but had anyway, and then Peter tore his gaze away to-- look at someone else-- talk to someone else-- Tony couldn't quite hear him, suddenly, not consistently, just catching bits of phrases and words here and there, but that was okay.

"Okay, Tony, come here," Peter said finally, breaking through the cotton someone had shoved into Tony's ears, and Tony obediently lifted his arms up around Peter's neck so Peter could pick him up.

He was still so tired, and it hurt when Peter hoisted him into his arms, but that was okay now. It was okay now. Peter would take care of him.

Tony tucked his face against Peter's shoulder, relaxed into his arms, and fell asleep.

Chapter Text

As he sat at Tony's bedside in the medbay, the thing that kept strobing through Peter's mind was how much he wanted to hold Tony's hand.

He knew he couldn't, obviously. The others were still milling around, talking in low voices or standing quietly at the other side of Tony's bed, and every once in a while someone would clap Peter on the shoulder until he shot them a tight smile and they moved on.

(Well, most of the others were still milling around. Peter didn't know where Clint was. He'd been pretty upset by the holograms, so maybe he just needed to be on his own for a while.)

Though, after today-- after the holograms, after the jet, after all the things Peter had needed to share to arrange the rescue-- maybe it was a moot point. Maybe no one would be surprised anymore, if he let himself reach forward and take Tony's hand where it lay limply at his side on the hospital bed. He'd gotten enough weird looks today to last a lifetime, and-- maybe they were just thinking, 'oh, shit, Tony and Peter are still way more messed up than we thought,' maybe they thought it was just trauma and codependency, maybe no one had realized. But--

It had been hard. From the beginning, it had been hard, because he was weird about Tony and everyone did know that, so when he called everyone to the jet, unwilling to even waste the time of meeting in a briefing room first--

"I believe you when you say it's out-of-character for him, Pete," Steve said gently, and everyone was being so careful with him when what they needed to do was go-- "But he did respond, so why don't we get him on a video call to check in before we power up the jet?"

"They have illusion tech," Peter insisted, exasperated. "They can show us whatever they want over a video call, and we already know that cameras aren't sensitive enough to pick up the glitching, a call isn't going to tell us anything-- something's wrong. And it's not, it's not-- it's not just out-of-character, okay, he didn't just slip up out of habit, when he stopped calling me that it was a-- a whole thing that we talked about--"

"A 'whole thing?'" Clint questioned, and Peter honestly couldn't tell whether he was just trying to lighten the mood by teasing Peter over his word choice or if he was genuinely digging for information, but it was infuriating.

"Yes," Peter hissed, wringing his hands. "Yes, okay, because it--"

He drew in a breath, because he hadn't really wanted to have to talk about this with the others, but Tony and Happy were in trouble--

"When we were with Westcott," he said, and that got everyone's attention, at least, postures tensing and tightening. "He didn't want to give away my name, so he-- so he called me that instead, while we were--"

His breath caught, and the tension stretched so tight that it felt like it might snap before he managed to say, "--there. While we were there. So-- after-- he said, he didn't want to call me that anymore, because it was a... reminder."

Peter shook his head, gathering himself, and a little bit of strength returned to his voice when he said, "So it wasn't an accident, okay? If-- if he called me that, then either someone has his phone or he was trying to send me a message, because-- he wouldn't-- it wasn't an accident."

That, at least, finally seemed to do the trick. Everyone's expressions were tight and grim instead of assessing or pitying, except-- Clint's brow was furrowed in confusion and thought, and yeah, the idea that Tony would be so put off if he hadn't played an actual role in things probably didn't make a lot of sense, but--

"Okay, Peter," Steve said slowly, and then he nodded. "Okay. FRIDAY, give us that location again?"

It still took longer to leave than Peter wanted it to, because they had to wait for so many things-- not everyone was at the tower, and they did need to get a medical crew together, and as much as Peter was nearly crawling out of his skin with the urge to go, a wave of relief did rush through him when Rhodey showed up.

"Rhodey--" he said, and he felt the childish urge to dive in for a hug under his relief because-- the other Avengers were Tony's friends and teammates, yeah, but Rhodey was his brother; this was one more person who would do whatever it took to see Tony safe.

Rhodey reached to clap him on the shoulder, face resolute, and said, "Don't worry, Pete. We're gonna get him back."

And that had been so, so comforting, but then, on the jet--

Peter was working steadily on his nanite project, cursing himself for not figuring it out in time for this-- stupid conference-- he could have given it to Tony before he left if he had just gotten it working in time, why couldn't he figure it out-- when his phone buzzed abruptly on his impromptu workbench, harsh and urgent.

It was the notification pattern for his Karen app, and Peter's heart leapt into his throat.

He shouldn't have looked, because the app was there to tell him if Tony was in trouble, and he already knew Tony was in trouble, so he didn't need the details. But he pulled out his phone in a blind panic, entering his passcode with shaking hands, and he opened the app to Tony's vitals.

He must have made a noise, staring at the jagged red line that tracked Tony's heart rate-- it was fast, too fast, the fastest Peter had seen it-- because Rhodey immediately stepped over to him, asking, "Did he text you?"

And then, when Peter couldn't answer but to look up at him, terrified, Rhodey registered what was on the screen and blurted, "Are those his-- how do you have this?"

"He made a sensor," Peter explained numbly, clutching his phone to his chest. "For when he's on trips. In case-- in case-- in case this happened--"

"And he didn't-- guys, does anyone else have Tony's vitals thing?" Rhodey said over his shoulder to the others, and he turned back to Peter to say, "Pete, turn it off, you don't need that in your head."

"What vitals thing?" someone else said, and Peter didn't know exactly who because his phone kept pulsing in his hand to tell him Tony's heart rate was dangerously high and he felt every vibration like a blow to the chest.

"Let me see." Rhodey tugged gently at Peter's hand, and made his voice softer and more soothing when Peter only clung to his phone like a lifeline. "I'm gonna give it to medical, Pete, so they can know what to expect once we get him, okay?"

Oh--

"Okay," Peter found his voice to say, and he let go of his phone, and Rhodey squeezed his hand before he turned away to turn off the notifications, saying, "I can't believe Tony didn't give this to anyone else--"

Peter could hear the others talking as Rhodey moved away, vaguely. 'Wait, what did he make?' and 'he only gave it to Peter?' and 'christ, Tony,' but he couldn't really focus on their voices, not even to come to Tony's defense, when he was too busy imagining--

He was still grateful. That Tony had thought about his comfort, and given him that tool to self-soothe, and Peter couldn't count how many panic attacks he'd managed to step back from just in time for having the sound of Tony's heartbeat to listen to, but--

He wished he and Tony had thought about how awful it would be if something did happen. To just have to watch, helpless, from too far away to do anything.

"We'll find him, Pete," Sam said suddenly from in front of him, and Peter flinched out of his own thoughts, startled.

"I-- yeah," Peter said, more automatic than anything, because-- they'd find him, yeah, but what kind of state would he be in, what kind of-- what if the mission turned from 'rescue' to 'retrieval,' what if Tony's heart rate on the app plateaued into a motionless line, what would they do--

Sam's expression was grim, looking at him, and after a too-long beat he said, "I know what you're going to say, but I've got to ask anyway so we can get it out of the way. Are you sure you want to--"

"I'm going," Peter insisted fiercely, and the fog of helplessness dissipated around him in an instant, and maybe that's even what Sam had intended. "I'm not staying on the jet when he and Happy need help."

"Okay," Sam said, holding his hands up in mock-surrender. "Then try to stay with us, Pete, yeah? We can definitely use your help with this one."

Peter took a deep breath and nodded, feeling-- a little more centered. That's right-- he was scared, he was so scared, but he had to keep it together, because he was the person best-equipped to help. If these guys had their projections working overtime-- he had to be able to lead the charge.

And if he could just get his nanites working--

"Yeah," he said again, more firmly. "Yeah, I'm on it."

He could crack this. He had to. They were down to the wire, and he couldn't bank on being able to handle the rest of Westcott's crew entirely alone, as the only person who could see through the projections-- if he could manage to crack it even just a little bit, that would be something, if only he could get the projections to behave for everyone else's eyes the way they did for his, glitchy and jerky like lazy CGI or the looping of a bad GIF--

Peter went still.

"Bruce," he said, slowly. "Can you talk me through visual processing again?"

The rest of it was a blur. Finding the out-of-use factory that the kidnappers were apparently keeping Tony in. Leading the Avengers in, and all the frantic chaos of guiding them through the maze of shelving and machinery and platforms and doors while the drones did their best to disorient them or make them attack each other at every turn with the illusions that even Peter could barely see through. Sending his nanite devices out to scout for and attach themselves to the drones, and praying that they would work.

That long, horrible moment where he froze when the entire factory around them turned into a cell.

The first hologram of he and Tony together had really gotten to him. The nausea of remembering mixed with the panic and dread from the others seeing, and the dreamy, distant fascination with-- actually watching it play out. Replaying those memories back, from an entirely new perspective. Seeing the fear and love and pain and trust on his own face, but-- also on Tony's, and Peter had been so much in his own guilt while it was happening that he'd only seen Tony's heartbreak and shame at the time, but--

He'd thought in the aftermath that it was just wishful thinking that had him remembering Tony looking at him with such-- he didn't know what else to call it-- such love. Such fondness, such adoration, even amongst the horror and guilt.

But he hadn't. Tony had really looked at him like that, like Peter was just as much of a lifeline for him as the reverse, and he could barely process the horrified sound of Clint asking, "That's what happened? Is that what happened?

Natasha had been the one to shake him out of it.

"Visual, Spider-man," she'd said, with the same unwavering demand as when she told him to change positions in the gym, and he could suddenly process the flickering in the illusion around them.

And the rest-- finally activating his projection disruption system with the nanites. Getting separated from the others, and meeting-- Quentin Beck, apparently; that's what the scant remaining members of his crew had called him when they'd been arrested, anyway. Fighting him and-- winning, but Peter hadn't wanted to win like that; the thought of it still made him nauseous even after seeing what Beck had done to Tony.

Because that part, Peter remembered perfectly fine.

He'd really thought that Tony was dead, when he'd rushed into the room with Rhodey, Natasha and Bucky. There was so much blood, and Tony was slumped so frighteningly still in that chair, utterly limp--

But Tony flinched away when they started working on his wounds, Peter and Rhodey applying pressure where it was needed and getting rid of Tony's restraints while Natasha and Bucky provided the best field first aid that they could to stop the bleeding, and Tony even recognized him, for a moment.

Even in the midst of his panic, Peter saw the looks on his teammates' faces when he went to pick Tony up. Tony lifted his arms to wrap them around Peter's neck like a child, so trusting and mindlessly obedient, and he curled into Peter's arms with such familiarity and intimacy and comfort that it would've made Peter cry if he wasn't so focused on getting Tony to safety, and-- yeah. Peter understood the string of rapid traded glances between the other three, but he didn't have time to worry about it then, and they made their way back to the jet.

They took Tony to the nearest hospital, since Dr. Cho could only do so much for him on the jet in the state he was in. Some of the team stayed behind to manage the rest of Beck's crew, and some of them went to pick up Happy, drugged to the gills but still frantic with worry in his hotel room. But by the time Tony had gotten his blood transfusions and was out of surgery and stable for transfer, everyone was ready and available to get back on the jet, and so there they were, milling around Tony's bed in the medbay.

The others were talking about who needed dinner and who was still too wired to eat, Peter was distantly aware through his haze, watching the ever-scanning green and blue lines on Tony's vitals monitor. Rhodey took a seat next to Peter at Tony's bedside, asking for a plate to be brought up for him, and Steve asked, "What about you, Peter?"

Peter shook his head, and simply said, "No."

More weird looks, Rhodey glancing at Steve and the others with a significant linger, but he settled back into his seat and the others filtered out with invitations for Peter to join them later.

Once they were alone, Rhodey said, "How are you holding up? It got intense in there."

It wasn't the automatic, comforting lie of 'I'm fine' that came to Peter then, for some reason. Instead, he admitted, "I don't know. I'll feel better when Tony wakes up."

"Yeah," Rhodey agreed quietly with a somber nod. He said, "We can call Patty in, if you need it. You could take the next room over, or I can go with the others if you want to stay here."

That was probably a good idea, but it made Peter's stomach twist with dread to think about. He didn't want to put words to it, yet. He didn't want to think about how it actually made him feel, knowing that his teammates had seen the things that had happened between he and Tony. He didn't want to revisit the utter, knee-weakening panic of running into that room and seeing Tony limp and covered in blood in that chair. He didn't want to think about anything at all, except that Tony was safe and stable now, and that he'd wake up soon, and that once they were alone Peter would be able to hold his hand.

"No," Peter said again. "I don't... want to talk about it right now. Maybe tomorrow; I don't know."

"Okay," Rhodey agreed easily enough. He fixed Peter with a knowing look, and his voice was gentle when he asked, "Are we going to talk about you and Tony, or do you need a raincheck on that too?"

It should have been another shock of dread and panic, but it wasn't. If there was any benefit to the dreamy fog Peter had found himself drifting in and out of since Tony had been stabilized, it was that he just didn't have it in himself to feel anything other than distant relief that he didn't have to keep it a secret anymore.

He finally, finally let himself take Tony's hand, and breathed out a shuddery sigh before he said, "You know he'd never hurt me."

Rhodey drew in a bracing breath at the confirmation, but he was just quiet for a moment, processing, and Peter let himself tune into the beating of Tony's heart while he waited.

"He'd never hurt you," Rhodey agreed finally, slowly. "Not on purpose."

He sighed, and said, "But I'm not worried about 'on purpose.' I know Tony's a good guy, Pete; I know if he's doing this then it's because he's serious about you. But let's break it down, kid-- you've got the age difference, you've got the fact that you're both superheroes, you've got the thing that happened with Westcott."

"You don't have to try to hurt each other when the deck's stacked against you like that," Rhodey said, shaking his head. "And you know I love Tony and I want him to be happy, but-- you don't have to do everything on hard mode, Pete."

Peter let out a slow breath, a clench of ignored tension and anxiety in his gut unfurling at Rhodey's level-headed argument-- no assumptions that he and Tony were confused, no accusations that Tony was being careless with him, no threats to tell May or the rest of the team or demands that Peter stop. Which-- he hadn't expected those things of Rhodey, exactly, but-- it just could have been worse. It could have been a lot worse.

"I know," Peter said slowly, watching how his fingers fit so neatly around Tony's on the hospital bed. "Like-- I mean it, we know. We know how... messed up it is. Or could be. And we know how careful we need to be, because there's so much... stuff there. It's-- it's why we're both in therapy, so we can do that. Watch out for pitfalls, and talk about them, and..."

He shook his head as he ran out of words for it, looking back at Rhodey, and found that he couldn't interpret Rhodey's expression at all.

"Sorry," Rhodey said, blinking rapidly. "That's-- did you say Tony's in therapy?"

Peter frowned slightly-- that's what Rhodey had been struck by?-- but he nodded.

"Yeah? When we talked about... us, he wouldn't... he didn't want to agree to it unless he had someone to-- be accountable to, I guess. And we didn't want to hide it from people, but..." He shrugged. "How were we ever going to give it an honest shot if we didn't, you know? When it'd just be-- everyone's opinions all the time. So I said I'd tell my therapist, and he could come with me, and from there we sort of landed on him going to see Iris-- um, Agent Landry-- on his own. And we thought... we could figure out if it was going to work out without the, like... pressure, of everyone else watching, and then we could get ready for how to tell May and you and the others once we did, and..."

Rhodey's expression was unreadable.

"How long has that been happening? The therapy," he asked, and Peter went a little tense, because it was a long time for your best friend to hide something important from you--

"Since the first week of January," he said, though, because it was true. "So-- over three months?"

Rhodey stared at him.

"You got Tony to go to therapy for you, for three months," he said, not a question.

Peter frowned again, taken aback.

"Well-- for him. For both of us, I guess. But, yeah?"

Rhodey sat back in his chair and rubbed a hand over his mouth, contemplative and quiet.

And then he said, "Well, hell, Peter. I still think you two are making things harder on yourselves than they need to be, and I'm not sure you're not going to regret it. Especially you, Pete, you're taking on a lot here, and you're not standing in a spot where you can see how much it matters that you're young."

He said, "But-- damn if getting this idiot to take care of himself isn't something that the rest of us haven't been able to do, so you've got that going for you."

Peter breathed out a sigh, the shock of-- not being accepted, necessarily, but being validated, being acknowledged as-- someone who could be good for Tony, maybe-- rocking through him. He smiled at Rhodey tentatively, emotions a little scrambled, the relief mingling with his ongoing anxiety over Tony and wanting to come out as tears, but his eyes didn't well up even though they stung.

Rhodey returned his smile, gentle, and then went a little more business-like as he said, "And hey-- even though I'm Tony's friend, I know he'd want me to keep an eye on you, so if things ever get hard or go sideways-- you can talk to me about it, and I won't use it as an excuse to trash your whole thing, all right? And if you do ever want to end things, I've got your back. Not because Tony'd fight it, but just because breakups are hard. Okay?"

"Okay," Peter agreed, voice weak, and Rhodey squeezed his shoulder bracingly before dropping his hand away.

They sat together in silence for a while. Peter pulled his hand back from Tony's before Bruce stepped into the room to deliver Rhodey's dinner plate-- and Peter's, just some toast and orange juice "for his blood sugar," and Peter did pick at it, at least-- and as they ate, Rhodey told him stories about his time with Tony at MIT.

It was nice. It made Peter's heart ache, hearing those stories of a vibrant, lively Tony while he laid so still in his hospital bed, and ache in a different way that Rhodey would-- do this for him, treat him like a legitimate partner of Tony's, sharing embarrassing stories and welcoming Peter into their friendship-- but it was nice.

Tony didn't stir while they sat together, and eventually FRIDAY chimed, "Peter, your aunt has arrived. Would you like me to direct her to the medbay?"

Peter hesitated, and Rhodey tipped his head toward the door, prompting.

"Go ahead, Pete. I'll stay with him, and you need some rest."

And Peter didn't want to leave-- he wanted to be there when Tony woke up, he wanted to know right away what kind of shape Tony was in-- but he also didn't want to make May sit up with him in the medbay, and have to answer all of her questions about what had happened on the mission in front of Rhodey, and he was exhausted.

He nodded, resigned.

"Thanks," he said, and Rhodey gave him one last smile and clap on the shoulder before Peter directed FRIDAY to send May up to Tony's suite instead.

May pulled him into her arms the second she was through the door.

"Oh Peter, honey," she said tearfully, and he sank into her embrace. "Are you okay? What did they--"

"I'm okay; just scrapes and bruises," he mumbled honestly, and she shook her head, squeezing him.

"You know that's not what I meant," she said, and Peter closed his eyes.

They made their way to the couch, and he limped through explaining it. The part of that guy's-- Beck's-- plan that had filtered through Peter's haze in the hospital and that he'd been able to absorb. Having to fight through the illusions in the warehouse.

"Some of it was pretty-- bad," he admitted, but he couldn't bring himself to say 'they showed everyone the tape of me and Tony,' because he'd never told her there was a tape in the first place, and he didn't want to see the way her expression changed when it landed.

She nodded, and kissed his hair and shook her head and hugged him at all the appropriate points, and then he said, "Tony's-- Tony's stable now but they... they hurt him pretty bad. They don't, um, they don't think it's anything permanent, but it'll be hard to know until he wakes up? Because-- y'know-- with electrocution--"

He stopped, throat tight, and she sighed and hugged him tight.

"He'll be fine, Peter," she said, wishing it into existence for him. "He's too stubborn to let anyone take away his mind."

"I just want him to wake up," Peter admitted, voice small, and he shook his head. "It's like-- it's like it's not over until he wakes up. I want to be glad, I want to be happy, these guys are-- are either gone or behind bars now so I should get to be happy but I just--"

"I know, honey," May sighed. "He'll wake up, and he'll be fine. You know he will."

Peter shook his head and stood up from the couch, pacing wildly, the agitation growing under his skin.

"They hurt him because of me," he said, shaking his head. "Because-- because he picked me, because they thought-- they thought I was stupid enough to use--"

"Peter, that's not true." May stood up after him, her expression set. "And they were wrong. You saw through their bullshit; you saw through it in a second."

"But what if I hadn't?" The thought scraped at him, over and over again, of what would have happened if Beck's team had perfected the illusion tech before attacking Tony the first time. "What if I hadn't been able to tell-- and then they would've killed Tony, and the whole-- it would've worked. It would've worked, I would've fallen for it, they would've tricked me and I never would've known that they were the ones that killed him--"

"It didn't work," May said, insistent. "Because none of those people are as smart as they think they are, and no one is as smart as you and Tony put together. You were looking out for him and he was looking out for you and you won, honey."

Peter leaned back against the wall to the hallway, pressing his hands over his face, but he didn't cry.

They had won. And they'd won because of the ways Tony and Peter had chosen to take care of each other-- the hourly texts, the vitals sensor, Tony's gift of the nanites to Peter to make him feel reliable and trusted, treating Peter like an equal-- and it still broke his heart to think of how Tony looked in that hospital bed, but the idea that they had won because of what they'd managed to build together out of the smoldering remains of their relationship after Westcott--

It was a comfort. A pale one, but a comfort all the same, and Peter finally breathed some of the tension out of his body and let his hands drop away from his face.

One of his socks was lying on the floor just outside his room, from how he'd thrown off his clothes in a panic after getting that text from-- Tony, or Beck, or whoever had sent it; Peter still didn't know whether it was an impersonation or a distress signal from Tony himself.

"Yeah," Peter said softly, and he heard how May let out a relieved sigh at seeing his shift in mood. He leaned down to pick up the sock, finding something comforting in the normality of tidying up after the unrelenting panic of that day.

"I know it's… stupid, to play the 'what if' game," Peter said slowly as he continued a few steps down the hallway to pick up his other sock, and then his jeans. May followed, leaning against the corner of the wall where the hallway turned into the living room as Peter spoke. "Me and Tony have… talked about that before. For what happened with-- with Westcott."

"You do both like to do the guilt thing. Like you're competing for gold in the self-blame Olympics," May teased tentatively, and it was funny, but Peter was too exhausted to muster even a huff of laughter and only nodded instead.

He continued on, taking a few short steps into Tony's bedroom to scoop his abandoned shirt off the floor, and he said over his shoulder, "It kind of helps, though? It's so obvious to me how wrong he is when he does it, so when I--"

He froze in the doorway of Tony's room as he went to step back through to the hallway, arms full of laundry, because May was staring at the shirt now bundled into his arms with a rigid, unreadable expression on her face.

"Why was that in there?"

Her voice was confused, not accusatory, but there was a seed of strain underneath it, and he could see her gaze shifting and refocusing behind him on the unmade bed.

Peter thought about lying, for a frantic half-second. Something pathetic about him using Tony's room while Tony was out of town as a comfort thing, because that might make her worry even more about his obvious codependence, but it wouldn't implicate Tony. Pretending that Tony had left the shirt on the floor instead-- because it was his, actually, it was his MIT sweatshirt, even if it had one of Peter's science pun t-shirts hanging out the bottom of it-- and that Peter had only gone to pick it up on autopilot.

But he was sick of lying, and he was sick of being ashamed, and he was exhausted and felt like he might break apart into pieces if he took on any more pressure without an equal amount of truth being vented out like steam, and it would've been wrong to lie to her and he and Tony were doing this right.

But he couldn't think of what to say, either. So he just stood there, silent, and his silence said enough.

"Peter," May said, her voice more urgent. "Why was your shirt in Tony's room?"

Peter drew in a bracing breath, and he still didn't know what to say. So, voice small and plaintive and shaking, he just told the truth.

"I love him, May."

It didn't go like it had with Rhodey.

May didn't understand. Literally didn't understand, in fits and spurts of incomprehension between the shock and fear and anger, even though she knew what Peter was saying, even though she heard him when he stumbled through all of his explanations, 'I know it looks bad' and 'he wants me to be happy' and 'we know what we're doing; we're in therapy and everything' and 'it's working, May; we're both doing so good.'

She sank back to rest her weight against the arm of the couch and said, "Oh, sweetie, I know you have a crush, but--" She shook her head and numbly repeated, "No, no, he wouldn't-- he wouldn't hurt you like that." She put her face in her hands and said, "What are you saying? You're kidding; you have to be kidding."

And then, finally, "How long?," and after that--

"Are you having sex?" May demanded, expression bewildered and angry and devastated, and Peter winced.

"That... depends on what you--"

"Peter," she said, and he wrapped his arms around himself as he nodded.

"Yeah," he admitted, and when he saw the way it struck her he rushed to say, "And-- and it's nice, it's not scary, it doesn't make me feel-- bad or ashamed or, or scared of being looked at that way-- I was afraid it would always feel bad but it doesn't; he makes me feel-- s-so safe, and so happy, and it's not-- he's not hurting me. You said it; he would never. He loves me."

His voice cracked at the end, and he didn't know if that undercut his argument, making it sound like he was trying to convince himself instead of her. But that wasn't it-- it was just so humiliating, hearing himself and knowing how it sounded, how she must think he was just a-- stupid lovestruck teenager who was making the same age-old mistake and telling himself the same age-old lies as every other high school kid who fell into bed with their teacher or coach or mentor, but he didn't know how to make her understand. Not without her getting to see the way Tony treated him, like an equal and not a silly naïve pet or a fragile headcase, the way Tony listened to him and adjusted for him and, yes, sometimes argued with him, but like partners, not Tony trying to pull rank and browbeat him with age and experience-- the way Tony looked at him, the way Tony trusted him--

And not without her getting to feel the way he felt about Tony. How much he trusted Tony, how much he loved him, how much Tony was the thing that gave him the most peace and calm of anything and everything, how much Peter ached over the way Tony had looked laid up in that hospital bed, face and body a mess of red and purple blooming on too-pale skin.

His chin wobbled to his own horror, and his lips pulled back in the grimace of a sob, and he started to cry.

May's expression shifted, fear and shock and betrayal becoming stress and sympathy in an instant, and she pulled him toward her.

"Oh, honey," she sighed, tucking him against her, and her voice was still strained with repressed emotion. But she held him and smoothed a hand over his hair and said, "Okay. Okay. Today was a bad day, and we're-- we're not going to talk about this now. You need to rest now. We're going to talk about it tomorrow, but it's okay. I love you, Peter."

That just made him cry harder, but he fell into her arms, clinging tightly and warbling, "I love you."

They hugged for a long time, and then went to Peter's room so Peter could collapse on the bed while May sat up beside him, a podcast playing in the background as a backdrop for his sniffles. Every once in a while May's breath hitched, like she wanted to say something to him and then thought better of it, and-- he was grateful.

She was angry. She was confused. She was sad. He'd been expecting all that. But she still-- she still loved him, and she wasn't dragging him away from the tower-- she wasn't even dragging him off to the other guest suite, away from Tony's-- and she wasn't going to scream at Rhodey or Steve or Tony's unconscious body.

She still wanted the best for him. And-- that was Tony, no matter what it took for her to see it.

Exhausted with anxiety and hope and fear and love and life, eventually Peter's thoughts slowed, and he fell asleep without meaning to.

It was still dark when Peter woke, the sun not quite ready to crest the horizon.

May was curled up along the edge of his bed underneath one of the throw blankets from the couch, and she didn't stir when he slipped out of the room and gently closed the door behind him.

"FRIDAY," he said softly from the living room. "How's Tony?"

"He was able to be partially roused on several occasions throughout the night for neurological check-ins, and awoke fully enough to speak briefly with Colonel Rhodes at 2:43am," FRIDAY reported, unsentimental. "Dr. Cho and her team do not anticipate that any permanent neurological damage has taken place, but multiple days will be needed for his wounds and incisions to heal prior to discharge from the medbay."

No permanent damage.

The relief that swept through Peter was so intense that he had to sit down, face in his hands, the fragile tension he'd been holding in his bones releasing all at once and leaving him limp. He didn't know what he would have done, if Tony had been hurt in a way that wouldn't heal. It was already so hard to watch other people be hurt, so accustomed to his own healing abilities that it disoriented him when his friends and teammates would carry their wounds for days, weeks at a time. The idea that something couldn't be fixed at all--

But it was okay. Tony was okay. He just needed time.

Peter wanted to rush to his side, but he knew Tony needed rest, and he was a little afraid that he would burst into tears the second he saw him if he went right that moment. So instead he put a frittata on to bake while he was in the shower, and--

He looked at himself in the mirror, this time. It had been so strange, seeing himself in the hologram, and so horrifying to know that the others had seen it too. But he looked at himself, and was struck by knowing that this was the same body that had experienced those things-- that time felt so far away now that it felt like he'd been born anew, shed that old skin like a cocoon, but it was the same. That body that had shaken like a leaf, flooded with fear and humiliation and moving with coercion instead of desire-- that was the same body he used to hold Tony close, to save him from harm, to show Tony he loved him.

Peter left a note and a piece of the frittata in the kitchen for May, and he took the rest to the medbay.

It was just Tony and Rhodey in the room, Rhodey asleep on a cot along the wall and Tony reclined in his bed, but only Tony stirred at the gentle jostling of the tupperware and silverware Peter set down on his tray table.

Peter watched his expression shift from half-consciousness with bated breath, and when Tony's eyes fluttered open, he still teared up after all.

Tony reached a hand toward him before he actually spoke, and Peter took it, the lump in his throat too big to speak past.

"Pete," Tony said, simply, his voice like cracked earth.

"Hey," Peter whispered, and he wiped a tear away impatiently as it started to fall. He swallowed hard, locking that lump away for a time when he and Tony could really be alone, and said, "Look, Tony, I know how bad you wanted to get out of talking to May, but you didn't have to go this far."

Tony's chest jerked with a startled laugh-- and even the broken-glass grit to it couldn't dampen Peter's swell of relief, because there it was, Dr. Cho was right, Tony was still Tony and he was going to be fine-- and he groaned, complaining, "Ow, fuck, don't make me laugh."

"Sorry," Peter replied reflexively, and he couldn't hold it back any longer when he leaned to press a kiss to the top of Tony's head.

Tony didn't let go of Peter's hand, but he automatically cut his gaze to where Rhodey was sleeping and then back to Peter, questioning.

Peter shrugged. He didn't quite know how to tell Tony about everything that had happened since he'd been rescued, so instead he said, "I brought breakfast."

Tony accepted the deflection with a quirked half-smile, avoiding the side of his lips that were badly split, and said, "Of course you did."

Peter set the head of Tony's bed up and got him water, and they talked as they ate together. Tony remembered talking with Rhodey a few hours before and learning that Happy and everyone else were unharmed, but he didn't remember being in the hospital before being transferred to medbay, and he didn't remember much of what Dr. Cho had told him the last time she'd woken him up to speak with him.

"I don't remember much either," Peter admitted, most of the information from the hospital and Dr. Cho washed away in the haze of listlessness that had been left behind once the adrenaline faded. "I know there's a lot of stuff they went over about your recovery from surgery and when you can lift stuff and everything again, but..."

Tony shrugged.

"All stuff I'm gonna ignore," he said, and he laughed another wincing laugh at Peter's outraged expression. "--Kidding, kidding."

Peter reclined the head of Tony's bed again once he'd managed to eat at least half of his portion of breakfast, and as Tony sighed and relaxed back into the bed, he finally asked, "What happened?"

And there was nothing else to be done about it, so Peter told him.

"It wasn't actually that dangerous," he said with a little shrug, remembering that building and its disorienting, ever-changing landscape. "Just confusing. Beck, um... apparently a lot of his crew jumped ship, after-- what happened with us, and killing Westcott. And they weren't, like... experienced criminals, so they didn't put up much of a fight. Some of the drones were weaponized, and most of those came after me, but-- they weren't very good, and everyone did a good job watching my back. Especially once the nanites all got set up, so..."

"You got them working?" Tony cut in, the grim set of his face brightening as he listened, and Peter managed a quick smile.

"Yeah, um-- I was thinking about it, and I've always been working on trying to disable the projections entirely, right? But kept getting stuck, since we didn't know how they worked, and-- obviously they weren't just standard light-based projections, because then they'd be affected by changes in lighting and stuff moving past the lenses, so then without knowing the mechanism--"

Peter shook his head, gathering his thoughts again.

"But then I thought-- instead of disabling them, maybe I could just disrupt them? Not to totally get rid of them, but just to make them glitchy enough for the others to see that they were illusions, like they are for me. And they might not be light-based projections, but they're not real, so they had to have a framerate of some kind, so I thought about-- stroboscopic motion and videostroboscopy and how messing with framerate can make stuff look like it's moving backwards or in slow-motion or--"

The drug-heavy, exhausted shadow to Tony's eyes faded even further, and he perked up in his bed.

"So after you got all your devices placed on the drones and linked up together, you, what-- set your generated visual field to blank out or strobe or something--"

"--And that way it didn't have to actually interface with Beck's projectors at all; I just found the right rate to cancel out enough frames of his projections that the others could tell what was behind them," Peter explained, spurred on by the delight growing behind Tony's bruised and bloodied eyes. "Because that had to be it, right, my visual acuity and processing is just faster than everyone else's, so I could see the gaps in the cycle--"

"That's genius--"

"Bruce helped," Peter demurred, and Tony scoffed.

"Genius with help is still genius." He gestured for Peter to continue, and Peter took a breath.

"So-- yeah. We took out most of the weaponized drones and all the henchmen, but then... There were all these rooms to check to find you, and I sort of-- got ahead of myself, and got separated from the others. And-- Beck was behind one of the doors, with his own team of drones, and..."

Tony's expression went hard, but he didn't interrupt, letting Peter explain at his own pace.

Peter let his gaze fall to where his hand was tangled with Tony's, tension seeping its way back into his body as his mind retraced its steps to that room.

Beck. Wide-eyed and manic with adrenaline and the knowledge that he was losing, his smile too wide as he fired off shot after shot at Peter while the world seemed to warp around them.

It should've been comical. He'd looked ridiculous, rigged up in his quasi-morph suit that the projectors were meant to build his superhero persona over, and he barely even seemed to know how to hold and fire a gun, but--

"I'd say I'm surprised you showed up for him after what happened last time, but then, you did seem to enjoy it too much," Beck said, and any shame or nausea his words caused was immediately overtaken by the cold horror of, "But I'm not sorry to say that just like last time, the cavalry's too late. He's dead, Peter."

"We... fought," Peter said slowly, tracing his thumb over Tony's knuckles and focusing on the texture of his skin, the slight give to it, the warmth against Peter's own hand. "Um. I could see through the projections, but it's only-- glimpses, you know, so it was still a lot, and... But then I had the idea that-- if I could use my artificial visual field to disrupt the projections, maybe I could also-- morph them? And-- and make my own? I made the nanites to be pretty responsive to user impulses, so…"

"You used his own projectors against him," Tony said with clear catharsis, and Peter nodded with a wince.

"Yeah. And it-- it worked, he couldn't totally disable the drones without dropping his own protection, and with me distorting them, I… got him disoriented enough to-- I was just going to, you know, web him up, but he--"

Peter had been so angry, and heart-broken, and even if there was a part of himself that hadn't believed it-- had known, already, that Beck might lie to him just to twist the knife-- he'd let himself enjoy it too much. Confusing Beck, making him afraid, never knowing what side Peter was going to come at him from through those deliriously looping and swirling and morphing projections, and he hadn't thought about what Beck might do to escape it.

Peter took a deep breath.

"He... decided to fight blind, I guess, and gathered all the drones right up next to him with the weapons systems facing outward, and I-- I tricked him-- he thought one of the projections was hiding the real me, and he shot at it, but he hit-- he hit one of his drones. And, um. I guess it triggered the self-destruct? And those were pretty self-contained, right, but-- with it right up against him, and the other drones all packed in together--"

Peter could still remember the smell, even through the blur that yesterday had become in his mind.

"They all went off. And it-- um-- he died."

Tony sat with that for a moment, and then shook his head in disgust.

"Idiot," he said, and winced when Peter just sighed. "I'm sorry you had to-- see that, though, b-- Pete."

Peter shrugged, and admitted softly, "It was worse, seeing you."

Tony frowned softly, stroking his thumb against Peter's in turn, and Peter shook his head and rallied himself to continue.

"The rest-- um, his other henchmen were all arrested, and-- um-- I know they... know stuff-- but, I don't know if I understood all the double-speak from SHIELD right, but I think we're threatening to-- to add 'accessory to sexual abuse of a minor' to all their charges if they out my identity or-- or what happened to us, with Westcott, so-- hopefully that won't... you know. And, um, Clint wiped all of their systems, so the video shouldn't still be out there anywhere except on Westcott's hard-drive."

"The video," Tony murmured, closing his eyes, and Peter squeezed his hand with a shaky sigh.

"Yeah," he said, simply, because he still couldn't find it in himself to say the others saw it. But Tony just shook his head and opened his eyes again, and gestured for Peter to keep going.

"Yeah. So, in the end-- um, everyone else was handling the henchmen or the projection systems, and me, Rhodey, Natasha and Bucky found you, and-- they did some emergency first aid, and..."

Peter met Tony's eyes, somber, and squeezed his hand again to brace the both of them for it.

"They know," he admitted. "Or, at least Rhodey knows for sure, but-- probably Natasha and Bucky, too."

"Ah," Tony said, resigned, leaning back into his pillows. He said, "What did I say?"

"Nothing," Peter said, shaking his head. How could he explain how Tony had curled into him, how Peter had held him, as if showing the world they loved each other could stop Tony from dying in his arms? "It was just... everything together, I think. I guess we just… didn't look like-- friends."

Tony hummed, acknowledging, and he sat with it for a long moment before he said, "I do remember seeing you. And knowing it was-- you, and not the-- fucking hologram. And being so relieved."

He smiled at Peter then, genuine but a little wan, and said, "My hero."

"I love you," Peter said, unable to hold it in anymore, and Tony brushed a feather-light kiss to his knuckles when he murmured a returned, "I love you."

"I told May," Peter whispered, compelled, closing his eyes.

Tony sucked in a breath.

"You okay?" he managed finally, and Peter... nodded.

"She's upset," he answered honestly. "But she... You being in here made her have to take time to think about it, I guess."

"Remind me to send Beck a thank-you card in hell," Tony murmured, and Peter managed a flicker of a smile.

Tony saw the strain in it, and sighed, linking his fingers with Peter's.

"I'm sorry, baby," he said, soft. "I'm sorry you had to do all that alone. After-- everything else, yesterday, after-- getting kidnapped because I'm an asshole who put you in my will where my angry lawyers could see it, for-- just-- I'm sorry."

"You don't get to say 'sorry' about getting kidnapped," Peter scolded, but he squeezed Tony's hand. His voice was soft when he said, "But I forgive you."

Tony smiled, soft and genuine, but it quirked into humor as he said, "Okay, your turn. Out with the guilt complex; no need to save it up for the therapists."

Peter grinned, both from the idea of having some kind of relationship confessional and the recognition of how well Tony knew him, and grabbed a thought from the top of the pile.

"I'm sorry they targeted you because they thought they could use me," he said, and he kissed Tony's hand when Tony said, "I forgive you."

It was sweet, but Peter's answering smile faltered a little as he dug into the thought more, contending with-- all the things he had to apologize for.

"And... I'm sorry about... May. And-- the others, when... I don't know, I don't know if she's going to tell Happy or... And you're in the middle of recovering," he said, the guilt of it creeping back in. It had always been so much to ask of Tony, to take on the burden of dealing with the reality of other peoples' opinions when he was going to be the one subjected to all the scorn, and--

Tony hummed doubtfully and shook his head, saying, "This might be the best time to tell Happy, actually? I'm not above using the I've-been-mangled defense to get out of him taking my head off my shoulders."

Peter laughed, startled, but he couldn't help the swell of panic underneath it-- god, if he came between Tony and Happy, that would just--

"It'll be okay, Pete," Tony said, more solemn. "I've-- listen, I've gone through plenty of stages in my life where none of my friends could stand to be around me--"

Peter winced, and Tony rushed to say, "Okay, that-- sounded bad-- they gave me too many pain meds, I'm high, sorry-- but the point is, it's never been for a reason as good as this one. It'll-- take time, Pete. But it'll be okay, eventually, and-- I told you, baby, you're worth it."

"Okay," Peter whispered, nodding, trying to hold onto Tony's own certainty and shape it into something he could keep for himself. "And-- and you remember, you know-- it's okay if you need to back out--"

Tony rolled his eyes, but smiled and said, "I think the question is, you remember it's okay if you need to back out--"

"Yes, okay, fine," Peter said, and he leaned to kiss the top of Tony's head again.

Someone cleared their throat loudly, and Rhodey winced with guilt when Tony's startled jerk jarred his ribs.

"Sorry, Tones," he said, but then he raised his eyebrows and gestured to the tray table. "Breakfast?"

It was-- strange, after that. Sitting with Rhodey and Tony, chatting and watching Tony and Rhodey bicker while Rhodey ate breakfast, knowing that someone knew and still-- being allowed to stay at Tony's side, fingers tangled together.

But it was nice, too, and it helped Peter not feel so stung when he had to slip his hand away from Tony's when he heard Dr. Cho approaching.

Dr. Cho reviewed everything again-- the likely timeline of Tony getting out of the medbay, the surgeon's recommendations for when he could lift things and engage in exercise and bend at the waist again, the fact that Tony would have a physical therapist and occupational therapist coming to assess his functional skills and provide recommendations to help Tony get back to his norm faster. Peter absorbed more of it this time, and it helped that Rhodey was there too.

But eventually-- Peter got a text from May telling him that she called him out of school and asking when he'd be back up to the suite, and the anxiety must have shown in his expression because he could tell how guilty Tony felt even through the swelling.

Tony glanced at Rhodey and then said, carefully, "We could always call Patty in... here. And still... talk through it together."

Peter shook his head.

"I think... she does need to hear it from... just me, first," he said, and Tony nodded, blowing out a sigh.

Rhodey clapped Peter on the shoulder, and said, "Why don't you head back up, Pete. And I'll meet you up there this afternoon so we can rehabify the place."

"I resent this plan. I accept it, but I resent it," Tony announced, and Peter smiled, buoyed by the normalcy of it, the reminder of Rhodey's-- tacit support.

"Okay," he said, and he kissed Tony's hand before he untangled their fingers to go back upstairs.

It went better with May, this time.

She still wasn't happy about it, and that was clear, but without the shock of discovery and adrenaline behind things, she was able to listen quietly and absorb more of Peter's answers to her probing questions.

Still--

"I just can't-- I've been letting you come and stay here because I thought it was helping you, and instead I've been sending you to your-- 50-year-old boyfriend--"

"He's not 50," Peter countered automatically, and then shook his head at himself for getting sidetracked from the point. "And-- it did help me. I got to-- talk about what happened with the only other person that understands it, and-- and being around him made me feel so much better about being kind of a mess because, I mean, it's Tony, he's kind of a mess, and... I'd be... so much worse off, without-- I know you noticed how off I was back around Thanksgiving, and it was just because I was trying to get over him and-- keeping my distance, and-- I missed him."

May frowned, processing, and shook her head.

"That worries me too, though," she said. "The way you two are about each other-- even when I didn't know it was a-- relationship-- "

"Can you blame me?" Peter asked, flat, letting a bit of a hard edge slip into his voice, and May sighed.

"I'm just worried that, if this is... a trauma thing, for either you or Tony, or-- even if things just fizzle out the normal way, it's going to... hit you too hard, sweetie," May explained slowly, trying not to put Peter's defenses up while still getting her point across. "Because you're telling yourself that he's the only person that understands you, and that you have this special bond because of what happened, and-- I'm not saying that's not true, but I'm worried about what it will do to you if you don't have that anymore. And-- it's not the same moment, but there are lots of other people that would understand what you've gone through, honey."

Peter frowned himself, rolling that thought around in his mind.

"I... well, okay," he said, lenient. "I-- yeah. I know we're, like-- codependent. And it's not the-- the healthiest? But I think it's-- fair, for us to have problems like any other couple, and-- and we're aware of them, and, um, I promised Tony I'd try to get into MIT so that we'd both have-- space, while I'm at college, so we can... like-- exist without each other."

May's expression turned curious, and she asked, "You... talked about that?"

"We've talked about a lot of stuff," Peter huffed. "We're not doing nothing in therapy. And-- and I do get it, but I think some of your worrying is-- a little unfair-- how did you act about your first serious boyfriend?"

May pulled a face, and she admitted, "Okay, that's-- you have a point."

Peter nodded, relaxing some.

"It's... I mean-- it's not like we're getting married. You know? I... I want it to last, but if it doesn't-- I mean, it probably wouldn't last if I was dating someone my age either, right? If... if he breaks up with me, or if it doesn't work out, or... I'll-- deal with it. You know? If... if it turns out to be a mistake, then it does, but... I am being careful to make sure it won't be a-- a horrible one, and so is he, and... and it's not like I'll be the first person to ever survive a break-up."

May let out a slow breath, taking that in, and Peter pressed a little further.

"And... um-- I don't really want to talk about-- sex-- but, like-- I do have... hangups, after-- after what happened, and-- and Tony gets it, because he does too, and that's made it... really easy and, um, a lot less stressful than I think it could've been, to-- to start getting over those hangups? You know?" Peter scrubbed a hand through his hair, awkward and focusing his gaze on the couch cushions between them. "You can say there's other people out there that would get it, but am I supposed to like, screen for that on a first date? And-- even if I found someone like that, I mean, there's 'getting it' and 'handling it well,' and-- how many people my age do you really think… Would you have been able to?"

"...Probably not," May admitted after a long beat, her face softening with sympathy and consideration alike, and Peter nodded with a shaky sigh.

"It's... yeah. So I know-- that part is the part that's probably-- the, um, the hardest part to accept for you, but for me, it's-- even if we don't work out, just... the chance to... work through that stuff--" Peter cut himself off, cheeks burning, and shrugged helplessly. It was so embarrassing to talk about, but it was also-- important, that May understand, that even the piece that must seem like the sketchiest part of all was helping him.

May was quiet for a long moment, but then let out an explosive sigh, running her hands over her face.

"That makes sense," she said, reluctant. "That-- does make sense. I don't like it, but I can... understand."

She smiled at him then, tight and rueful, and said, "That's the whole thing. I'm-- still angry at you both for hiding it from me, and I still think it's a bad idea, and I still feel like Tony, the genius, should know better, and I'm really trying to be sensitive to what you both just went through by not describing what I want to do to him, and-- and I want you to tell me the second anything starts feeling uncomfortable, okay? But I..."

She took a deep breath, shaking her head one last time, and said like the words were being dragged out of her by force, "I... understand. Why you would… feel that way about him, and why you would want to… try."

Peter hugged her tightly, the weight of nearly four months of stress crashing down off of his shoulders and leaving him deliriously unmoored, and she hugged him back just as tight.

"But seriously," May said when she pulled away, grabbing onto Peter's hands and meeting his eyes in utter earnest. "If anything, ever gets weird, I don't care if he's Iron Man, I'll cut his balls off myself. Okay? I know he'd never hurt you, blah blah blah, I don't care if it's a Bizarro Tony scenario, I'm on your side if you need me. With kitchen shears."

Peter grinned, hearing May's honest love and concern for him and letting that cut through his knee-jerk defensiveness for Tony, and he rolled his eyes playfully.

"Okay, okay. If he ever dumps me over text message you're the first to know, I promise."

"Perfect. Glad we've got that settled," May said, returning his smile, and--

They still needed to tell the rest of the team. Happy, and Pepper by proxy, and Peter's friends.

But now Rhodey knew, and May knew, and-- even if it was a fragile acceptance, it was acceptance, and Peter knew they would be all right.

Rhodey and Peter did get the suite ready for Tony's recovery, moving clothes and household items to where Tony would be able to reach them and making sure to dig out his tackiest button-ups imaginable to slip on while he wasn't allowed to raise his arms over his head. May even helped, and she was the first one to bring up ordering a shower chair and long-handled shoehorn and a few other adaptive aids to make things easier for him during his recovery.

("He'll hate it," she said with a glimmer of spiteful amusement, "but they'll help.")

Peter went back to school on Tuesday, as much as he hated it, but-- now that Tony was stable, it was hard to argue there was much point in sitting at his bedside all day long, even if it was just as pointless for Peter to go to class like he could pay attention at all. But it helped to know that Tony had Rhodey with him, and there was some kind of catharsis in getting to see Ned and MJ's relief over hearing that Westcott's crew had come to justice.

He didn't share the details, though, and he didn't tell them about him and Tony. He was a little-- burnt out on it still, maybe, and the two situations were so tightly entwined that it was hard to consider one without the other, and there was some kind of sense of... inevitability, now that someone in each other their corners knew, that it felt relaxing instead of suffocating to keep things in the shadows for just a few peaceful more moments.

But he and Tony didn't work as hard to be subtle, anymore. They texted openly, Tony bemoaning his boredom from his bed in the medbay, and Peter visited him after school, and-- they still didn't touch in front of the others, but Peter stopped trying to pull that veil of puppy-like adoration around the way he looked at Tony, and Tony stopped pretending he didn't find Peter the most important person in the room.

And then Wednesday came, and Tony called him at lunch to ask if Rhodey could tell the others, because apparently everyone wanted to respect that Tony was in recovery and not stress him out but they were also concerned, and Rhodey was running out of ways to deflect, and 'if we let it go too much longer I think Clint might just come in here to hunt me for sport and I don't need more stitches.'

So of course Peter said yes. It was time, and-- if Rhodey was willing to break the news for them, maybe that would be the easiest thing. No one could get too up in Tony's face about it while he was recovering, and there could be an... acclimation period, while everyone got used to the idea in a situation where any time Peter and Tony spent together was in semi-public, and... it was time.

It went... okay.

Peter had to swing his way to the tower after school. Tony had taken the opportunity to talk to Happy himself before he could hear it through the grapevine, and Happy canceled on picking Peter up.

Peter's heart ached on Tony's behalf, but-- he had to trust that Tony knew what he was talking about, when he said that he and Happy would make it through, and that Tony meant it when he said their relationship was worth the time it would take.

"You okay?" he asked Tony quietly, once they'd gotten through their hellos and smalltalk and there was nothing left but the elephant in the room.

Tony sighed, sinking back into his hospital bed with the release of it. His bruises were starting to fade, purple giving way to green, and most of the swelling had gone down, but he still looked tired.

"Yeah," he said with a little wan smile. He squeezed Peter's hand, and Peter squeezed back, and there wasn't much more to be said about it.

Sam was the first person to approach Peter about it, catching up to Peter in the hallways that day as he was leaving the tower.

"Hey, k-- Pete," Sam called out to him, correcting himself mid-sentence, and it was a sweet gesture.

"You can still call me 'kid,'" Peter told him with a small smile, and he waited to see how Sam was going to approach it.

It made sense that the group had picked Sam to talk to him about it. Sam had a counseling background, and if they all thought it was just-- some kind of trauma thing, then of course he would be the best pick. And even if they didn't, choosing someone practiced in active listening and deescalation and all those other skills that would come in handy for a sensitive conversation-- it didn't just make sense, it meant that they were interested in listening instead of demanding, and there was something reassuring in that.

"Sure, kid," Sam responded with a quick smile of his own, and he nodded over his shoulder toward an empty room. "Got a minute to talk?"

He was nice about it. Still letting moments of his typical sarcasm shine through, but always to lighten the mood or soften a message instead of sharpen it, and it was a little like how he'd been in those first few days after the Westcott mission. He asked good questions without getting too personal, and he let Peter answer without interrupting, and-- Peter understood. The others were just worried. There was so much that could be messed up about it, for so many different reasons, and that was before considering the basic issues with participating in missions as a couple and how that might affect their judgment.

So Peter didn't get defensive, across Sam's 'I'm not saying this is what it's like for you and Tony' and 'sometimes when something bad happens, stuff that feels wrong in a familiar way can be more comfortable that something that feels right' and 'no one's accusing Tony of anything' and 'we just don't want either of you to get hurt.'

He just explained himself. That he was happy, and he trusted Tony, and that both of them were working hard to make sure they wouldn't get hurt, either. That he knew things might get complicated for the team if they broke up, and that things might be complicated in the meantime while everyone got used to the idea, but that he was prepared to navigate those things as best as he could. That he appreciated the team for looking out for him, and he'd be sure to reach out if he felt like he needed some other kind of support.

So when Sam finally leaned back, the conversation drawing to a close, he finally didn't look troubled as he said, "Okay, Pete. Thanks for letting me check in. Sounds like you've got a good plan up in that spider-brain."

He grinned, lightly teasing, and added, "For once."

"Uncalled for," Peter answered, grinning back.

That wasn't the end of it, exactly. Some of the others still approached him about it over the rest of the week, all awkward and delicate, offering the support of a listening ear if he ever needed it, or reassuring him that they were going to mind their own business but they'd be there for him, and that was-- embarrassing, but nice. And some of them didn't mention it at all, which he didn't mind.

But Clint went on leave for the week, and Peter still hadn't seen Happy.

It took all the way until Saturday. Tony was already back in his own suite with Rhodey to help him with the transition, and May agreed, lips pursed, that Peter could spend spring break at the tower to take over for Rhodey when he had to go back to work.

Peter knew that she had been talking about it with Happy. There was nothing subtle about overhearing, 'I know that, but there's nothing to be done about it. --Oh, sure, I can't even keep him from fighting crime, and you think--' from outside the apartment door, or the pointed way May announced, "Hi, Peter, you're home!" into the phone when he pushed the door open.

It was a big enough ask that she'd actually stuck to her promise not to tell Happy herself back on Sunday night, and Peter didn't begrudge either of them for needing to talk it out. But it did mean that it was a surprise when he got a text from Happy on Saturday morning, around the time he'd told May he would be heading out: a simple, blunt, 'Outside.'

"Sit in the front, kid," Happy told him as he put Peter's bag in the trunk.

Happy didn't take him directly to the tower. They went through a drive-thru first, and parked in the lot, and Peter nursed his smoothie and breakfast sandwich until the thrum of Happy's silent tension finally snapped.

"Pete-- I know you really look up to Tony, but--"

And Peter was practiced at it by then. And maybe it was that-- his comfort and confidence while talking about it, his good humor and earnest appreciation for Happy's concern-- that got through to Happy, because he wasn't exactly accepting as he dropped Peter off at the tower elevators after that, but he didn't look like he was in the process of jumping on a live grenade, either.

Rhodey went over Tony's physical therapy exercises and activity precautions with Peter one more time before he left, and as he stepped out onto the landing with his bags, he raised his eyebrows and told Peter, "Good luck."

Whether he meant the luck for dealing with a recovering and restless Tony or dealing with the mess of a situation as a whole, Peter didn't know, but he still grinned and said, "I've got this."

Sighing as he set aside his bottle of water, Tony sat up from where he was slouched on the couch after finishing his at-home exercises with a groan, and said, "All right, help me up, I'm gonna shower."

"Is there anything I can do for you?" Peter reached to support Tony while he stood from the couch, automatically rifling through potential answers to his own question. He knew Rhodey had been making sure to lay out towels and Tony's robe before his showers so he didn't have to bend or reach for anything, and they'd already set things up so Tony could reach his toiletries from his shower chair.

"Wanna join me?"

There was a beat before Tony went utterly stiff and wide-eyed and horrified in response to his own impulsive joke.

"Oh-- that was a joke-- no, Pete, I'm good--"

It was sweet, the way Tony was so dismayed about tripping over Peter's-- thing with being naked-- but Peter paused, his mind pulling up an image without him asking it to.

Being with Tony in the shower-- not for sex, but just for caretaking, both of them nude instead of just Peter-- getting to be with Tony like that, in a context that was still about closeness but not about want--

"Actually," Peter said slowly, "I think I do."

Tony stayed frozen a moment longer, and then said, "You do?"

"Yeah," Peter said, mulling it over. "No sex, right? You're not allowed yet. So just-- a shower."

Tony watched him carefully for a moment, gauging his expression, and then nodded slowly.

"...Okay," he said, and it made Peter smile that he didn't feel like he had to double-check; not anymore. "Your room or mine?"

But he was still sweet, because the only reason he would be asking is because Peter's ensuite was the one with the smart mirror.

"Yours is bigger," Peter answered, and Tony nodded after a pause, brushing his fingers against Peter's affectionately.

Tony winced as the lights in the bathroom flipped on, and he stepped toward the shower with his hands stretched out for his shower chair, saying, "Ugh, sorry, let me--"

"What? No," Peter said, startled out of his own gentle rush of nerves by Tony's obvious self-consciousness. "If it makes you more steady then use it? I'm not gonna be the reason you fall and open up all your incisions; that's stupid. We'll both fit."

Tony huffed, grimacing, and said, "Are you sure you want to be in here for this? It's supposed to be too early for you to be my nursemaid. Take a good look, Pete, this is what you've got waiting for you in thirty years if you don't cut and run."

And that was--

Sad, that Tony thought that would matter to him. A little sweet, that he had followed through on inviting Peter anyway. And-- as much as Peter didn't want Tony to have to grapple with his own insecurities-- so affirming, in a way, that Tony had them, too.

"That's being generous," Peter said, leaning to kiss Tony's cheek to soften the joke. "With your lifestyle, it'll only be twenty."

Tony laughed, startled, and Peter relaxed at knowing his joke had landed how he wanted it to, but he still added, softly, "I can go if you want."

Tony looped his arms around Peter's waist loosely, and nosed into the hair at Peter's temple as he sighed, "Stay."

So Peter did.

It was still strange, getting undressed in front of someone else. Peter had backslid some since-- Beck-- those awful moments of knowing that everyone else was seeing those memories of being utterly exposed-- and he'd started using his mirror more again, ducking away from the thoughts that the sight of his own bared skin pulled to the forefront of his mind.

But he wasn't alone to dwell, now. Tony was with him, and whatever parallels that had to the first time around were swallowed up with the reality of what they had between them-- the show of trust on his part, in letting Tony see and touch him without clothes, the show of trust on Tony's, in letting Peter see and touch him while he was injured and embarrassed by it--

It wasn't the same at all, in the end, and Peter even found himself watching the two of them in the mirror as Tony stepped under the warm spray and accepted Peter's hand to sink onto his chair.

"You okay?" Tony asked, looking up at him-- keeping his eyes on Peter's face, respectful of the idea that this was just bathing and nothing sexual, and Peter loved him.

Peter let out a sigh and looked down at him-- bare skin and body hair and bruises and stitches and scars, and that was the thing, wasn't it? It was just skin.

"Yeah," he said, and he stepped into the shower behind Tony's chair and closed the glass door to box them in, and it felt cozy and intimate instead of claustrophobic.

He handed Tony the scent-free soap they'd ordered for him while his incisions and wounds were still healing, and took great pleasure in using Tony's usual bodywash for himself, knowing that the scent would cling to his skin for hours-- he hated that Tony being injured meant he couldn't press close to curl in and cuddle the way he normally would, but this could work as some kind of substitute.

"Your stuff all smells so good," Peter commented while Tony soaped up, and Tony tilted his head in his direction to listen, not allowed to turn at the hips to look behind him just yet.

"Do you want me to get some for you? I could get you a renewing delivery," Tony offered, like that was a thing people did, getting subscriptions for bodywash.

"We might need a longer adjustment period before you start leaning into the sugar daddy thing and sending stuff to my apartment," Peter said, instead of 'no, because then it wouldn't smell like you anymore,' and how did Tony really think that he was the one who might be creepy in their relationship when Peter had already stolen his clothes and was obsessed with how he smelled, seriously?

He took the cover of Tony's huff of laughter to change the subject, and rushed on to say, "Let me get your hair for you."

The line of Tony's back went tense in front of him, and Tony flustered, "Uh-- sure-- that sounds great, but if I don't know if I-- there might be a, y'know, natural reaction there, and I don't want to--"

Peter loved him so much.

"I have seen you with a boner before," Peter said, teasing, and he slid his fingers into Tony's wet hair to scratch at his scalp.

Tony shivered with a soft little sigh, and said, "Well-- okay-- good-- just thinking about, context--"

"I'll be okay if you will," Peter promised, and it was true. He-- liked this. Being with Tony like this, domestic and intimate, like they'd been together long enough to be unaffected by each other's nudity, just the routine of getting clean between them in that moment.

And, as he came to realize more and more every day-- he liked taking care of Tony.

"I love you," Tony responded, grounding the two of them in the moment, and Peter smiled when Tony pointed out which bottle was for his shampoo.

It was nice, working the shampoo into Tony's hair and feeling how Tony went boneless and relaxed under his hands while Peter scrubbed at his scalp and coated the soft strands of his hair in suds. Peter liked Tony's hair-- liked sinking his hands into it while they were making out, liked brushing his fingers through it while Tony sucked him off, almost as much as he liked Tony returning the favor-- but this was a different kind of pleasure, nothing but the fondness of domesticity.

And Tony obviously liked it, too, with how loose his posture went and the way his voice was low and warm once Peter had rinsed the suds from his hair, when he asked, "Want me to get yours?"

Peter couldn't stop his own little shiver, at the thought.

It would mean-- sitting in front of Tony on the shower floor, both of them nude, letting Tony touch him like that, but-- it wasn't nerves that went through him at the thought. It was the frission of anticipation, of feeling Tony's hands working on him, and-- he had the same concerns as Tony, because he could feel the stirring in his cock just as the thought, but--

That was okay. It would feel good, but then they'd finish rinsing off and go back to lounging around in their robes, and if Peter needed to step away to his room to jerk off he could, and sex wasn't something that needed to be a part of the moment just because they were both half-hard.

He knelt in front of Tony's chair, and closed his eyes against the feeling of Tony's hands massaging his scalp. It felt so good, a scatter of pleased goosebumps rushing down from his neck to his arms even in the warmth of the shower, and the reality of it-- knowing that he could feel this good with Tony, even while they were naked, even without sex being involved, even while Tony was covered with incisions and stitches and bruises--

Peter sniffled, glad for the sound of spraying water and the way the wetness of his face could disguise the specific wetness in his eyes, but Tony's hands paused on him anyway.

"You okay, baby?" Tony said, soft but uncertain.

Peter nudged back into his hands demandingly, groaning, "Ugh, I'm supposed to be the one with super-hearing-- I'm fine-- it feels good."

Tony slowly started to stroke his fingers through Peter's hair again, more soothing than sensual, and ventured, "So, what, you got shampoo in your eyes?"

"I'm just happy," Peter blurted, and it was true. Things were still sort of a mess, and May's mouth still went flat and disapproving whenever she saw him texting with Tony, and he knew Tony wasn't telling him the extent of how much everyone's conversations with him had differed from their conversations with Peter, and it would still be over a month until Tony was completely healed, but--

They had this. This wonderful thing between them that was mottled and roughshod and full of scrapes and cracks and heartache but that they were making something beautiful, and Peter couldn't regret it for a second.

He sniffled again, and then leaned into the shower spray to quickly rinse out his hair so he could turn toward Tony, leaning up on his knees to kiss him gently.

"I didn't know if I'd ever be able to do this with someone," he murmured, ducking his head to rest it ever-so-gently against Tony's shoulder. "But I-- I just... I trust you so much. I'm so glad you... you were willing to... try this with me. Even with-- even with everything--"

He swallowed hard, a lump rising in his throat, and Tony pressed a kiss to the top of his head, gently hugging him closer.

"You say that like I'm not getting the better end of the bargain," Tony teased unsteadily, his own voice strained with emotion.

Peter huffed in unspoken disagreement, but just leaned into the circle of Tony's arms and relaxed there, quiet.

Peter dried Tony's hair for him once they cut the water, and helped him apply new bandages to his wounds.

It was nice, taking care of Tony like this. Peter didn't say it, because he knew Tony was genuinely self-conscious about his age, about what their relationship might look like at thirty-and-sixty-one instead of seventeen-and-forty-eight, but--

It made him happy, thinking about things actually lasting that long, and knowing that Tony was thinking about it, too.

"How are you feeling, baby," Tony asked him that night when Peter curled up next to his uninjured right side, and Peter knew what he meant.

They'd talked a little bit while Tony had been in the medbay. Quick, murmured conversations about Beck and Westcott, about Happy and May, but-- the medbay wasn't private, when a nurse or Dr. Cho or another visitor for Tony could walk in at any time, and then once Tony had been discharged, it didn't feel right to spend their limited week-day time together on stewing.

But now they were alone in the quiet dark of Tony's bedroom, comfortable and curled up with nowhere to be and no one to find them, and no more secrets to keep.

Peter pressed a kiss to Tony's shoulder, and he was being honest when he said, "I'm okay."

"Yeah?"

Tony's voice was sweet and soft and hopeful in the dark, and Peter laced their fingers together as he murmured, "Yeah."

It was quiet for a moment, and Peter was about to return the question when Tony suddenly blurted, "Should I put a smart mirror in my bathroom?"

And when he was finished laughing and teasing Tony over the non-sequitur, heart glowing with warmth and affection because-- maybe he did know why Tony had brought it up out of nowhere-- Peter shook his head where it was tucked against Tony's shoulder, and said, "I'll be fine."

It was Wednesday before Tony managed to chase Peter out of the tower to spend at least a few hours with his friends over spring break, promising with an eyeroll that yes, he would be careful and no, he wouldn't override FRIDAY's I've-fallen-and-I-can't-get-up protocols in the unlikely event that he needed them, and that was how Peter found himself at Ned's house, doing his best to go at least five whole minutes at a time between mentioning Tony, and, well--

"All right," MJ said, finally, her mouth set and her eyes narrow. "I'm just gonna say it."

She leaned in, frowning and intent and concerned, and asked, "Peter, are you-- dating Tony Stark?"

Ned's immediate reaction was to laugh-- which, hurtful-- and then he froze as all of the context and implications seemed to sink in for him, and he turned his gaze to Peter, eyes as wide as dinner plates.

And Peter knew that it wasn't that different just because they were his friends, and they'd still be concerned, and they'd still have questions, and he'd still have to have the whole conversation again, but--

He couldn't help it.

He grinned.

Chapter Text

He was stuck in the medbay and everything hurt, but Tony was alive.

It was a genuine surprise. Back in the warehouse with Beck, he'd really thought--

Well. He hadn't thought that he'd wake up in the medbay to the scent of a home-cooked breakfast. He hadn't thought he'd be sitting here, watching Peter leave to talk to his aunt, aching all over like a living bruise but feeling-- feeling--

He'd had regrets. And not the ones he thought that he would have-- dragging Peter into his godforsaken life, letting Peter get attached to him, letting himself get attached right back, everything that had happened with Westcott and how he'd handled it in the aftermath-- no.

What he'd regretted was all the things he'd never gotten to tell Peter. All the ways he'd never gotten to show Peter how much he loved him. All because he was afraid of-- what, moving too fast, pressuring Peter into staying with the weight of his feelings, acknowledging his own desires-- like Peter hadn't made it perfectly clear that he wanted everything Tony was willing to give him, and that he was willing to tell Tony when something was out of his comfort zone.

Tong had thought he was going to die, and his only thought had been but I didn't get enough time with Peter.

It was that clarity that he held close to himself when the door closed behind Peter and Rhodey turned back in Tony's direction, because he knew what was coming next.

"Do you need to get back to sleep? You're looking pretty drugged, there," Rhodey said, carefully probing, offering Tony a way out. Temporarily, at least-- Rhodey wouldn't let him off the hook for too long.

"No," Tony answered honestly even as he sank back into the mattress, letting it take his full weight. "Brain's buzzing too much, and Dr. Cho should be coming around soon for morning rounds anyway."

"Okay," Rhodey responded, and they just sat in the silence for a moment, Tony letting his eyes drift up to the ceiling and Rhodey solid at his side.

Rhodey finally sighed, rubbing a hand over his face before fixing Tony with a tired gaze.

"What are you doing, Tones?"

Tony shrugged, and let out a huff of breath as it jarred his wounds and incisions.

His voice was still steady when he said, "It's happening, Rhodey."

Rhodey raised his eyebrows, obviously not anticipating Tony taking a strong stand.

"Don't get me wrong-- I don't think you're gonna traumatize him or anything, because I know you'd stop before you let that happen," Rhodey said slowly, shaking his head. "But you can't tell me you think this is the best thing for either of you."

"No," Tony admitted, because it probably wasn't. "But it's happening, and we're making the best of it."

Rhodey sat back in his chair, pursing his lips and watching Tony quietly for a moment, assessing.

"You're going to bat for this," he said, not a question.

"What kind of boyfriend would I be if I didn't?" Tony lifted a hand and dropped it, too tired for anything more emphatic. "I know I didn't handle everything right here and everyone's gonna be rightfully pissed at me for it, but I'm not gonna roll over and tell him 'it was good while it lasted; see you around' the first time someone gets mad at me for it, either."

"He's a kid, Tony," Rhodey said, not disgusted but imploring, and that was something. Tony could work with Rhodey thinking he was making a mistake, but there wasn't much he could do with revulsion.

"I have it on good authority that I'm a manchild," Tony said, and Rhodey's frown turned more severe.

"Tony--"

"I know how old he is," Tony said abruptly. "I know he's in high school and I know I'm not what his first anything should look like and I know he deserves better. What do you want me to say? 'Sorry I fell in love with a teenager?'"

Rhodey went quiet for a beat, studying Tony intently.

"This isn't just to make him happy," Rhodey said, finally.

Tony shook his head and then sighed, "Nope. Full head-over-heels situation, I'm afraid."

"And it's not a self-sabotage thing, either?" Rhodey challenged, leaning in, looking for Tony's tells. "No one got mad enough at you for what happened with Westcott, so you're gonna give them something to be mad about? Blow things up with the other people that care about him the most?"

Tony wanted to recoil from it, the implication that he would use Peter that way even unintentionally, but it was a valid question. Tony had a long, long history of cutting off his nose to spite his own face, and no one knew that better than Rhodey.

"It's not sabotage," he said softly. "It's-- god, Rhodey--"

He gestured again, uselessly, swallowing hard.

"I want this to work. I know the odds, okay, I'm not deluding myself here, but-- I want it to work. I'm not just waiting for the other shoe to drop, not anymore; I'm not using this to hurt myself; I'm not--"

Tony closed his eyes, grimacing.

"I want to be right for him."

It hurt to say. Acknowledging the truth of it and putting it out there for someone else to see, that he had no reservations left, that he wasn't doing anything to guard his heart anymore, not from Peter and not from Rhodey and not from the others, when he knew what they would think of him for saying it, for thinking that he had any right to try, for thinking he had any chance at succeeding.

Rhodey sat back and watched him for a long moment, quiet. Mentally holding up swatches of Tony's past mistakes against this new situation, Tony was sure, trying to see what angle Tony was approaching it from and what step in the cycle of Tony's patterns he could expect next.

Rhodey finally sighed, and said, "Okay. It's happening. What's next, Tones? What does it even look like? You tell his aunt and you tell the team, and the two of you just… what, ride that out? Even aside from him having to deal with not even being able to talk about his boyfriend with people that'll be happy for him about it, when it comes to you…"

Rhodey shook his head, brow furrowed, bewildered and imploring alike, and Tony knew what he was thinking even though he didn't say it: 'is it worth it? how could it be worth it?'

"When it comes to me," Tony scoffed, and he knew that the way Rhodey's face darkened was because it sounded like he was dismissing it. He shook his head and said, "No, let's talk about me. Things my life would be simpler without, tippy-top of the list: Iron Man. Right? Shave off 'part-time superhero' from my resume and whoa nellie, it's back to all play all the time."

"...Whoa, nellie," Rhodey repeated, deadpan, and Tony heard it for the go-ahead it was: he was listening, and he wasn't going to interrupt to tell Tony how Peter and Iron Man were different kinds of bad decisions.

Tony flapped a hand dismissively.

"You're the one who let them give me the good drugs," he said, and the longer he stayed awake the loopier he felt, so he thought he was onto something there. "So, psychoanalyze me, Rhodey: why do I still do it? Why am I Iron Man? Dig deep; give me something to tell Iris when she comes in here to kick my ass. --That's my therapist, by the way."

"Peter said," Rhodey acknowledged with a quick raise of his eyebrows that meant they were going to talk about that later, but he sat with the question that Tony had asked him, giving it genuine thought.

"I don't know either, Tones," he said finally with a little conceding shrug. "You're Iron Man because you can't not be."

"I can't not be," Tony repeated, because that was exactly it. "I can't not be, because that fucking-- cave-- changed me, and I couldn't unchange, and I still can't. And Peter--"

He shook his head, adamant, the words coming to him before he could look at them too closely.

"All of this with Peter-- not just the thing with Westcott, but all of it-- changed me, and I can't go back, I can only go forward, and-- if there's two paths forward, then I want to meet the Tony at the end of the path we're on. Not the other one. I don't think I'll like that guy as much."

Rhodey was quiet, contemplative, in the aftermath, and Tony swallowed hard. It was-- something, to say it out loud. That he was better with Peter than without him. That it factored into his decision at all, when--

"And I know I might hurt him," Tony admitted softly, bidden, that floaty rush of the drugs in his system making it less of a decision and more of a compulsion. "I know he could have it way easier than me. But if I… if I blocked off every person I might ever hurt… or-- or hell, that I've already hurt-- I'd…"

"I'm trying," he said, letting his head drop back against the pillow behind him. "I'm trying. That's all I can do."

He couldn't quite bring himself to say, I think I deserve to try, because he still wasn't sure he believed it himself. That his fumbling attempts at-- being healthy, communicating actively, writing over his worst instincts with better ones-- were worth the pain he might cause Peter if he couldn't make it work.

But they were already together, and maybe it was an excuse, maybe it was self-justification, but-- just as easily as he could tell himself he didn't deserve the chance to try, he could tell himself that Peter deserved his attempt.

"...You really are in therapy," Rhodey said, finally, part impressed and part resigned.

Tony nodded, closing his eyes where his head was cushioned against his pillow, and said, "Next thing you know I'll be eating my veggies, too."

Rhodey rubbed a hand over his face with one last sigh.

"It's still a bad idea, Tony," he said.

"Yeah," Tony agreed, because parts of it were.

"Everyone's going to give you shit for it, probably for a long time," Rhodey said.

"Yeah, I know."

"It's not going to be comfortable for you or Peter. And his aunt is going to kill you. And I don't know how you're going to come back from it if things ever don't work out."

It was kind of him to say 'if' when Tony knew he was thinking 'when,' so Tony allowed himself a little smile.

"I'll face my death with dignity," he said, and it was blasé, but not a rejection, and maybe that's what did it.

Rhodey sat back in his chair and crossed his arms, and he was quiet for a long, long moment. Tony shifted on the hospital bed, taking stock of his injuries one muscle group at a time, seeing what hurt and what only kind-of hurt to distract himself from his thoughts.

He hadn't been lying to Peter when he'd said that his friends had already stuck by him through a stunning array of new and improved rock-bottoms, but he could see where, if Rhodey really couldn't trust Tony to be as careful as he needed to be-- and Tony couldn't blame him, really-- he could see where Rhodey could take this as a different kind of low; a bridge too far.

Finally, Rhodey shrugged widely before he clasped his hands together, resigned.

And he said, "Okay."

Tony stared.

"...Okay?"

"You're going to do what you want; Peter's going to do what he wants." Rhodey frowned at him, clearly not thrilled by it, but he continued, "I think it's a mistake, and someone here's going to get hurt. But I get that it would just be a different kind of crappy to bail on him now, and if it's not going to work out it's probably better for Peter to see that himself instead of feeling like you were forced apart by other people."

He rolled his eyes upward then, more prayer than dismissal, but met Tony's shocked gaze as he finished, "So, okay."

"...Okay," Tony said, faintly.

It wasn't quite 'May hugging him instead of slapping him after she heard about Westcott,' but it was-- close, and he was at a loss. Rhodey eyed him for a moment, and then shook his head, reaching to gently press his fist to Tony's shoulder, a parody of rough-housing.

"You're on your own with his aunt, though," he said, and Tony took a breath.

It was a life-raft of normalcy, and Tony was so grateful it was nearly hard to speak.

Nearly.

"Oh, like I'd ask you to help," Tony scoffed. "I know how you are with moms, how many times did you throw me under the bus with mine?"

"How many times did I refuse to make myself look ridiculous going along with your cover stories, you mean--"

"My cover stories are top-notch, thank you; I hear I'm very inventive--"

Not everyone took it as well as Rhodey, obviously. Rhodey-- didn't quite buy it, had said as much, and maybe even still thought that they were just confused, but-- he of all people knew how important it was that Tony was actually trying to make things work in a way other than throwing money at the problem, and he was at least willing to stand by at the ready to let Tony make that mistake and help clean up after him. He didn't get awkward when Peter was around, visiting Tony first in the medbay and then in Tony's suite afterschool, and was even friendly with him.

It was a nice gesture. Tony knew it was at least in part because Rhodey wanted to make himself someone safe to go to for Peter in case things ever went south, but-- even that was incredibly thoughtful in its way, and Tony ached with appreciation and hurt alike.

But the others--

Responses ran the gamut. Being in the medbay meant that nearly everyone reined themselves in from getting in his face and telling him what a scumbag he was-- and the whole Westcott thing probably had something to do with that too, as much as Tony disliked thinking his teammates were giving him pity points for being fucked up, thinking it was a phase he'd move through with enough therapy or something-- but he still had to sit through a lot of tight, disappointed expressions and imploring talks of being 'irresponsible' and 'making a mistake' and 'not putting Peter first.'

(And, memorably, Pepper's knee-jerk "are you kidding me," in the instant before she gathered herself enough to remember the full range of dynamics at play beyond 'the owner of my company just admitted to dating his 17-year-old former intern,' but that was at least kind of funny.)

It was enough for Tony to almost want to make a bingo card out of it, if only to give himself something to do when he still didn't have any good excuses for himself. But the team's trust in his judgment had already taken enough of a hit, and he wasn't going to help anything by pretending he hadn't had all the same thoughts himself, and--

That wouldn't normally have been enough, he recognized. He usually would have dug in his heels, and made his supposed mistake as loudly and brashly as he could to dare anyone to tell him he didn't know exactly what he was doing.

But, here-- the worse he made things for himself, the worse he would make them for Peter. And for that, he could bite his tongue.

It wasn't all lectures, though. There was Natasha's acquiescing little shrug when she silently raised her eyebrows at him and he complained, "Oh, come on, you already knew." Bruce's awkward, fumbling acceptance-- somewhat doubtful, but acceptance nonetheless-- more familiar with Tony and Peter's dynamic together from shared time in the lab. And there was Wanda, laying a hand over his and gazing intently into his eyes until he started to sweat, but ultimately pulling away with a satisfied smile. Which-- he didn't love the implications of, but if whatever she saw or sensed or dreamed or whatever was enough for her not to worry about Peter, then-- that was kind of nice, actually.

But Clint didn't come to see him at all before he went on leave, and then there was Happy.

He actually thought it was a joke at first when Tony told him, thought that Tony was making fun of the soap opera that was his life in very poor taste. And then when Tony had stuck to his story, things had shifted to "it's the kid, Tony," and then "what the hell are you thinking?," and then, finally--

"Listen, I know this is about the Westcott thing, all right," Happy said, anger scaled back to shaken disbelief. "I know that was fucked up and it hurt you and it hurt Peter and I don't know how I'd work through it if it was me. But this-- this is the wrong way. This is wrong, Tony."

He stormed off when Tony didn't have an answer for him, which Tony expected but still vaguely hurt anyway. It'd-- take a while for Happy to come around, he knew. The others cared about Peter, sure, he was impossible to dislike, but-- Happy was circling something genuinely familial with Peter, cared about him like a papa bear, was invested in his homework and what college he was going to go to and what his life was going to look like. And of course Tony wasn't part of what Happy wanted for Peter, not in the least because once upon a time, before everything had gone so terribly sideways, maybe Tony had been circling looking at Peter the same way.

But all he could do was wait. Wait until Happy wore himself out ranting to May and picking fights with Tony and lecturing Peter; until the others stopped looking at him sideways and grimacing; until everyone had enough time to adjust to the idea and to see that Peter was doing okay.

He wanted it for Peter more than for himself, really. Tony was an old hat at being disliked and judged and distrusted, though obviously it was different coming from his friends, but he could buck up and ignore it and focus his energy on getting better and being as good of a boyfriend as possible to Peter from his hospital bed and eventually his couch. But he could tell how much Peter wanted to fight for him, even knowing that it would just make things worse, and-- he could be good. Peter was being so good, so Tony could too.

"I wish people would just give us more credit," Peter vented to him one night, his hand tangled with Tony's from the wrong side of the bed so he wouldn't risk rolling into Tony's bad side in his sleep.

Tony privately agreed that Peter deserved more credit on the strength of not throwing the "I can date whoever I want and you can't tell me what to do" temper tantrum that Tony would've thrown-- did throw-- at that age, but he hummed, sympathetic.

"I do have a long and storied history of, let's say, questionable decisions," he admitted with a shrug. "In picking me your judgment is being tainted by association."

Peter grumbled, mock-offended.

"Don't try to tell me I rank in even the top 20 Tony Stark bad decisions," he said, and Tony scoffed.

"Nowhere near," Tony reassured him, kissing his knuckles. He added, "But the list being so extensive is working against us here, I think."

"Maybe it's the opposite." Peter peeked up at him, grinning. "Maybe we need to do a presentation on the actual top 20 Tony Stark bad decisions so I look better by comparison."

"Oh, sure," Tony snorted. "'I Know Rock-Bottom, And This Isn't It: The Movie'. Rhodey can be our star talking head and primary source. We can show it at our--"

'Wedding,' he almost said, stupid and thoughtless and still dogged by bloodloss-induced visions of red flowers and crimson pocket-squares, but instead he coughed, "--anniversary."

Peter still beamed at him, obviously delighted that Tony was thinking even that far down the road-- which is why Tony had to get a grip on those harebrained little fantasies, seriously, they needed to take things one step at a time instead of establishing anticipations if Peter was going to have a fair shot at considering what he actually wanted in the long-term, here-- but his smile dropped away with a little groan as the other implications sank in.

"They have to be normal about it by then though, right? Kind of normal? Approaching normal," Peter wheedled, bargaining.

"If they're not normal about it by then we at least get to start cracking jokes about it. No more I-understand-this-is-uncomfortable-for-you song and dance," Tony said, and Peter huffed a laugh.

Things would work themselves out even before that, Tony hoped. He didn't want to get ahead of himself, either, but-- Peter had gotten his acceptance letter from MIT while Tony had still been in the medbay, one bright spot in a hell of a week, and he had to hope that seeing Peter go off on his own would help settle everyone's nerves about Tony's influence on his life.

Peter turned his head to Tony's shoulder after a moment, though, toying with Tony's fingers between his own.

"It's hardest with May," he admitted, soft. "We did... lie to her, sort of."

"Yeah." Tony closed his eyes, taking a slow breath. He talked about May a lot, with Iris. "She's got a lot of reasons to be upset."

"One thing at a time," Peter sighed, a little wistful.

Tony squeezed his hand. He never was any good at 'one thing at a time' himself, especially when something was weighing on him, but with this-- something so delicate, something that mattered to him and to Peter and to the people important to them--

"One thing at a time," Tony echoed.

Peter had been back in school after spring break for a week before Tony got the text from May.

He'd sent her a message back when he was still in the medbay. Just a blunt, simple, 'Do we need to talk?', because any time he tried to figure out how to sound more remorseful or less clipped the message would always spiral into a full novel and this wasn't something they could do through a call.

She'd never replied at the time, and even now, her response was nothing more than an equally-terse, '6pm. I'll be there.'

The wait was so excruciating that it was almost a relief once the knock finally came.

"May," he greeted her once he opened the door, awkward and off-kilter, and she looked at him stone-faced before moving around him to drop into an armchair in the living room, head in her hands.

Tony perched himself quietly on the couch across from her while she gathered herself, sighing and brushing her hair out of her face, but when she still didn't speak, his nerves could only stretch so far.

"So am I groveling first or are you yelling at me first," he said, foot in mouth and jittering with the tension. "Because--"

"How could you let this happen?" May snapped, and, well. Yelling first, then.

Tony would've stayed quiet regardless, because it's not like he had a good answer to that question in the first place, but May took the need to even think of it out of his hands by continuing.

"I understand his side of it. I do. Of course he thinks he's in love with you, you're you and you're the first person he ever had sex with and you give him anything he wants. Got it. Understood. Exactly what a teenager would think and feel," she said, clipped and irritable and gesturing expansively. "But you--"

She shook her head, and said, "I know he's wonderful, alright, he's the best kid in the world, and I know you have your own stuff to work through, Tony, I do. But even when I can wrap my mind around that part, 'okay, they went through something awful together and okay, Peter's just so loveable and he was already all puppy-dog-eyes about Tony, and okay, some wires got crossed,' I'm still left with-- how did you let this happen? How did we get here?"

She pinned him in place with her gaze when she asked, "What part of when, what, when you started noticing Peter's feelings for you did you not think, 'maybe I should talk to May about this? Maybe if I don't know how to handle this without hurting Peter's feelings I should loop in his parent and we can problem-solve it together? Maybe if I can't handle this right alone, I shouldn't?'"

And there it was-- May Parker distilling his every mistake down into one sharp, simple question.

Tony swallowed hard, and nodded.

"I'm sorry," he said carefully, watching May to know when he needed to zip his lips and let her blow up again. "You're right. I handled it wrong. I said I'd let you know if something needed to change, and-- I didn't. I should've looped you in."

"What were you thinking?" May's indignation only swelled at the recognition that Tony knew he had messed up, and Tony couldn't blame her. The urge to make a joke-- to deflect, to dismiss, to stop the conversation in its tracks-- itched at him like a craving, but he bit his tongue and made himself actually try to put words to it, because she deserved the explanation.

"I was… I mean, you called it, May. I told myself it wasn't a problem, and then told myself it was a problem I could handle, and I was wrong." Tony shrugged, slow, staring at the surface of the coffee table instead of meeting May's eyes. "I didn't want to embarrass him by calling you up and saying 'so I think your nephew thinks he's in love with me' and I didn't want to betray him by taking away something that made him feel better and making him face the whole thing on his own, and-- and I didn't want to do it alone, either, and I didn't want to admit it made me feel better too, and yeah, I should've gone to therapy, and yeah, I should've leaned more on Rhodey and Pepper and Happy instead of my teenage mentee--"

His words came faster the more he thought on it, a building realization growing and growing underneath that litany of everything he'd done wrong, what he should've done instead--

May scoffed a growl of mounting frustration, and said, "If you can say all of that, then why are you still doing this?"

"Because," Tony said, unable to filter or rephrase or think better of it in that moment of abrupt, startling clarity, "because I don't regret it."

May's expression froze, uncomprehending.

"What?"

"I don't," Tony said again, his body flooding with a dizzying shock of relief. "I-- you're right, I fucked it all up, it shouldn't have happened this way, but-- if I'd have done it right-- if I'd have talked to you or Iris or someone and been responsible for once--"

He was fucking this up, he shouldn't be saying this, but Tony shook his head and said it anyway:

"He's the best thing that ever happened to me, May, and if I'd have been better I wouldn't have him now. So I-- I get it, all right, I get it, I know why you're mad and I get it if you can't trust me and I know I sound like a fucking maniac, but I don't-- I don't regret it."

"Jesus Christ, Tony--" May shook her own head in turn, denying, denying, denying. "You can't think this is going to last, you can't think--"

"I know," Tony interrupted her. "Or, I don't know, I know it's going to be a fight and I don't know how things will end or if they'll end but I'm going to try. I'm gonna-- May--"

The shift from acceptance of her distrust to desperation for her to understand was disorienting even for him, but now that he'd accepted it himself, that he really didn't want things to be any other way-- it was almost impossible not to want her to see it the way he did, for her to understand just how much he loved Peter and wanted to be the best thing for him and how he'd do anything to see it through.

"Back in the warehouse, when Beck went all Psycho-violins on me, you know what I was thinking?"

May's mouth was a hard, flat line, but she didn't interrupt as Tony closed his eyes, remembering.

"I never got to take him on a real date," he said. "I never got to buy him an anniversary present. I never got to tell someone else I loved him. I never got to do it right."

He laughed, humorless, and said, "Out of everything I have to regret in my life, and there's a lot, don't get me started-- down to the wire, that's what rose to the top. That I was lucky enough to have Peter Parker, and I never got to give him my best."

Tony met her eyes then, finally, and he didn't know if he'd ever been as sincere as he was when he said, "So you don't have to accept it. I get it. If all of this had happened and it was-- Bruce or Steve or Wanda even, I know I'd be right there with you and worse because-- self-restraint, you've got it and I don't-- but I do have him, and I'm going to give him my best; I'm going to make him as happy as I can. And-- and if there's a point where you can get on board with that then I know it'd make him happy, too. So-- there. There's my pitch."

May was silent and unsmiling, her frame tense with unhappiness and reluctance to bend-- until she looked away suddenly, throwing up her hands in helpless exasperation.

"So what am I supposed to do, Tony?" Her eyes were red-rimmed now, and her scowl wobbled dangerously. "Just watch this break his heart? He's so-- it's going to kill him when it ends; you know it is. The way he is about you-- he's been so wrapped up in you for so long, and I knew that and I saw it and I thought he just needed time but now this-- he'll make himself miserable before he ever leaves you and I let it happen, I watched while it happened--"

She sniffled, to Tony's horror, because he could bear her anger but he didn't know what to do with heartbreak. He'd never thought about this side of it for May-- he'd considered her anger, her betrayal, even her fear, but not her guilt, and why hadn't he?

"He won't," Tony said, tentative, uncertain if his comfort was something she would want. "I know how he is, but-- he wouldn't stay if he was unhappy."

May swiped at her eyes and scoffed a sound of pure distilled disbelief, leveling Tony with a weapons-grade glare that put even Pepper to shame and made it hard not to feel all of two inches tall, but--

He pushed on, "He wouldn't. He's-- even if he wasn't way past the idol worship thing at this point, and he is, you should hear him call me out when I'm being an ass-- he wouldn't stay if he was miserable because I made him promise he wouldn't."

May went still and stared at him, searching, taken aback.

Tony shrugged.

"We're pretty similar when it comes to that stuff," he admitted, clearing his throat. "Guilt, self-blame, self-sacrifice, the whole nine yards. He told me he'd leave if he was unhappy; I told him I'd leave if I was. We're getting pretty good at talking stuff like that out. So-- even if he didn't want to, he'd leave, because he wouldn't break his promise."

He knew it was hard to swallow. He understood where May was coming from-- Peter had had Tony up on such a pedestal in the past and was so reluctant to choose himself over anyone else, it was why Tony had insisted on that conversation in the first place-- but he also knew how much Peter had grown in the jumble of months since Westcott; how he'd taken that adversity and let it mature him instead of wearing him down.

And maybe May hadn't gotten to see that with the same clarity that Tony had, with his and Peter's endless conversations working through all the tangled complications that came with their relationship, but-- he hoped that she'd gotten to see some of it, that she could bring herself to understand that Tony wasn't falling back on wishful, selfish thinking by believing that Peter was strong enough to make the right call for himself when it came to this.

May swallowed thickly, finally, and rolled her eyes with equal parts fondness and heartache as she admitted, "He is a lot better with taking care of other people than himself."

"We've got that in common, so there's both angles covered," Tony tried, a weak attempt at humor, and May didn't smile but she did sigh, a release of tension. "And... the rest of it-- I know it sounds crazy, I know. But we are... trying. To talk about things instead of letting them sit. Talking about the age difference thing; the money thing. The superhero thing. The-- all of it; all of the stupid things. And-- maybe we won't work out, I don't know, but if we don't, we'll have-- done the best we could."

May went quiet, sitting curled over with her elbow on her knee and hand over her mouth, processing. Tony sat with her, heart aching with-- grief, guilt, shame, hope-- she was actually taking it better than he had expected; better than he deserved, really, he hadn't expected to be able to get in a word edgewise and that would've been-- fair.

"I don't understand what you're thinking," she said finally, quiet, resigned. "I don't... you can say you don't know how things are going to go all you want, but we all know what a longshot it is, Tony, and I can't... see how you could think all of this is worth it for something that's not going to work. What it's putting you through, what it's putting me and Happy through, what it's putting Peter through. And I can't believe you let it get this far. That you didn't tell me."

She pressed her lips together in a tight line, guilt and frustrating bubbling over, her voice shaking.

"And now I have to live with that. That I watched it happen, and I knew something was wrong but didn't know what 'right' should look like, so I just-- and if it was anyone other than you, what would've... He could've been--"

She stopped, overcome, but Tony could see what she was saying-- she believed him, at least, even if she thought he was wrong to feel the way he did, she believed that he loved Peter, but if he didn't-- if he was a different person than she had imagined--

"But it was me," he offered, knowing it wasn't enough, and he swallowed hard. "You-- you trusted me to care about him and you were right, and I do. It just… looks different than we thought before."

"And the rest?" she asked, dull and angry and tired, and Tony closed his eyes.

"I want to make him happy," he said, shrugging, helpless. "So I'm going to try to do that. That's-- that's the plan."

May studied him for a long moment, gaze intent and unimpressed, and Tony bit his tongue against babbling more justifications and attempts to comfort. She would-- she would accept things in her own time, or she wouldn't, and he knew on some level that it was going to come down more to how he treated Peter than what he said here in this moment, and that he should shut up and let her feel the way she felt about it.

Finally--

May sighed roughly and scooped up her purse from its spot at her side, standing.

"You'd better," she said, stern, and she walked to the door and left.

Things were easier after that. It wasn't exactly having her blessing, but with the weight of waiting for the inevitable conversation with May off of his shoulders, the curl of guilt that wanted to gum up Tony's chest every time he reached for his phone to respond to a text from Peter finally loosened. Tony could focus on getting better, on how glad he was to see Peter, on moving forward without having the dread of when the shoe was going to drop lingering over every moment.

Peter started to brighten back up, too, which in light of everything that had happened with Beck, was honestly-- amazing. Rhodey had told him about the video, and Tony really had guessed, could have assumed, but he couldn't imagine being Peter in that moment, having to actually be there while the team saw what had happened to him-- them-- and if he had already been in awe of how strong Peter was…

Peter did start to have more nightmares, again. And he admitted quietly that he was glad they had to take more time to slow down, to build back up their intimacy, because he had started getting hyperconscious of his body again, but-- it was so natural, almost, the way he navigated expanding his own comfort zone, letting himself try something and then letting himself curl up with Tony instead the times where it didn't work out.

There was a part of Tony that still wanted to scoff sometimes when Iris talked about things like 'treating himself gently' when it came to his own-- issues. It was so foreign to the way that Tony had been raised and the ways he'd learned to cope with stress, with pain, with what he could begrudgingly admit now was trauma, and just the words felt ridiculous.

But watching Peter do it didn't feel ridiculous. It felt like a marvel. It felt like a type of strength that was so much more important than anything Tony could do in the armor, something that Tony thought maybe would be worth it to learn himself, after all.

And knowing that Peter felt safe doing that in front of him, felt comfortable treating Tony as his soft place to land-- it felt like a gift.

They were in bed together after a shower, which Peter joined him for off and on now when he was feeling comfortable, when Peter brought it up: one more step outside of the comfort zone.

"This is just a-- 'someday' question, but--" Peter bit his lip, alternating between glancing at Tony's expression and looking away. "What do you think about, actually-- you know, in bed--"

Oh.

Tony thought he did know, but he wasn't sure what he thought about it yet, so instead of answering he raised his eyebrows in a teasing question while Peter struggled to find the words.

Peter flapped a hand, cheeks pink, and said, "--Having sex! You know what I mean."

"Did I hallucinate all the other sex we've already had? Oh, boy, I thought I was done with big conversations," Tony said, and Peter groaned.

"You know what I mean!" he said again with a huff. "It's not my fault all the words for it are like-- too clinical or too vague or too, like, vulgar for the tone of this conversation--"

"Can I get an example from each category? You know, for science," Tony said, still stalling and genuinely amused alike, and a corner of Peter's lips twitched.

"Fine," Peter said, nodding seriously and sitting upright. "It's important to be on the same page."

He counted the options off on his fingers as he said, "What are your thoughts on, clinically: having anal sex, vaguely: making love, or vulgarly: fucking me?"

He was so cute. Tony prompted, "What about euphemistically?"

Peter went quiet and thoughtful for a moment, and then started to say, "Do you want to put your Iron Man-hood in my--"

"Oh-kay," Tony said loudly, just for the gag, and Peter grinned.

Tony smiled back, softer, and then admitted, "I'm... not sure. What do you think about it?"

Peter nodded, not unused to having to go first when it came to these things-- Tony could've beat himself up over that, but he was past it, whatever, Peter was a much better communicator than he was and that was just a fact-- but his voice was careful as he explained, "I... also kind of don't know? I think... I think I'd really like it, and I want to be close with you like that, but--"

He grimaced, and rushed through the rest of it: "But I'm worried if we do I might-- I might cry, not in a bad way but just-- being overwhelmed-- but in a good way-- and I don't want it to freak you out, and I'm worried it would freak you out."

"Lots of people cry during sex," Tony reassured him on auto-pilot while he mulled that over.

It could-- be a lot, after everything. There was the Westcott thing, and then-- so many of Tony's dreams afterwards had been-- he loved Peter, but he was primed at this point to feel a certain way about the scenario just as a knee-jerk reaction, and he wouldn't want to get partway into things and then have to pull the plug.

But it could be… nice, too. Really nice.

"That doesn't mean it couldn't freak you out," Peter reminded him gently, and Tony tipped his head, acknowledging.

"I don't know if it would," Tony admitted. "It's... I don't know. It wouldn't bother you, after--?"

The holograms.

"I don't think so," Peter said slowly, feeling it out. "And-- honestly, even the being overwhelmed part-- I don't know why that part feels more, special, or a bigger deal or something, because--"

He grimaced, and said, "It wasn't even the worst part? It was actually kinda-- nice, that you could hold me and-- and kiss me, and you were over me so he couldn't see as much, and-- the worst part was the oral stuff and we've already done that and it's great."

He had a point.

"That was the worst part for me, too." Tony took Peter's hand and kissed it, quiet with the memory.

"Yeah," Peter sighed, and he flickered a smile. "MJ would probably say that we're, like, falling prey to the myth of virginity as a construct of male possession or something--"

Tony huffed a laugh, and said, "I can't say that regressive sexual politics are something I've ever been accused of, but you might be onto something there."

He let himself imagine it, just as an-- experiment. Feeling Peter around him again, feeling Peter's hands on his shoulders and hearing Peter's sweet sounds of pleasure as Tony moved inside of him. And with Peter here with him in the moment, relaxed and warm at his side, being brave enough to ask about it-- it wasn't… a bad thought, not at all. But still-- if he got taken by surprise, or if Peter cried--

Peter nodded after Tony was quiet for a long moment, and leaned up to peck the line of his jaw.

"We don't have to figure it out now. But it's not-- bothering you just to think about?"

"Thinking about it is great," Tony scoffed. He wondered, even, what Peter would think about suggesting trying things the other way around, but-- that wasn't the point, really. "Thinking about it is no problem. Actually, thinking about it is the wrong kind of problem since I'm medically barred from taking the thought into my own hands, so to speak."

Peter laughed, startled, and said, "What, really, even that's too much of a strain?"

"Rude, you're being rude." Tony let his hand slide up under Peter's shirt, tickling more than groping. "Here I've got my gorgeous boyfriend and I'm not even allowed to do anything about it."

Peter yelped a laugh, sitting upright to get Tony's hand out of his shirt, but then he leaned over Tony on the bed, planting his hands on either side of his pillow.

"You're allowed to do some things," he murmured, leaning for a long, slow kiss, and Tony sighed into it.

Peter smiled against his lips, and said, "Not to give you more problems with 'thinking about it,' but by the time your recovery is done it's going to be summer, and I'd really like to make up for lost time."

"Oh, yeah?" Tony kissed Peter again, sinking his fingers into Peter's hair the way he liked just for a moment, a little tease when they couldn't take things much further than this. "I think I'll be able to pencil you in."

It was later, after they'd settled back down and Peter's breaths were slow and deep with sleep, that Tony really recognized it. How easy it had been to talk about it, to just let it be what it was, to not even have a plan to fix it. To just wait and see how he felt about it later, not because he was avoiding the thought, but because he trusted Peter and he trusted himself and he trusted that however things worked out, this one little topic wasn't going to shake the foundations of what they had.

And not only that, but-- that when he thought about the future, now-- things that would come up, things that might change, their anniversary and things in the bedroom and conversations and conversations and conversations with Peter and about Peter with so many different people--

It didn't fill him with dread, anymore. He'd spent so long thinking of his life as a series of problems to manage, futures to prepare for, with lists of plans and contingencies and inevitabilities and off-chances a mile long.

But with this, he could just… relax. Let it happen. Live his life instead of working his way down to the next step in a never-ending contingency plan. The worst had happened, and they were through it, and if certain things were still kind of a mess, they were also out of his hands… and for once in his life, he thought he could be okay with that.

And it did turn out to be okay. The weeks went on. He slowly regained his strength and range of motion. His incisions knit themselves back together. Clint finally stopped totally avoiding him, for at least one conversation.

("So," he said with no preamble, jaw set and arms crossed. "Nat pointed out that I'm not gonna be the one to get your head out of your ass about this if Rhodes and Happy and the kid's aunt haven't. And Wanda said she did her woo-woo thing and she 'believes in your pure intentions,' and I don't wanna know anything about what that means, so-- I don't want to hear about it, and I won't make you hear what I think about it, and when we're saving the world you'll know that I still have your back and I'll know you still have mine. Agreed?"

"...Agreed," Tony said, and honestly, it could've gone worse.)

In a year of what felt like a million new normals, things settled into yet another new version of the status quo. Tony healed up enough in mind and body to venture out of the security of his suite more often, and over time the tension ebbed, and people stopped finding excuses to walk out of a room once he'd walked into it. And with that out of the way, he and Peter stopped avoiding being in the common areas at the same time, and if they still didn't touch beyond the odd shoulder-squeeze-- they'd get there eventually.

And somewhere in there, Happy started talking to him again.

It took a few conversations. (It took a lot of conversations. Tony had resigned himself to never getting to stop having conversations about Peter.) Happy didn't understand any more than May or the others or even Rhodey, and Tony didn't have a way to make him understand except the proof that would come with time.

But with May doing her best to let things play out as they would, and Peter doing better and better they further away they got from Beck and the closer they got to his graduation-- there was never a moment where Happy told him that he'd accept it, or that he trusted Tony to actually know what he was doing. But he stopped clenching his jaw every time they spoke, and then started being able to meet Tony's eyes on the days where Peter came to visit the tower again, and even eventually muscled in on some of their lunches together, absorbing how they interacted together, processing.

And Tony knew he was still upset, at times. Still conflicted about watching his best friend and his maybe-kinda-proxy-kid walk down this road together. But over time things felt more and more normal, the pockets of discomfort that seeped in flavored more with awkwardness than hostility, and-- if it was uncomfortable and slow-going and meant having to redefine what was and wasn't okay to do or say in front of him again and again, Tony would still take it. Because Happy and Peter were both worth it, and things were going to keep changing whether Tony was ready for it or not.

Case in point: Peter's graduation, and everything that went with it.

Tony wasn't invited to the ceremony, which Peter groused about a little but they really both understood. Even if May had been ready to share that moment with Tony, even if there wasn't a whole awkward situation going on in the first place, just Tony's presence in the stands would've drawn the wrong kind of attention towards Peter with Spider-man's fast-approaching unexpected relocation to Cambridge.

(And, if he was honest-- as proud as he was of Peter, the idea of having pictures of himself with Peter in his high school cap and gown was the sort of thing that still, after everything, put a knot in his stomach.)

So instead Peter went to a joint graduation dinner with his friends and their families-- which reportedly involved a truly impressive gaggle of Leeds-- and the next day came to the tower for cupcakes and a procession of back-slaps, teasing, and only some uncomfortable grimaces over Tony's being there.

("So does this, like. Bother you," Sam asked Tony at one point when they'd both found themselves lingering on the outskirts of the festivities, half-curious and half-pointed, and really, having someone say it was kind of a relief.

"What, buying cupcakes for my boyfriend's high school graduation, or the fact that I always remember at these shindigs that I'm one of the only regular humans on this team whose hero schtick doesn't invoke some latent furry tendencies?" Tony said, breezy. "Because I promise both of them get equal airtime in my therapy sessions; I should be billing you."

Or: 'yes, it's fucking weird; no, you're not getting anything more out of me about it.'

"Dick," Sam said, rolling his eyes. But he still kept Tony company until Bruce wandered over with a cupcake in hand instead, and that was something.)

And as much as those months meant establishing another new normal, once summer hit, it almost felt like a race against the clock of the next major change. Peter was all over the place, spending hours on patrol like he needed to stockpile good deeds for New York before he left for Cambridge, visiting favorite local hangouts with his friends, setting aside family time for May, staying the night with Tony at the tower--

Tony was worried at first about Peter spreading himself too thin, but Peter's enthusiasm seemed genuine on the days when he went out. And if Peter also had days where he did nothing but stay in with Tony, sometimes soft and sad about what had happened or about the upcoming move, sometimes warm and content and basking in a lazy day off, then-- that just told Tony that Peter would give himself a break if he needed it, so he did his best to set his worries aside and hold Peter closer, cherishing the opportunities to do it before Peter left.

(And-- the opportunities for other things, with Peter. They did make up for lost time, once Tony got the all-clear to resume normal levels of activity. Tony came home from his final follow-up appointment to find the A/C on high in his suite, because Peter was waiting there for him in the June heat in just his MIT sweatshirt and boxers to make good on that fantasy Tony had told him about all those months ago, and they had a long and lovely list to work their way through from there.)

And then, with moving away approaching fast, with spending the time together that they could and adjusting to the people around them knowing and doing their own adjusting to changes present and future, Peter decided that there was one more thing he wanted to do before he and his friends moved to Massachusetts.

This… may have been a mistake.

Tony knew why Peter wanted Tony to get to know his friends-- they were important to him, and he wanted to bring the two separate parts of his life together, and if Tony wanted to overthink it there was probably something in there about Peter wanting to make sure Tony wasn't embarrassed of his friends or his age or whatever-- but the whole thing made Tony want to crawl out of his skin. Just a little. Just a bit.

It did feel like babysitting, was the thing. And paradoxically, like Tony was doing something wrong by not letting the other kids' parents know that he wasn't watching over them as a responsible adult, that he was welcoming them into his home as a gift to his recently-graduated boyfriend. If he thought too hard about it it felt skeevy and deceptive, and it brought up old questions for him about why these kids the same age as Peter were 'kids' but Peter was 'Peter,' and--

"Tony," MJ said coolly, pointedly, when she strode into his living room like she owned the place, and Peter had warned him but wow, she did not like him.

That actually helped, a little bit. He was used to the judgment, and it made it feel less like he was the creep hanging out with a bunch of impressionable teens.

"Michelle," Tony responded, raising his eyebrows and tipping his head in a respectful nod.

Her eyes narrowed, but that was okay, if she wanted to mean-mug him in his own home that was fine, she was Peter's friend-- and he had reason enough to pretend not to see it as Ned jittered into the room, stumbling over his feet and his words alike.

Ned got through "Thank you for inviting us Mr. Tony-- Mr. Stark-- Tony Stark--" before Tony took pity, cutting it with, "Yep, that's me; all of the above. Nice to see you, Ned."

Ned's eyes went wide. Peter grinned at Tony from where he was shutting the door after his friends, and Tony mourned the loss of one of his favorite Peter-jokes but he couldn't keep calling Ned by wrong names forever.

"So," Tony continued before MJ's glare could become actually lethal or Ned could have a heart attack on his carpet, "me and Pete made pizzas for dinner, so if you don't trust our combined kitchen prowess and want to order delivery instead, speak now or forever hold your peace."

"Hey!" Peter protested, grinning. "No way, we worked hard on those. Eating dinner and paying compliments to the chef is the price of admission for being a guest."

"Pizza sounds great," Ned enthused, polite.

"Do you usually make your own dinner, or is cooking a peasant thing that Peter got you into," MJ said.

Tony scoffed and said, "If cooking dinner is a peasant thing then Peter is a bad peasant; most of his kitchen experiments before he stayed here last summer were dubious."

"They weren't any worse than yours," Peter retorted, rolling his eyes fondly. "And I got better!"

"You did. I do recommend the pizzas; they'll be great," Tony said, and it felt… okay. He and Peter were just now easing out of keeping a professional distance when they were with the rest of the team, so it was still new to be feeling out how to exist as a couple when other people were watching. He didn't hate it, but it also wasn't as high-stakes when he knew that the worst he was going to have to deal with was judgment from a teenager.

They sat down and ate, and Peter did a good job getting the conversation going-- knowing what subjects to bring up to get Ned out of his starstruck shell and to get MJ to sneak a toe out of her stoic, mistrustful funk-- and Tony had more experience than he cared to remember in taking the smallest crumb of conversation and turning it into a full-course meal. They actually… made a good team in that way, and even in the face of MJ's reticence, Tony couldn't help the warmth that went through him at noticing it.

Still, as the meal was drawing to a close, Tony's conversation with MJ did turn into something a little more like slight-combative inside-baseball about green initiatives within the tech sector than informed but pleasant dinner patter, and Peter found an opening between one of Tony's comments and MJ's narrowed eyes to desperately interject, "Let's play a game!"

They started with UNO, which Peter sheepishly admitted later had maybe not been the best choice for brewing new friendships, and Tony raised his eyebrows at Peter's next pick, but--

"Okay, I know what you're thinking," Tony said as Peter held a card reading 'most likely to spend the longest in front of the mirror.' He gestured to himself, and continued, "But this all natural. Effortless. No mirrors required."

"He is lying," Peter said, shaking his head. "He is telling lies."

"No support from this guy," Tony complained, and even MJ was hiding a smile as she turned in her card to seal Tony's fate.

Even aside from the opportunity for the kids-- Peter's friends, Tony corrected himself mentally-- to pick on him-- and they did, mercilessly, with Tony accumulating 'most likely to be arrested for doing a dare,' 'most likely to embarrass themselves in front of the president,' and only narrowly avoiding 'most likely use movie quotes during conversation' after a hot debate that ended with MJ issuing the judgment against Peter-- it was also an opportunity for him to show how well he already knew them from having Peter in common.

"What is a priest except God's guy in the chair," Tony argued his case when voting for Ned, and "I don't know about the next Picasso, but the next Frida Kahlo, sure," for MJ.

And, if it was also an opportunity for Peter's friends to get a little more comfortable with the whole Tony-Stark-dating-their-best-friend thing--

("...This one feels unfair," Peter murmured, red-faced, at the unanimous results for 'most likely to have a crush on their teacher.')

--then that wasn't too bad of an outcome, either.

At the end of the night, MJ lingered back as Peter saw Ned off at the door, clearing her throat meaningfully.

Tony hung back as well, raising his eyebrows.

"What's the verdict, Judge Jones," he couldn't help but tease, and she narrowed her eyes.

"That's minus ten points for insinuating I would ever participate in the prison industrial complex," she said, which, fair.

"Hey, I didn't say 'Your Honor.' I could've meant a different kind of judge," Tony said. "Maybe I'm gunning for the crown of Miss Spider-man. Maybe I'm eyeballing the blue ribbon for Best Boyfriend at the county fair. Maybe I'm waiting to hear if I have to lipsync for my life."

MJ's lips twitched, but she watched him coolly for a long moment, assessing.

"Red ribbon at best," she said finally, gesturing to him. "To go with all the red flags."

It was clever enough that Tony bit his tongue against pointing out that red ribbons were second place, and MJ shrugged.

"But if you and Peter are committed to being stupid I can't do anything about it." She fixed him with a hard stare, and drily intoned, "'So good luck, and don't fuck it up.'"

It was as close to an olive branch as he would get, Tony knew, and he was weirdly warmed by the sentiment.

"Oh, so it's reality TV references with you," he said, tapping his temple. "I'll remember that for next time."

She rolled her eyes, but stilled when Tony cleared his throat, awkward.

"Thank you for coming," he said, his own olive branch. "Really. Peter's been excited for it."

"...Sure," she said after a beat, shifting on her feet, uncomfortable with the sincerity. They had that in common, Tony thought, but he would save the observation for another time.

Peter's friends left, and when Peter returned from walking them down to where their ride home was waiting, Tony slumped over him in an exhausted cuddle.

"I did okay, right?" he asked, and Peter laughed, wrapping his arms around him.

"MJ was impressed that you knew so much about her and Ned," Peter said, rubbing a soothing hand over Tony's back. "Since it means you actually pay attention when I talk. She won't say it, but she was."

"That's such a low bar," Tony murmured, but he couldn't really complain when all she had to go off of was Peter's clearly-biased opinion and decades of scandalous headlines.

Peter huffed a laugh, but pulled Tony closer, nuzzling in to press a kiss to his cheek.

"Thank you," Peter said, soft. "I know it's not… super comfortable yet, but… it wasn't too bad, was it?"

It… really hadn't been. In the beginning, yeah, but the longer they'd all talked, the more that Tony had discovered that he really did know these people, even if only through the image Peter had painted of them-- it had gotten easier to relax and see them as 'Ned' and 'MJ,' instead of 'those kids Peter hangs out with.' He was still a long way from seeing them as anything like friends, necessarily, but-- he could do it again.

"No, it was fine." Tony kissed Peter's forehead, pulling out of his slump to hold Peter more securely. "They're fun. You picked a good bunch."

Peter smiled, relieved, and it was sweet that he was worried about Tony's side of things.

"MJ will come around," Peter said with a little self-assured nod. "I know you guys probably won't be-- y'know-- friend-friends or anything, but-- it'd be nice if everyone was used to each other, y'know? So it's not weird when I have stuff I want you all at."

And it wasn't exactly a surprise whenever Peter said something that made it clear that he was planning this relationship to last for the long-term, but Tony could never stop the little flutter of optimism that went through him when it happened, either.

"I know," Tony said, leaning in. "Here's to more parties with the Spider-man support squad."

And Peter was grinning hard as he leaned in to meet Tony's kiss, and really, wasn't that the point of everything?

August came, and so many things alongside it.

The anniversary of the Westcott ordeal, for one. Tony took a few days off work and spent them with Peter, and it was-- strange. Nice, because he had Peter with him and being with Peter was always nice, but strange. He had so many conflicting feelings tied up in the whole thing, now-- residual anger and grief and shame over what had happened, the same core of sorrow and regret he would always carry for Peter that no matter how many new memories they made together, that would always be his first experience, the awe and relief and pride that despite everything they had built something together that was--

That was good. It was good. Tony still couldn't say that he thought he was the best thing for Peter, he didn't know if he'd ever be able to say that, but-- after everything, after all the pushback and his own misgivings and the codependency and the therapy and everything, he could honestly say that he didn't think he was bad for Peter, either. He might not make Peter better the way Peter made him better, but he didn't make him worse, either, and-- they both cried in those days that they set aside for remembering, but they also laughed and smiled and held each other and kissed and loved and loved and loved, and it wasn't a bad thing. Not a bit.

After that, it was Peter's birthday. Even though it was his eighteenth, Peter wanted something more simple this year, so Tony joined him and his friends at the Parkers' apartment for cake and movies and Mario Party. (Which Tony was great at, thanks, even if he'd fallen off of video games in the 90s.)

May had apparently rounded a corner by then and decided that if Tony was going to stick around, she was going to treat his and Peter's relationship like the real thing that it was and fully lean into any resulting awkwardness, so she had already insistently invited Tony over for some half-nice, half-wildly uncomfortable family dinners by that point. It meant enduring the odd jab or pointed expression here and there, but she was warming back up to him, and Tony would gladly take the jabs if it meant he could spend Peter's birthday with Peter curled against his side for the movie.

And then--

Then it was the night before Peter was due to leave for MIT.

For being on the cusp of yet another major shift in the status quo, it was a pretty perfect day. Peter kissed Tony 'hello' when he got to the tower and the others took it in stride-- it still wasn't a totally comfortable thing, not yet, but after nearly four months to adjust the whole subject wasn't precarious anymore-- and it didn't feel awkward to peel away from the group so he and Peter could have their date.

Tony had bitten the bullet and let himself go for true, unambiguous romance this time. He remembered Iris confronting him over treating this thing with Peter as something short-term, 'until he gets sick of me, until he goes off to college and finds someone better,' and-- he didn't know if Peter had ever picked up on it himself, the way Tony used to think of Peter going to college as the natural end to what they had, but marking the occasion with all the cornerstones of a real, committed grown-up romance felt like something of an apology to the both of them for it.

They cooked dinner together instead of Tony having their meal catered, because Peter liked that, but the rest-- there was a decadent dessert from Peter's favorite place in the fridge, and Tony had made the living room dim and warm and intimate, candlelight and pillows and throws around the coffee table so they could curl up together as they ate. Tony had both massage oils and a warm bath with lightly-scented water set aside, just in case it was one of those nights where Peter wasn't up for sharing the bath, but they ended up using both.

So it was perfect. They held each other for a long time after their bath, curled up on the bedspread together in their robes and with soft music playing under their conversation-- talking about MIT, talking about long-distance, talking about heroics, talking about each other.

But Tony had something that he had to bring up.

"If I visit in late September that's only three and a half weeks, it'll be fine," he said when Peter only semi-jokingly complained about having to go so long without seeing each other.

And he wouldn't get a better opportunity, so he took a breath and said it for probably the hundredth time in their relationship, but it was different now--

"But Pete, I know you hate it when I say this, but I have to say it," Tony started, and Peter immediately groaned with long-held frustration, pushing at his shoulder.

"Tony--"

"No, listen, listen," Tony said, and Peter went quiet, but there was a frown on his lips and a groove between his eyebrows. "I know you love me, and I love you too, but while you're at MIT-- if you meet someone else, then--"

"I'm not gonna--"

"Then," Tony insisted loudly, "if they're really giving you something you can't get from me, and making you happy in a way I don't make you happy, I want you to do what's right for you, okay; I don't want to hold you back."

Peter huffed and rolled his eyes, lips parting for a retort, but Tony beat him to the punch.

"But," he said, and his voice was a little unsteady despite himself, and Peter went still with attention. "But. If that happens, maybe-- come and talk to me about it first? Because maybe-- maybe it's something I would be able to give you too, if we talked about it, y'know. Because if you give me a chance I might be able to make it work. I'm pretty-- I'm pretty good at that."

Peter's expression smoothed over with surprise, and he stared at Tony for a startled breath while Tony resisted the urge to walk it back. It was fine, and there was nothing wrong with telling his boyfriend that he wanted to stay with him for as long as they could both make each other happy, that was normal--

Peter hauled himself up to tumble over Tony for a hug, like he couldn't get close enough fast enough, and he was smiling harder than Tony had ever seen.

"I love you," Peter breathed, kissing Tony again and again while Tony held him close. "I promise. Tony--"

He pulled Tony along with him as he rolled onto his back, and Tony followed along, leaning down to give him what he wanted, because-- in the end, Tony knew he didn't really need to worry, and he didn't really need to ask, because Peter always told him what he needed.

"Oh, fuck, hold on," Peter gasped later, arching over the folds of his untied robe as Tony laved attention on a nipple.

Tony paused immediately, his fingers going still where they were working inside Peter to bring him to the edge, but Peter's expression wasn't hesitant or panicked when Tony looked up.

"Can we-- I don't want to come yet," Peter said, taking steadying breaths and throwing his arm over his forehead. He met Tony's eyes, and his voice was soft when he said, "I wanna... do you want to keep going?"

And it didn't feel loaded. With Peter right there, flushed and adoring and telling Tony that he wanted this, it didn't feel like a risk or a mistake or reopening an old wound. It felt like nothing more than the reality of it: Peter would be leaving the next day, and he wanted to be close to Tony while he could, and Tony--

Tony wanted to be close to him, too.

"Yeah," Tony answered, voice all gravel, and Peter drew in a breath and reached for him. Tony obliged, drawing his fingers out of Peter as he leaned up for a kiss, but he still murmured against Peter's lips: "Are you sure?"

"I promise," Peter whispered again, kissing him as if to seal his promise in place.

They took it slow. Tony sat up against the headboard and held Peter close, one arm crooked around Peter's hips and the other hand petting soothingly over his back as Peter eased onto his cock. Tony kissed him long and deep between his soft gasps and moans, because he hadn't kissed Peter enough the first time and now he could finally fix it. They spent a long time like that once Peter was fully seated, trading kisses and breath alike, fully intertwined with his arms locked around Peter and Peter's arms around his neck, and Tony marveled at having him so intoxicatingly close.

That's what Tony leaned into, throughout. As Peter started to move, little rolls of his hips just to experiment with the feeling of it, as he grew more confident and started to really chase his pleasure, as they spoke to each other, 'there you go, baby, you're perfect,' and 'Tony, oh fuck,' and 'I love you, I love you, I love you'--

They were so close, utterly entangled, and so when Peter finally shrugged off the last of his robe and shifted positions to pull Tony over him, saying, "Please, Tony, I want--," Tony didn't hesitate.

They moved together, Peter rocking to meet every roll of Tony's hips, and Peter did cry in the end when he came. But he also kept his hands on Tony the whole time, on his shoulders or in his hair or framing his face, and he kissed Tony breathless, and said, "Thank you, oh my god, I love you," and Tony couldn't have mistaken it for pain if he tried.

Peter pulled Tony down to rest his head against Peter's chest, in the aftermath. Held Tony to him, skin-to-skin, petting his hair and murmuring about how good he'd felt and how glad he was that they'd taken that step together. After everything between them, he knew exactly how to take care of Tony, and--

Tony relaxed into his arms, and he was glad, too.

"Are you sure you won't let me buy you a couch?" Tony loaded another box into May's car, and repositioned two more to maximize room for good measure. "I'm not convinced the one you and Ned found on Craigslist isn't infested with something."

"It has character," Peter disagreed, sliding in another box.

"It has characters," Tony said as they started the trek back up to the Parkers' apartment. "Commander Bedbug, Colonel Flea, Private Cockroach…"

"Friends," Peter said simply, grinning, and Tony huffed.

It was strange, packing Peter's life away into May's beat-up car. Tony could count on one hand the number of times he'd been to the Parkers' apartment even now, but the space still radiated that it was Peter's, and the bare shelves in Peter's room were still a surprise every time he spotted them. May kept sniffling and blaming it on the dust, and Happy was blustering through griping about Peter having too much crap and running through the checklist to keep her distracted.

Which was highly appreciated, because every time Tony caught May tearing up it set his own heart pounding, and he couldn't tell how much of it was the sight of her tears itself after everything and how much of it was how desperately proud he was of Peter and how much of it was the part of himself that still wanted to panic at the thought of Peter being so far away.

He knew it would be good for them, yeah, and he was glad Peter was going, but with every box they packed away he had to remind himself that he and Peter already had plans for Tony to go down and see him in a little less than a month, and he could definitely make it that long, and Cambridge definitely wasn't even as dangerous as New York so even Spider-man would be fine.

They would be fine.

But all the same--

May and Happy ended up taking down the last rotation of boxes, and Tony stole the moment of privacy as he and Peter stood in Peter's stripped-bare room to wrap his arms around Peter's waist, holding him close.

"I'm going to miss you," he said, articulating the words too carefully with how awkward they felt in his mouth.

Peter leaned back against him, hugging Tony's arms to his chest, and his voice was unsteady when he answered.

"Three and a half weeks," he said. "That's nothing. That's a, a blink-and-miss-it. We could make it through anything for three and a half weeks and we're being ridiculous."

Tony leaned his head to Peter's, letting his own breaths synchronize with the rise and fall of Peter's chest and memorizing the shape of Peter in his arms.

"Ridiculous I'll grant you," he murmured, "but anything is a bit much. Remember when DUM-E set your new web prototype on fire and it smelled like a rat suffocated to death in a Bath & Body Works?"

Peter laughed, and turned in the circle of Tony's arms to lean up for a kiss, slow.

"I'll miss you too," he admitted, quiet, resting his forehead against Tony's.

"You'll do fine." Tony brought up a hand to slide into Peter's hair. "You'll be busy meeting new people and impressing your instructors and learning all the names of Cambridge's local criminals, and I'm just gonna be stuck here with the same ol' chuckleheads as always. And then you'll come back with your fancy degree and your own company and run me out of business."

Peter breathed a laugh, pulling back to grin at him.

"Do you think people will stop getting hung up on my age once I'm richer than you?" he teased.

"See, if you wanted to be my sugar daddy I would let you buy me things," Tony said with a sniff.

"You bought the apartment," Peter said for maybe the fifteenth time, playfully aggrieved like Tony hadn't only managed that after reminding Peter how hard it would be to keep Spider-man under wraps from a dorm room.

"But the couch, baby," Tony countered, genuinely aggrieved, but Peter only kissed him again in response, and Tony couldn't argue with that.

They hugged for a long time, after. Tony didn't know if May and Happy were giving them time alone on purpose-- they couldn't say goodbye like this outside, obviously-- but he was grateful and conscious of every second.

Peter finally sighed his tell-tale sign that they were about to have company, reluctantly peeling himself away from Tony's arms, and Tony reached to cup his cheek.

"I love you," he said, and he was going to miss Peter so much, but this wasn't sad. It wasn't. "I love you and you're going to love MIT and I can't wait to hear about it and come visit and burn down your ugly biohazard of a couch."

Peter laughed and leaned for one more kiss, and said, "I love you too," and Tony thought I'm so lucky, I'm so lucky, I'm so lucky.

They all did one more sweep of the apartment to make sure Peter wasn't missing anything once May and Happy got back upstairs, and then headed down to the car. Happy clapped Peter on the shoulder gruffly, and then broke and pulled him in for a hug while Peter muffled a laugh, indulgent. Tony pulled Peter against his side in a casual hug, nothing too out-of-bounds to onlookers, and Peter smiled at him, soft-- they'd already had their real goodbye upstairs, so this would do.

And then--

May and Peter packed themselves away into the car, and drove away.

Tony's phone buzzed in his pocket immediately.

I hope you know this is going to be constant, the message from Peter said. I'm just going to live on your phone in your pocket all the time and there's nothing you can do about it.

"Is he really already texting you," Happy groaned, and Tony grinned as he thumbed a reply. His heart was lighter watching the taillights of May's car round the corner, because Peter was right-- he was being maudlin over nothing; Peter was right there.

"You should be used to it, Hap," he said, tucking his phone back away into his pocket.

A part of him still wanted to be anxious. There were so many things that could happen now, that could come from this, and the futurist in Tony wanted to try and plan ahead for all of them. (And maybe Iris was right that it was more Tony being a control freak than a futurist, but potato-potahto, he thought.)

But he knew he couldn't. Not really.

Because the possibilities really were endless. He and Peter might not make it-- because Peter met someone else, or because his studies took him somewhere that long-distance would be too hard to overcome, or because they just grew in different directions. Or they might make it work, with trips back and forth from Cambridge to New York, with Peter coming back to him an even better and brighter and more perfect version of himself, with more texts and phonecalls and breakfasts and showers between them.

And maybe, someday--

Tony's car turned left where May's had turned right as he and Happy headed back towards the tower, but Tony still allowed himself a small smile, thoughts lingering over seating arrangements and save-the-dates and red flowers.

He didn't know where things would take him and Peter. Whether they'd work out, whether they wouldn't.

But there was one thing he did know, and for now, it was enough:

They weren't done yet.